Tag: Food and Drink

Travelogue: A Snow Day in Takayama, Japan (#SnowBigDeal)

Betty2 Comments

After all the ear-piercing emergency alerts and subway shutdowns and class cancellations, Juno never hit us. We woke on Tuesday morning expecting to see white white white outside the windows, but there was only the young, friendly Russian courier wearing his regular parka and boots, shoveling out the last inch of slush from the cement front patio of Tom’s building. Beyond that, there were a few greying snowbanks and more slush.  Continue reading “Travelogue: A Snow Day in Takayama, Japan (#SnowBigDeal)” →

Before Christmas, In Paris

Betty1 Comment

We planned very little to do in Paris except eat and drink. Ducks confit and magritte, wine, pastries, chocolate, steaks and more pastries. More wine. The occasional sliced fruit or glazed berry that came glistening atop whatever tarts caught my eye. It was Paris. Even if we died from heart attacks, they would be the most delicious heart attacks in the world.
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Travelogue: Photos of Jane Austen’s Bath

Betty1 Comment
We arrived in Bath at 7PM. The sun had gone down and it seemed to be much later than it was. There was a slight drizzle, in keeping with the forecast which said it would rain much of the time, but I did not mind the rain. It seemed right that it should rain in Bath – the rain would dampen the town and intensify the color of things. Greens would be greener. The roads darker, the cobblestones shinier (and more slippery).

Continue reading “Travelogue: Photos of Jane Austen’s Bath” →

A Saturday Afternoon in Oxford (With an Australian)

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I’ve definitely seen uglier houses. Atalia’s room is the top right window. (Atalia, hopefully I did not just invite random cyber stalkers to your window. If I do, I hope they sing you sonnets).  

A month before I arrived, POI suggested we take a weekend trip from London.

“Somewhere not too far from the city,” he said, “We can go by train or car.” 
I nodded enthusiastically into the phone – we had recently just “upgraded” from texting – and a few moments later thought it wise to say aloud, “Yes, yes, I’d love that.”

We batted around a few ideas – Southampton, the Lake District, until POI solicited ideas from actual British people – namely, a talkative teller at the HSBC near his office.  
Bath, the teller said with an air of national authority. It was a wonderful town (though the website insists it is the city of Bath): charming, quaint, historic and filled with cozy romantic restaurants. During the day, there were wonderful cobble-stoned streets and quiet parks to stroll through. And of course the actual Roman baths, which one did not use anymore, thanks to a flesh-eating brain virus an unfortunate bather contracted in the seventies, but could safely explore while fully dressed alongside hundreds of school children on field trips.
POI wondered if I’d be interested in watching a Rugby double-header. 
“Oh I’m quite certain the young lady you’re seeing would certainly not like that,” the teller advised. POI did not describe her to me but his impression of her seemed spot on. And she was spot on. One rugby match, perhaps. A double-header? I’d rather not. 
POI began to plan our weekend getaway and I consulted a map. I had a good friend from community college who was just starting her Master’s in English Literature at Oxford. We had taken one required English class together and became fast friends, mostly because we saw each other as we saw ourselves: not idiots. Also, she was Australian and I am in general, attracted to that sort of thing (foreignness). 
The map indicated that Oxford was somewhat on the way and it seemed almost rude not to drop by. I mentioned it to POI. He was game. He had never seen Oxford. 
“We’ll drive,” he said, “It’ll give us more flexibility.  
On Saturday morning, we fetched the rental car – a black mini-mini van made by a brand neither of us had ever heard of- at Paddington Station and drove west from London towards Oxford. POI soon learned that I was terrible at giving directions. My navigating vocabulary consisted mostly of, “How far are we? Well…(squinting at Google maps), it’s kind of far, but like not really that far, so like…medium far?” but POI, thankfully, is a patient man and spent much of the drive laughing. And navigating himself. 
Eventually we arrived in Oxford right on time for a late lunch with Atalia, a strong, direct writer who had earlier via email, provided excellent directions of her own:  
We ended up arriving closer to 1:30PM-ish because I did not understand roundabouts. 
Oxford: Where religion and bicycles peacefully coexist, until your bicycle is stolen and not even God can help you recover it, no matter how vehemently you say his name in vain.   
Two community college success stories (until I am unemployed again) standing before Hertford Bridge, more commonly known as the Bridge of Sighs, though according to Wikipedia that is a misnomer. 

