I felt the heaviness in the air immediately. The mood of the country seemed dark, just like the rain-filled clouds that greeted me when I arrived to Serbia. Spring had definitely not sprung and the weather in Belgrade was unseasonably cold and wet.

Driving from the airport to my friend Renee’s childhood home, we skirted the city and headed into the suburbs, passing blocks of multi-storied, concrete buildings—the architectural symbol of the communist-era. Oh yes, I thought, I remember this. From Russia to (East) Germany to Prague to Mongolia, this fabled simple box architecture symbolizes another time and place. It possesses no beauty, but does remind locals of a happier era—when Belgrade was at the top of its game. When it was the capitol of Yugoslavia, and the center of its political and cultural life.

Downtown Belgrade

“Amerikanka” –that’s what I was called in Serbia. The first time I heard it, I laughed, but quickly grew fond of the word. Walking the crowded downtown streets, Renee suggested we speak softly (in English). I was surprised by her comment, but she said many people hadn’t forgiven America for bombing their city. That yes, it was technically a NATO bombing, but everyone thinks NATO is America. Renee added that people were crushed because America was always a land they admired and loved, and now they felt deceived, betrayed. “But what about the genocide, the ethnic cleaning, that Serbia inflicted?” I said.

This is where I would normally recap history and give a brief explanation of events that led to such a vicious war, but it’s complicated and revolves around ethnic hatred that dates back to the encroaching Ottoman Empire. This concept of ethnicity, and the centuries-old harboring of injustices that comes along with it, is hard for the average American to grasp. We live in the only true melting pot in the world. The majority of our forefathers came here to forget the past and all its grievances–not simmer in a stew of hatred. (As a cook, I love that sentence. As an observer of recent American culture, I see the tides turning.)

Turkish Fort

In the six republics of the former Yugoslavia, people strongly identified with their clans: Croats and Serbs, Slovenes and Bosnians, Montenegrins and Macedonians. They never melted; they never blended. They kept their languages and religions, which was not always an easy task in an atheist country. Due to these large differences and the insurgence of Serbian nationalism, most of the republics wanted out and lobbied for a federation of states instead. Serbia didn’t agree and wouldn’t negotiate. When Slovenia succeeded, followed by Croatia, Serbia declared it would support its own people, who lived throughout the land. That was their mandate to enter the former republics by force and duly, civil war broke out. (For an incredibly detailed timeline, read; http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/history/johnson/balkans.htm)

The Cryllic alphabet is alive and well.

By the time I landed in Serbia, the war had been over for 15 years; however a bombed out building near the train station, the Ministry of Defense, was deliberately left in ruin as a reminder of the injustice done to the people of Serbia. I stood in front of the ruble as men and machinery came in for the very first time to begin the cleanup. Belgrade and its leaders had been simmering the stew.

Another ingredient in the recipe — 30,000 Syrian refugees descended upon Belgrade last year. Some joked that the country wasn’t worried, though. They knew that the refugees would move on—Serbia offered no opportunity, no hope. The masses did depart for the north, but the memory of their arrival lingers.

Orthodox Easter Eggs–We arrived just in time.

During my stay, I wanted to discover the country, not as a tourist, but as an avid historian who observes and contemplates people and their varying cultures. So, I walked the old town with its mix of Austria-Hungarian opulence and drab communism. I strolled through the nearby park and climbed the steps of a long-abandoned Turkish fortress to see where the Saba River flows into the Danube, eventually emptying into the Black Sea. Instead of focusing on this strategic spot that led to the founding of the city, I was fixated on the nearby vendors hawking t-shirts of Putin and war memorabilia. “Kosovo is Ours!” was emblazed on banners and shirts, sold next to Serbian flags, large and small. (Kosovo declared independence from Serbia in 2008.)

Where the Saba meets the Danube.

