A Celebration Lunch

serravalle-sanmarino

Serravalle, Republic of San Marino

For celebration lunch today we have Greektown of Detroit, Barbuto of New York, and Howdy Richards of Freeland to thank.

What are we celebrating? Being alive. Being together.   Continue reading

Chics and Tuna

chics and tuna

One of my fondest memories is having lunch at the Buca del Orafo in Florence. My wife took me there the first time–in 1978.  We had a Fiorentina, the giant Italian t-bone steak, which was awesome.

In subsequent visits, we’ve skipped the steak and enjoyed the shaved artichoke and pecorino antipasto, pasta with fresh peas, or ribolitta, finishing, if they were in season, with the fragoline, the mountain strawberries served with lemon juice and sugar, tiny flavor bombs that would put you over the top.

Every year we were greeted by the same waiter, Piero, who was quiet and genial and attentive. Maybe it was the third or fourth time we ate there, we had Tuscan beans and tuna for antipasto. He set the plate down and said, “Now you really should have some of excellent extra virgin olive oil,” and poured out that luscious green gold.

Shown above: an approximation of that heaven.  The dish is good any time of year. Fresh beans, canned beans (drained and rinsed). I used chickpeas today. Shown below: cannellini beans with diced campari tomato.

It’s a question of preference, tradition, and knowing what you like.  For a dish like this I want tomato to be peeled, seeded, and diced. It’s March. The campari tomatoes are in the grocery story and Costco. They are bursting with flavor. Peeling and extracting seeds takes a while. A job made less onerous if accompanied by a glass of wine.

At the Buca, I’m pretty sure there will no tomato.  And given the quality of the ingredients, the ambiance of the restaurant, and what’s just outside the door (the Arno and Ponte Vecchio) it won’t matter.

BucaOrafo

A Minor Memory

Kutatók éjszakája - Mozart-szonáta kéziratának egy töred

I’ve been using “shazam” as a verb for a while now.

Not to be confused with the interjection that expresses amazement Gomer-Pyle-style. It’s when I use the Shazam app on my phone. It’ll name that tune.

Open the app and touch its signature S to begin Shazamming. The app “listens.” You see concentric circles radiating outward the way submarine sonar looked in old black and white movies. Shazam decodes the music’s digital signal, searches databases, and, Shazam! You’re listening to Vashti Bunyon’s “Train Song” or Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in C Minor. Continue reading

Monsters

polyphemous

She’s been reading in bed, beside me.  When I wake up, my wife turns toward me and whispers, “We’re so screwed.”

Good morning.

It’s probably politics she’s reading about. Possibly the environment. I pull myself out of bed, tell her okay, but let’s have coffee first. Continue reading

In Search Of

yak sign

Yakgurt.

There is such a thing, tasting more of gurt than of yak. We came to Yunnan province and the city of Lijiang hoping to see, among other things, yak in the flesh, the great furry, horned beast. We did not close to, but it felt like we did.

This was a trip that began with something of a fool’s errand, which led us to serendipitous yak. Having checked into our hotel, our kids did what they usually do; did, it could be said, what they learned from us to do: look for a good place to eat. Continue reading

The Efficacy of Loud

speak low

The bar is called Speak Low, on Fuxing Middle Road in Shanghai.

My daughter and I have come here on a Saturday night for a few cocktails. This is the third F & B joint (Food and Bar) I’ve been to. All three with ground level entrance, little more than an anteroom with space for a desk and two greeters, and a door that leads to a stairway that leads to second, third, and fourth floor rooms with bar, tables, low light, and a lot of noise. The room we’re in is full of youngish people–tables and chairs for 30 or so–maybe seventy-five people total seated and standing. They have shiny new shoes, important hair, and serious glasses. Shanghai chic. This might as well be Brooklyn. Continue reading