We strolled thirty minutes from Atalia’s residence onto campus, stomachs growling. POI had made breakfast that morning: two slices of toast, one smeared with butter and marmalade, the other with butter and marmite, which is his lifeblood and which, to give you an idea of the class of food it’s in, is marketed as a “food spread” with the motto “Love it or hate it.” To borrow a phrase from POI, I did not care for it. Breakfast was a sweet gesture, but paled in caloric comparison to how much I normally ate.

“Lunch, Atalia,” we reminded her, fearful of having to walk much more, “Lunch.” 
We arrived thankfully at the Kings Arms of Oxford only to snigger at the menu:

“See anything good?” “Traditional as opposed to…” “With mushy peas. Wonderful.” Eventually a young, naive-looking waitress explained in absolutely earnestness that they were meatballs. “What’s so funny?” she wanted to know. 
None of us, though all quite liberal, were in the mood for faggots. 
Bellies full with meat and potatoes, the tour recommenced.

POI and I wondering/marveling/ talking about Harry Potter within the Bodleian Library Quadrangle. I was certainly the only person wearing cheetah print jeans on campus. Thank you, cousin Michelle.  
The Radcliffe Camera, probably Oxford’s most recognizable building, was built from 1737-1749 in the English Palladian Style. FYI “camera” is the Latin word for “room.” And that’s about as Highbrow as this post will get. 
More bicycles and cobblestones en route to The University Church of St. Mary the Virgin. 
Obviously this shot came first. I don’t backtrack. 
And this shot before last, of Atalia, our wonderful tour guide. There’s something tremendously refreshing about being guided around one England’s most English institutions by an Australian educated in America. 
The courtyard of the Queen’s College, where Atalia is studying. 
From another angle. POI had really wanted to take a photo standing in the middle but the girls on the path would not move. 
Mail for the students arrive not at their dormitories but at their colleges. That day, Atalia received a postcard from Mickey Mouse. 
Lunch in Oxford had turned into a leisurely four hour stroll. The sky began to darken and POI and I had to be on our way. Given my navigation skills and our diminishing phone batteries, driving on dark, unfamiliar roads seemed to be a bad idea. 
“One more spot!” Atalia said, “They filmed parts of Harry Potter there!” 
POI and I looked at each other. Time could always be made for Harry Potter. But unfortunately, because I had wanted to eat an ice cream on the way there, Christ’s Church college was closed by the time we arrived. I felt badly. 
 POI and I replay scenes from the movie in our heads, wondering how much trouble we’d get in if we broke in. 
But not too badly. 
Basically my expression for the entire trip. 
We walked back towards Atalia’s dormitory. Sometimes, I fell back to take a photograph. Sometimes, I watched them talk – POI and my Australian friend whom I’d met in the states some five years ago – on a sidewalk in Oxford. It was a strange and strangely familiar scene. 
Oxford work-study.
We’d barely pulled out of her driveway when Atalia texted me: 
“POI IS BRILLIANT!” 
I laughed, showing POI the message. 
He chuckled, shifting gears, “And she wasn’t so bad herself.”
Ding. Atalia texted again: “DON’T FUCK IT UP.” 
I snorted because I didn’t intend to. Though I was in danger of getting us wildly lost. Bath was still an hour and a half away and the light was fading fast. POI needed directions. It helped though, that we were heading where the sky glowed gold, gilding all that faced west. 

True story. 

London Travelogue: Photos of Borough Market

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One of many entrances to Borough Market.