Downtown Belgrade is full of sidewalk cafés. It’s where people spend their evenings, discussing politics and life. It’s where I discovered their hardships–how the economy is stagnate, that work is hard to come by and the pay dismal. (Unemployment is now at 18%, down from a recent high of 25%.) Many complained about not having extra money, sometimes not even for a tank of gas…and this was the “white collar” crowd–the same people who protested in the streets when the current president, Tomislav Nikolic, came to power. Nikolic, a nationalist and outspoken admirer of Russia, had struck a chord with the growing underclass and disillusioned voters hit by hard times. Once a close ally of the former Serbian strongman Slobodan Milosevic, the last president of Yugoslavia and the man charged with crimes against humanity in the Balkan War, Nikolic campaign slogan was reminiscent of —“Make Serbia Great Again!”

Now, do you see where I’m going with this?

Please forgive the digression and be patient.

A pedestrian street with outdoor cafes.

Travel teaches us so much. Observing other people’s mistakes should also teach us; but it rarely does. Normally, I would write about the entertaining facts of travel and the wonderful food I discover along the way. In Serbia, it was burek–phyllo dough stuffed with fresh cheese and sometimes vegetables or spiced ground beef. I would also tell you how the smell of tobacco was overpowering in all the restaurants and that, until then, I had (thankfully) forgotten what it was like to have a meal in a cloud of smoke, but what I saw and felt on this particular trip was so much bigger and more important than all of this.

A selection of burek.

Nationalism is roaring its evil head again in Serbia. People are angry, just like in much of Europe and even here at home. History teaches us, though, that nothing good ever comes of nationalism.

I’ve been on a quest my entire life, not one of cooking or travel or self-discovering, but one that started with a simple question at the age of eight—Why does Grandma Kramer have a blue tattoo on her wrist? Grandma Kramer was my best friend’s grandmother. She didn’t speak much English, only Polish, and she baked and cooked and watched us sometimes after school. I was fixated on her tattoo. When I asked about it, my friend said she was in the Holocaust, but I didn’t understand what that meant. This is where my journey began though, my academic life without really being in academia. (Truth be told, I was too intimidated, and maybe a little lazy, to go for the Doctorate.)

By the time I was 10, I had read “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.” By the age of 12, I was studying German. In college, I studied WWII history, continuing my education in Germany. I took classes with former Nazi officers and Hitler Youth, because I wanted them to tell me—Why does Grandma Kramer have a tattoo? And even though I read all the books and knew the timeline of events, as well as spent a few holiday weekends visiting concentration camps instead of having fun with friends, I still didn’t understand how humanity could allow something like that to happen. I wanted answers—answers from the people who had lived it, the ones who had stood in agreement, as well as silence.

Does silence mean agreement? Where is the line? And does that line change when the stakes are higher? When your country is on a very dangerous path? Of course it does.

I didn’t think I’d see this dynamic in my lifetime, but I guess I give humanity too much credit. We’re not the brightest of creatures. We don’t learn from history, or the mistakes of others. The tide is turning in Serbia. I saw and listened to frightening stories in Hungary and Austria, recently, as well. And then I came home and saw it happening in America. What I had read in all those books, is now unfolding before my very eyes and instead of a sea of indignation, I see support and way too much silence.

I sit in dismay watching a completely unqualified man convince people that he’s a leader. I see how he takes people’s frustrations and despair and puts them into his large cauldron. He then stirs in the other essential ingredients: fear mongering, hatred, nationalism, scapegoating, ego, and misinformation spouted with extreme conviction. He preys on ignorance and the uneducated. If someone disagrees with his views, he stops everything to say, “Get him out of here!” —a textbook tactic of authoritarian leadership. Some people cheer his action, others laugh at it. But what I want to know is, where’s the outrage?

I see top politicians backing madness, some claiming that they can control the man. Their ignorance is shocking and it shows that they are as unqualified as he is. I don’t believe this man will become President. He’ll probably walk away in order to keep his inflated ego intact and his tax returns a secret.

My story, and this recipe for disaster, has nothing to do with Democrat versus Republican, right versus left. I take no stance here. My story is about recognizing the signs of danger before it’s too late and doing something about it, as in choosing a new party candidate. The time for laughing it off, as they laughed off Hilter in the 1920’s, is long over. He started as a joke, you know. A common bully stirring a pot of hatred, using the above recipe and insisting only he had the solution to the country’s discontent. This message would later be tailored and called The Final Solution. (If you don’t know what this is, please look it up.)

Supposedly, 40% of Americans stand behind this man and that’s what we, as a country, need to fear. We should fear ignorance and hatred. We should fear voters who are willing to throw their country and its people under the bus in order to amass huge personal wealth. The irony of this election is that the working class, via their segment of voters, is the strongest supporter of our 1%, and they don’t even realize it.

My story is about not being silent.

My story is about truly understanding why Grandma Kramer had a blue tattoo.

Trams in front of the Belgrade train station. Last summer, a sea of Syrian refugees camped out here.

My first reaction was, “Geez, how old do you think I am?” In my mind, the doors had already been flung open. I was the fortunate one that grew up in a world where I honestly believed I could do anything. I admired and appreciated the struggle of the many women before me, some even before my mother and grandmother. Their actions and sacrifices gave me my absolute freedom.

But that’s America, at least my experience in America. This is Mexico.

Jesus Street

My second reaction to the interview request—“Really? Foraging a path for women? Me?” I sat back and reflected on the early days and soon felt the weight of how hard it had been. That moment was the first time I realized that I had indeed fought the fight. And then, I started to cry, amazed that someone had noticed my struggle and was curious about it.

When I opened my café in 1991, San Miguel was a quiet, conservative and extremely traditional town. I, unbeknownst to myself at the time, had chosen to infiltrate the provincial Latino world of Ozzie and Harriet, thinking that the fringe of expat hippies would soften the blow—it didn’t.

Since gender had never been an issue nor a hindrance in my life, it didn’t occur to me that it could become one. Well, at least not until the coffee vendor arrived.

I had just opened my café and marveled when a man bearing coffee beans and a price list showed up on my doorstep. He said hello and asked to speak with my husband. I replied that I didn’t have one. He then asked to speak with my father. “He lives in Texas,” I answered, somewhat confused.

“Well, who am I suppose to talk to?” he questioned, anxiously.

When I told him that I was the owner, he grabbed his samples and stomped out exclaiming, “I’m not going to discuss business with a woman!”

I don’t remember being angry. Well, maybe a little, but it was more my style to laugh and think, what an idiot. Someone else would gladly accept my tainted girl money.

Then there was the waiter I told to do something on his second or third day of work. He replied, “I don’t take orders from women.” Needless to say, that was his last day of working for a mere female.

For years after that, I mostly hired single mothers, more intelligent beings whose top priority wasn’t ego, but feeding and educating their children. They were more than happy to take orders from me —they had had enough of men telling them what to do.

Truth be told, my introduction to this new world of injustice and inequality actually came at the very beginning, when I first applied for a Mexican work permit. At the time, the head of immigration interviewed me, took my filled-out forms and passport, and put them in his top desk drawer.

I was told to check back the following week. When I did, I was escorted to the Jefe’s office where he closed the door and pulled out my passport. Leafing through the pages, he said, “Meet me tonight.” I said I couldn’t. “Then come back next week. I can’t help you now.”

This routine went on for 6 months. As I watched other foreigners collect their FM3s, I was always asked to wait–the Jefe wanted to see me. Because of my limited life experience at the age of 25,  I actually believed that one day he’d give up and my new, shiny immigration booklet would be waiting for me. What were my options anyway? I didn’t have money for a lawyer, nor a family in Mexico to support my cause. Local government officials? I knew not to waste my time.

I rented a space on Jesús and was making plans to finally open my café, painting the walls and pricing furniture, when I started to panic– optimism and patience were getting me nowhere. I needed help, so I found a lawyer who would intervene. He went to Mexico City and over the head of our local immigration office. He got my work permit as well as my passport back, but it took every cent I had to pay for it—all the money I had saved to open my café was gone. I had to take out (another) loan in order to continue with my dream as well as look for a paying job, in addition to working full time at the café.

Knowing of my predicament and wanting to help, a respected middle-aged businessman asked me to tutor his 12-year old son in English. He praised my intelligence and hard work and told me to come to his office—not their home—for the first lesson. I was grateful for the extra money and agreed. When I showed up, the child was nowhere in sight, only the father, who proposed yet another job, one that would make me even more money—if I would put on the lingerie he had spread across his desk and allow him to take pictures.