POI did not make it to lunch. He was held up at work and I, being of the understanding-and-generally-capable-of-entertaining-myself-especially-when-in-a-foreign-country-sort, made my way around Borough Market, tasting more cheese samples than I had appetite for.

She was very generous with the samples.
Foreshadowing.
I couldn’t tell if these mushrooms were very expensive or not.
Wheat grass being turned into green water.
As opposed to old season game.
I truly regret not eating one – actually, all three – of these.
He was also very generous with the samples.
As opposed to the Not Posh At All Banger Boys on the other side of the street.
In case you forgot why you were at the market.
Gorgeous Friday afternoon light.
I took this photo to show how long the line was for Applebee’s takeaway. Applebee’s in London is quite different from Applebee’s in the US, which is essentially an institution for obesity.

When I was in danger of becoming ill on cheese and jam samples, I walked behind the market down Stoney Street and towards the river.

POI things it is incredibly creepy that I like to photograph children in school uniforms. Perhaps. But as you can see, I keep a safe distance.
Apparently this is where I was.
For those of you who follow me on Instagram: the original caption is probably still best: “British guy behind me: ‘Rihanna wrote a song about these.'”
Fashionable people getting ready for Friday after work/class drinks.
“Are they real?”

POI eventually arrived at 3:30PM. He had apologized profusely throughout the day, pushing lunch back until it was clear he would not make any hour deemed appropriate for lunch. I was not angry – it seemed reasonable that POI do well at his job. Logistically, it was the reason I was able to visit. Back in New York POI had been the most punctual of men while I, normally a punctual woman, was late to every single date.

“The trains,” I would say, breathless from having jogged from the subway station, “I just…don’t understand them” (when in fact I suddenly turn into a sloth whenever it’s time to leave the apartment).

“That’s alright,” POI would say, “You’ll figure them out soon enough.”

He arrived, grinning. Work was over and done with; the weekend could now begin.

He clapped his hands together. He had not had time for lunch and was hungry.

“Let’s go find me a grilled cheese sandwich.”

A blurry photo, but suffice it to say it was the mother of all grilled cheese sandwiches. Seeing it, I conveniently forgot all the cheese samples I’d already had and took a huge bite.

And a beer. We went round the corner to The Rake, one of POI’s favorite pubs in the area, though he seems to like most pubs. There was a small outdoor area populated with colorful metal chairs and voluble, easy-going men who were anything but rakish. It was Friday afternoon and they had left any work-related worries behind at the office. Now it was time to have a pint.

We sat outside on a bench next to two men in suits. They sat opposite each other with their legs crossed and I could see their patterned socks. I could not decide if they were careful dressers or if men in London simply wore patterned socks. POI, in a fleece zip up and checkered shirt had other thoughts. He disappeared inside. The men in patterned socks talked shop, then went on to discuss their female colleagues, who had not been invited to the pub. I looked around – there were no women in the patio and only one girl inside the bar, but she seemed to be a student or someone on holiday. Women, it seemed, stayed later at the office. Even on a Friday.

POI returned holding a large pint for him and a half-pint for me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Apple beer.”

“Like a cider?”

“I asked for cider,” he said, “but the bartender gave me a look and said they only served beers.”

I took a sip, “Tastes like cider.”

POI laughed, “Well, here, it’s an apple beer.” 

I produced the Lamington. He had sent me on a mission to find one while he was at work. POI is not so into sweets but he very much likes Lamingtons, an Australian dessert. At Borough Market, they are quite hard to find and I spent nearly twenty-minutes going from pastry tent to pastry tent, soliciting confused stares.

“A what?”

“A Lamington? It’s a….sweet thing?”

“A banana tart?”

And many such conversations. Finally, a Turkish man put down a tray of turkish delights and raised his arm slowly to point somewhere behind me. He nodded gravely like a prophet and in thickly accented English said, “There, that red tent. There you’ll find the Lamington.”