“Just for me,” he said, “No one else has to know.”

Seriously? SERIOUSLY!!

How many women before me had to suffer through a similar scenario in order to make my life, at least until then, void of this ridiculousness?

There was also another issue at hand, one that caught me somewhat by surprise—class discrimination. In the Mexico I arrived to, women of a certain class didn’t work, and especially not in a kitchen—that was the realm of servants. Due to my skin color and education I was of that class, even though culturally I was far removed. Early on, I learned that not many of my male peers respected my work or my effort. They thought I was playing a game until I could find a husband.

A “high-bred” Mexico City man, a potential suitor, who I knew socially, stopped by the café one day. When I appeared, my apron smeared with flour and chocolate, he exclaimed with disgust, “You cook?” He never really spoke to me again.

A few others made it clear that if our relationship were to go any further that I would have to renounce my embarrassing, unladylike habit of working in a kitchen. I would be allowed to own the café, and even supervise its day-to-day business, however it would be unacceptable to do actual labor. I would not be allowed to cook…or sweat. (I swear, one of them actually said sweat, and then had a ceiling fan installed in my kitchen, so he would never find me with a wet brow.)

The men came and went, but my café, my work in the kitchen remained. I got my hands dirty and even, god forbid, washed a few dishes. Did I set an example to young Mexican women from “good families” that it was ok to work in a kitchen? That it was ok to do what you wanted, not what your husband or family expected you to do? Honestly, I think what changed the game was the new era of the celebrity chef and the popularity of the cooking channel.

Luckily, things did get easier with time—I also got older and wiser and tougher. And even though I still suffered years of not being taken seriously and was talked down to by men, much less educated than myself, I persevered. Gaining respect in the community took time, but it happened, or at least I think it did. I had to fight for that respect, though, the same respect that would have been handed to a man, no questions asked.

I’ve been at the helm of my business as a sole female proprietor for 25 years. Until very recently, there were only a few of us female chefs and restaurateurs in town, but this is changing, and changing fast.

If you consider my story of struggle opening doors for the next generation of women, then please, save me a seat at the table with the other maestras.

**So, you’re wondering what happened to the Jefe, huh?? Well, the next time he played his game with another young American woman, he forgot to thoroughly read her papers. If he had, he would have noted that she had just married into a prominent local family. This family took him down. They did the job that I couldn’t…but maybe, just maybe, my original complaint made firing him an open and shut case.

A View from the Island of Krk in Croatia.

I recently called my bank to give them a travel alert for an upcoming trip to Serbia. I had tried online, but Serbia wasn’t on their list of options. When the bank representative couldn’t find it either, he asked if it were indeed a country. He had never heard of such a place.

“What’s it next to?” he inquired. “Maybe I can find it that way.”

“Croatia,” I replied. “and Bosnia.” They weren’t on his list either. I was shocked, but more shocked when the agent said, “I don’t think these are actual countries, ma’am. You must be confused with all those places that used to be in Russia.”

Dubrovnik

And so I began my class. There once was a country called Yugoslavia. It was made up of six ethnically and culturally diverse republics, including Serbia, Bosnia and Croatia, along with Slovenia, Montenegro and Macedonia. Even though the country was officially proclaimed in 1929, in the aftermath of World War I, it’s second, and larger, incarnation happened in 1946 under General Tito. Tito deemed the new land to be a Socialist Republic; however they were never under the thumb of Russia and their borders were never sealed.

The bank representative, trained to be polite, quietly sat through modern Balkan History 101. I spared him BH 201, the part about the not-so-distant war that lasted 10 years and sometimes placed brother against brother in the battlefield. I knew he didn’t go to his nice suburban office to listen to stories about genocide and deeply rooted ethnic hatred, even though everyone should digest these lessons.

The Dalmatian Coast

What I didn’t tell him though was about my relationship to the country. That when I was a student in Germany many of my friends were from Yugoslavia, including my boyfriend. I deemed them the fun people, much more entertaining than the other European students.