Big pint, half pint and Lamington (the unicorn of desserts in Borough Market).
We shared the Lamington, him taking much smaller bites than I. Our Friday afternoon began to unfold.
Soon, there would be drinks on the sidewalk with his coworkers – an international set from South Africa, Canada and New Zealand and a single, notable Brit named, incredibly, James Joyce. We would move indoors to another pub, where the Canadian, after getting the phone number of a young British woman, would return to our table and casually mention that he had a girlfriend.
“How long have you been dating?” I would ask.
“Three years,” the Canadian would say with a shrug.
The Brit named James Joyce would gasp and wonder if he ought to defend the honor of British women, because the Canadian had made it seem so easy. 
There would be a late dinner at POI’s favorite Indian Restaurant, just steps away from London Bridge, followed by a silent but satisfied bus ride back to Curtain Road. I would watch the city fly by from the second level windows of London’s famed double deckers and look forward to the days ahead. But mostly I would enjoy the ride back to Curtain Road, sitting side by side with this person of interest.

Kaua’i: Fish and Ice Cream

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For starters, there were a lot of fat people on our flight to Kaua’i. I wrinkled my nose at them while my mother chuckled to herself every time a 胖子 (“fatso” in Chinese) got up to get himself another soda.

“Everyone’s fat for a reason, Betty,” mom said, and I nodded, glad that the two of us fit comfortably in our economy seats. We had brought fruit, beef jerky, and granola bars to munch on the plane and watched smugly in our relatively slender frames as the others stuffed their faces with day-old overpriced airline sandwiches. 
Then we arrived in Kaua’i and forgot about the fatties on the plane. I drove my mother to a farmer’s market where she made a beeline for papayas, buying six. She would devour two that night. 
“Papaya doesn’t make you fat,” she would say as I stared, “It’s good for digestion.” 
Holding my mother’s six papayas, I bought a coconut and ask the nice but extremely wrinkled man to hack it in half and scoop out the flesh. I ate half a coconut standing in the parking lot in front of Kmart, refusing to acknowledge that it was akin to eating half a stick of butter. 
“It’s good for my skin. And antibacterial,” I thought. 
Then we raided the Kmart. The wrinkled man still fresh in my mind, I bought a man’s visor emblazoned with “Kaua’i” just in case I lost my mind and forgot where I was, and a tube of Ocean Potion sunblock which smelled like an orange creamsicle.  
My mother said, “Let’s get eggs, milk and cereal for breakfast. We can each eat two or three eggs a day. And if we have leftovers, we can boil them and take them on the flight home.” 
I nodded in agreement, thinking that we’d be hiking and/or kayaking so much that a big carb and protein and…everything-else-packed breakfast made sense. 
Breakfast of tourist champions. 
But conclude what you will from the following conversation: 
Me: Mom, what activities do you want to do? We can kayak the Wailua River, hike down Waimea Canyon, or go swimming at the beach right behind our resort. 

Mom: No… I’d rather not. 
We ended up walking, very slowly, a lot. Which normally isn’t enough exercise for me to say, “I’m gonna eat whatever the hell I want,” but when you’re in Kaua’i with your mother who thinks that eating two whole (sometimes three) papayas a day is the very thing one should do when vacationing in tropical fruit heaven, you follow your mother’s lead. Except with ice cream. Despite my sweet tooth being sharper than hers and relishing the occasional heaping plate of red meat, I have a similar palate to my mother’s; we like vegetables and fish. Lots of fish. And we like a good deal. 
Turns out, mom and I flew with the fatties to the right island. Below are the greatest culinary hits from our trip and the dishes behind our combined eight pound (four each) weight gain. 
Kapaa, HI 96746

This place was just down the street from our hotel and the most expensive fish market we visited, but huge portions and excellent seared ahi poke. Below are the seared ahi poke salad and mahi mahi plate lunch (sans rice).
POSTCARDS CAFE
5-5075 Kuhio Hwy. Ste. A
Hanalei, HI 96714
We came here on a recommendation while visiting the north shore and the famed Hanalei Bay. It’s a popular spot with tourists and locals alike and considered a “romantic treat” for people celebrating anniversaries, honeymoons, and engagements. There was a line outside the restaurant before it opened at 6PM, which gave the hostess a power trip. I let her take the trip because she was a stunning middle aged woman with arms like Linda Hamilton. I’m pretty sure she taught yoga during the day and never eats what’s pictured below. That said, the restaurant’s ambience and quality of food doesn’t equal their prices (our most expensive meal in Kaua’i) and afterward we decided to stick with fish markets. I do recommend their Hanalei Taro Fritters (don’t order the rest of the appetizers), Vegan Chocolate Silk Pie, and Deep Fried Macadamia Coconut Crusted Ice Cream (photo later). 
KOLOA FISH MARKET:
5482 Koloa Rd.
Koloa, HI 96756 
One of my favorite stops, in Old Koloa Town. It was sweltering that day and fish markets don’t exactly have seating, but we found a shady tree nearby and chowed down on their Hawaiian Plate with Lau Lau (pork wrapped in Taro leaves, which was very reminiscent of a similar Chinese dish) and fish cooked two ways (ahi and mahi mahi). Both were great and my mother, not a big meat eater, enjoyed the Lau Lau, which was like baby back ribs except without the ribs and the barbecue sauce… yeah. 

FISH EXPRESS
3343 Kuhio Hwy. Ste. 10
Lihue, HI, 96766

This place is number one. We bought fresh miso marinated butterfish to cook back at the hotel on our first night, and then came back for the grill, which is only open from 10-2PM each day.
“People get mad when they miss the grill,” said the young man behind the counter when we first went, and I immediately made a note to come back. The fish below was hands down the best grilled fish we had in Kaua’i – left is blackened ahi with a fragrant butter sauce and macadamia crusted cream dill sauce mahi mahi. Not pictured is the crab and ahi poke, which my mother ate like salsa, though without chips. She called it “polka dot” and insisted I buy the “polka dot” at all the subsequent fish markets.

“Mom. It’s POKE. Poke-ay.”

“Ah yes, polka dot is the dog.”

“….” (she was thinking of dalmatians).

We brought these to picnic near the beach and it was one of my most memorable meals. My mother complained a bit about the wind, then ate the fish and stopped complaining about anything.

CHICKEN IN A BARREL BBQ
4-1586 Kuhio Hwy
Kapaa, HI 96746

Our last dinner in Kaua’i, which we paired with a little bottle of wine I’d gotten from the plane. We shared a sampler which offered enough meat for three people, though if I ever go back I’d get the ribs, which were everything good ribs should be. Funny story: I called in my order and when I arrived, the girl said, “You’re the phone order?” 

“Yeah,” I said. 

“Here you go,” she pushed the box towards me and I said, “Wait, this is John’s.” 

Lastly, it wouldn’t be a proper food post without the literal cream of the crop:
ICE CREAM (clockwise from top left):
POSTCARDS CAFE – deep fried macadamia ice cream in coconut shell
ONO ONO SHAVE ICE – not shaved ice, (if rainbow sugar water is your thing, then definitely get it here) but their rather unnaturally hued taro and coconut ice creams.
PAPALANI GELATO – Pineapple (my mother) and chocolate.
LAPPERT’S ICE CREAM AND COFFEE – Kona coffee, my mother’s Achille’s heel and robber of sleep. She ate it at 7PM one evening and was doomed to toss and turn for the rest of the night.

And I had to give this guy his own headshot, because I miss him: Lappert’s Coconut Macadamia Nut Fudge. I went back twice and considered a third but my pants were feeling suspiciously tight and I didn’t want my mother to laugh at me on the plane too.

The End. 

Macau Photo Diary: The Trading Gates

Betty4 Comments
I didn’t know much about Macau. Admittedly, I still don’t. It just seemed like one of those places you try and make time for if you’re already in Hong Kong because, well, it’s there. My father, not a gambling man unlike most of his friends, likes it for the food. 