We cooked together in the dorm (each floor had its own kitchen) and ate “Yugoslav-style,” which meant, at least according to them, that everyone ate from the same pot in which the food was prepared. No need for plates. They convinced me that sharing was part of socialism and I must admit I firmly embraced the camaraderie. I also enjoyed washing less dishes.

Through my friends I discovered Cevaps, grilled ground meat usually served with a side of chopped white onion and Ajvar, a puree of roasted red bell peppers, sometimes mixed with pureed eggplant. I ate Palacinke, thin crepe-like pancakes stuffed with sweet cheese and maybe jam and discovered a delectable cake named Gibanica, made with the same sweet cheese, as well as poppyseeds, apples and walnuts.

A Selection of Grilled Meats: A Favorite in Serbia

I listened to stories about the beauty of the Croatian coast long before I visited, about the boats you could charter and then sail from one idyllic island to another. I never had the opportunity (aka: money) to go back then, but knew that one day I’d discover the places that I fantasized about sitting in my dorm room.

That summer, I joined my boyfriend in Slovenia, in the north. I met him there right after their currency had devalued and we threw worthless money from the windows of his VW Bug (his idea, not mine).

Downtown Ljubljana, the capitol of Slovenia.

Even though the talk in Yugoslavia was mostly upbeat and positive, I soon discovered that something was brewing in this country that fate had forced together. I learned about the hatred among the people—the north versus south, Muslim versus Catholic. I suddenly understood why Tito preached atheism and understanding. Many said that one day it was all going to blow apart. And that day, unfortunately, came only a few years later.

I was in graduate school then, in Massachusetts, living with a Yugoslavian roommate. Well, she started out Yugoslavian, but soon, when their world turned upside down, she became Serbian. It all boiled down to ethnicity, which is something, I think, is hard for most Americans to truly understand. We had a mutual friend who left a new job and just-earned American masters degree to return to Croatia, his homeland, and become a soldier. While we enjoyed summer in the Berkshires, he went to war.

A street in Dubrovnik during the war.

And just like that, Yugoslavia disappeared. Soon, there will be many more people telling me that they’ve never heard of such a place. But then I’ll start my story…”There once was a country called Yugoslavia…”

Coming soon: A visit to Serbia.

***To get the most out of the San Miguel Guadalupe Christmas Experience, go to Youtube and play “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” by Rod Stewart at a ridiculously loud volume. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hphwfq1wLJs). Then continue reading.

Twas two weeks before Christmas, when all thro’ the town,

not a person was sleeping, not even the dogs in the pound.

Large speakers were placed by my house with care,

in hopes that the Holy Mother Guadalupe would soon be there.

On the street, people were nestled all snug in their coats,

while visions of another Corona danc’d in their throats.

With my cat in his basket, and I in my bed,

we had just settled in after I book I just read.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

tore open the curtains after a mad dash.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

but a life-sized drawing of Guadalupe and many cases of beer.

With a sound system, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment I’d soon be listening to Mick.

More rapid than eagles the annoying sound came,

I whistled, and shouted, and call’d them bad names.

No, not Yuri, not Adele, please no Luis Miguel,

Oh! Come, on! Rod Stewart and now Juan Gabriel…Oh, Hell!

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

The sound bounced all through my hall.

Meow! Cried the cat, wanting to sleep,

his loving mother about to weep.

So over to the phone a neighbor did fly,

with a press of a button, “Ecologia” Oh My!

The neighbor didn’t debate the party at hand,

but complained that Rod Stewart didn’t belong in Guadalupe Land.

The Virgen Is Not Sexy she screamed,

Who do I have to convince that this is mean…and highly inappropriate!

The higher powers finally agreed, to their team they gave a whistle,

and send them to Colonia San Antonio like the down of a thistle.

And then in a twinkling no sound,

only the yawing of my cat, all fluffy and round.

I heard them exclaim, as they drove out of sight-

Felicidades to all, and to all a good night.

A very tired kitty after a night at the San Antonio Guadalupe party.

Hearsay wasn’t enough though. I needed to experience it for myself. So, three years ago, on a cool, cloudy day, while auditioning Venice, I hopped a vaporetto with a friend and we made the 50-minute journey to Burano. (What’s she talkin’ about, the audition?: http://deliciousexpeditions.com/blog/2012/04/venice-the-audition/)

The colorful houses of Burano

When I got there, I already knew the lay of the land, the brightly painted houses and over-abundant lace stores that give a nod to the island’s lace making history. Incorrectly calculating the travel time, we arrived as the lunch shift was winding down.

In most of Italy, restaurants serve lunch for only 2 hours and then e finito—you’re out of luck. Begging does no good. Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s not about making money, making the last dollar, and that’s something to respect. Food and people come first. Food, because it’s freshly prepared, not pulled from the freezer and popped into the microwave. And people, as in their people, because they need a break after an intense few hours of running around.

Burano viewed from San Francesco del Deserto

I could tell that day in Burano was going to be a begging day. With no empty table in sight, and the clock ticking, we waited beside the restaurant entrance, under an awning on a quaint canal with a few white linen-draped tables. We were hoping for someone to leave and give us, too, the opportunity to indulge.

Trying not to panic, I struck up a conversation with a handsome, well-dressed man, a tiny diamond stud in one ear, giving him an ever so light pirate vibe (as in Sir Francis Drake, not Blackbeard). As he leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette, I confessed my greatest fear to him, a perfect stranger. My fear was that I would miss lunch.

Il Gatto Nero Restaurant

But a table I did get, as well as a leisurely meal, for I had unknowingly befriended the owner, or at least the son of the owner. Massimiliano Bovo is a member of an impressive family enterprise, which includes his father, Ruggero, the chef, as well as his mother, Lucia, and sister, Fiorenza, who also work in the kitchen. In between bites of light, crispy calamari mixed with delicately fried sole, washed down with generous amounts of Prosecco, I asked Massimiliano if he would consider doing a cooking class for one of my Venice culinary groups. And so it began.

Flash forward to last Sunday afternoon as we stood in Il Gatto Nero, gathered around Ruggero in his kitchen of 40+ years. Amicable and energetic, with a well-earned head of wisdom hair (the new term for grey), Ruggero introduced us to the basics of Venetian seafood—his specialty. He stressed good, fresh ingredients and simplicity, the cornerstone of all Italian cooking. But more important, he taught us lessons about life, staged like a symphony, in four moments: passion, love, family and dedication.

Broiled Scallops

Ruggero’s story unfolded alongside the many courses we prepared as he unintentionally combined each part of his life with a different dish. We started with an antipasta: thin slivers of raw tuna mixed with olive oil, garlic, a dash of aged balsamic, parsley, Sicilian capers, and a squeeze of lemon. The Carpaccio’s citrusy overtones exploded in our mouths as Ruggero burst with the passion of his youth. It wasn’t for food, but for music. He longed to be a composer, to create symphonies with harmonious notes, but he needed to make a living and went to work in a restaurant instead. His dream took a back seat to practicality. But passion truly never dies. It may lay dormant, until one day, even years later, it begins to burn anew.

Tuna Carpaccio

When we moved on to the Zuppetta di Crostacei, a soup loaded with clams, mussels, calamari and shrimp in a delicate tomato broth spiced with the heat of Pepperoncino, we addressed how to build flavor, and relationships. The comfort of the warm broth seemed to symbolize the next part of Ruggero’s life—Lucia, his wife of 42 years. They had married the first year Ruggero took over the trattoria where he had cooked, making it his own. Working together the entire time, he on one side of the middle-of-the-room stove, she on the other. Their relationship is a true-life partnership, a rarity, and a delight to see in this day and age.

The Humble Beginnings of the Zuppetta di Crostacei

The pasta course was about family and commitment. We placed whole prawns with an assortment of seafood, fished from the lagoon, into a large pan with olive oil, garlic and shallots. To my surprise, partially cooked spaghetti was added, along with chopped tomatoes, Parmesan and parsley. As the dish simmered, we learned about Ruggero’s children and grandchildren, the importance of having the right priorities and that family must come first.