“The egg tart place,” he said excitedly, when I asked him where I ought to take E and C when we visited from Hong Kong, “Let me get you the business card. It’s one of the best egg tarts you’ll ever have.” 
I waited in the living room while he went to his study to retrieve the business card, and then to the garage, where he keeps outdated travel maps. My father is the epitome of homebody – he travels via television – but if he does travel he does so whole-heartedly if a bit blindly in the way men his age do, when they go to look but not to see. He becomes Uber-Tourist, hoarding free maps, business cards and trivia, and snapping photos all along the way with a camera that is usually much too complicated for his photos to reap full benefits. On a recent trip to Hainan island with my mother, my father clicked away furiously while my mother walked slowly behind him, pausing occasionally to sniff a flower or examine a leaf. 
“Your husband,” the other tourists observed, “Is very busy.” 
“Yes,” she said blandly, rolling her eyes at Uber-Tourist, “let him busy himself.” 
Among friends, he is almost laughably, the “learned traveler,” because even though you can’t have a two minute conversation with him without him interrupting you ten times, he’s remarkably sharp and he pays attention. Uber-Tourist for sure, but in his defense a curious travler as well. We both like to pepper the locals – street vendors and cab drivers and the like – with questions about society. My father tucks the information away and recounts them verbally to anyone who will listen. I take mental notes and later, if I remember enough, blog about it.  
He came back from the garage clutching a half dozen maps to his chest which he excitedly spread out across the table:
“Here’s where you want to go,” he said, pulling up a chair and motioning me to sit down, “I know you don’t have any interest in the casinos, but you can take the free shuttle buses into the Old Town…” 
Thus began an hour long verbal tour of Macau via outdated map, interspersed with jaunts down my father’s lanes of memory in which he and his buddies were younger men who worked and played hard, drank like fish and ate like kings without worrying about cholesterol and heart attacks. Each trip to Macau, he laughed, meant they would lose money and gain weight, not the world’s worst trade off, he said, jabbing me with his elbow, unless you’re a young, single woman. 
Times were different now: his friends all sported various diet-related illnesses and begged out of such trips or stopped planning them altogether. They ate light dinners, hardly drank, and went home early, as soon as dinner finished. They developed other interests and took different types of trips – in my father’s case, amateur photography and Hainan island with my mother, who can count the number of drinks she’s had in this lifetime on one hand. 
The map my father now so fondly gazed upon was of Macau, but also a place of rowdy, raucous memories, and now his daughter was planning to go. 
At the end of the hour, I concluded that my father and I were not so different, though he was perhaps more enthusiastic about egg tarts than I could ever be. He rather enjoyed, I was surprised to learn, walking around Macau’s old town and listed more restaurants than I could finish eating in a week.
“It’s not like Vegas,” he said, “The shows are not worth watching and the atmosphere is still kind of seedy,” 
He looked quietly down at the map with a soft smile, “But it’s quite different from anything you’ve ever seen and a good place to go with friends. I think you will enjoy it.”  
What follows are photos from the day trip I took to Macau with E and C. We did not gamble and set foot in a fantastically shaped casino only to use the restroom, among the gaudiest I had ever seen, with crystals hanging from bright chandeliers that cast a disco-club like glow over each toilet. 
My father was right, it was very different. Not in a good or bad way. Just different.     
Scene taken from the turbo-jet. Not recommended for those who get seasick easily.
My father’s recommendation. We were greedy and each ate two, then immediately regretted it.
A man neither Chinese nor Portuguese enjoying a gelato by a fountain in old town. A scene from Europe a stone’s throw away from China. That is the crazy thing about Macau. 

An elderly Chinese man waiting outside the church. For what or whom, I’m not certain. 
A woman rushing to mass. 
Gorgeous brick atrium of the excellently preserved Casa de Lou Kau, home of a Chinese Merchant and gambling tycoon. 
Another atrium. I wouldn’t mind if the rain fell into my house through a place like this. 
A photo also taken on the way there, because it was nighttime when we left, but I like this shot.