Ruggero in his kitchen

Lucia, who had popped in and out of the kitchen all evening with playful comments about her husband, came in toward the end to make her signature fritto misto—a mixture of just-pulled-from-the-sea shrimp, calamari, fish and even scallops, fried to perfection in a surprising light batter. She showed us her secret, which I cannot divulge, but one that I will use in the future. It was the same dish I had eaten at Il Gatto Nero three years prior, one of the dishes that made me want to come back. And then I realized it wasn’t necessarily about the uber-fresh seafood, or the batter, but maybe about the love, passion and dedication. Is it possible that I tasted them in the food?? I do believe in such things.

We finished our evening with tiramisu and dessert wine, especially chosen for us by Massimiliano, the son turned sommelier and front of the house manager. His generosity and charm parallels his parent’s.

Fritto Misto

A symphony is usually heard, but can it also be tasted? It’s described in the dictionary as “a consonance of sounds,” but what about flavors? I believe Ruggero is the successful composer he always dreamt of becoming. His harmonious notes are savored and sometimes even heard via the expressions of delight coming from the dining room.

The moment the man said, “In Normandy, we butter our bread before slathering on the cheese,” I knew I was in the right place. The heavy cream and Calvados-laden dishes only confirmed it. But even though I love butter and can eat my share of Camembert, I was actually in Normandy for another reason—to experience D-Day exactly where it happened.

As a World War II history buff, who spent a university year studying the subject in Germany—on the ground, in the camps, and with the people who lived it from the other side, I had already covered a lot of central Europe. However, still missing from my education were the beaches where on June 6, 1944 Allied troops landed and changed the fate of the world.

French Cheese Plate

I launched my tour from Bayeux, one of the few Norman towns that wasn’t destroyed during the war. Home to the Bayeux tapestries, famous for depicting the Norman conquest of 1066, the town is full of present day charm and medieval alleyways. Bayeux was saved because it was located at D-Day +1—military lingo meaning the town was secured one day after landing, and luckily before 11,590 bombers decimated the area.

Bayeux Cathedral

Since it was a few days before the June anniversary, I had expected to find warm weather. Instead, it was a drizzly 52 degrees F—the exact same temperature as in 1944. Not having packed a coat, boots, or even an umbrella for summer, I tried to ignore the biting wind that eventually lifted me off the ground, or at least it felt like it did for a brief second. The sensation made me retreat from the jagged cliff at Pointe-du-Hoc, next to Utah Beach. The same cliff that troops trained an entire year to scale in order to overtake the German encampment.

The Cliffs of Pointe-du-Hoc

I was in awe of nature, but more in awe of what the soldiers endured, and that’s without gunfire. On the verge of feeling cold and miserable, I reminded myself that it wasn’t so bad, for I had a warm bed to sleep in that night. They had not.

I soon learned that my horrid wind was only half the strength of their horrid wind; the white tipped seas only half as rough. This put everything into perspective, much more than the ruined German artillery bunkers or the barren, pebbled beaches.

German Artillery Bunker

D-Day was originally scheduled for June 5^th. At midnight, soldiers were given a full breakfast and sent off. The sea was so rough that when the first troops became violently seasick, they turned back and the mission was postponed. In the meantime, they were given something to calm their stomachs, but it only made them worse. Twenty-four hours later, they set off again–cold, sick and scared, not to death, but of death (90% of the first wave was killed).

As we walked along the beach and later into green, grassy fields surrounded by apple trees, our guide shared stories that he had learned from GIs who had come to retrace their steps in battle. He’d listened to their intimately detailed accounts and over time put together a vivid portrayal of events, giving me, at least, an insight hard to find in books.

The American Cemetery

Looking at the pebbles that cover Omaha beach, I now see the destruction they caused when mortar fire lifted them into the air. They returned as heavy stones pelting men on all sides, sometimes causing severe injury.

Not far away, standing near centuries-old farmhouses, I imaged what that morning would have been like for the farmer who had awoken his entire life to an empty sea, only to find it filled with more than 5000 vessels and 156,000 men rushing toward him. In these boats that clogged the shores, captains shouted to their distressed troops, “We’re going to die either here, in this boat, or over there, on land. So, let’s at least try to make a difference.”

Paratroopers also descended into Normandy that night. If they landed safely (40% did not), they had to quickly unstrap their parachutes, hide them and then search their unit. They located each other with bird calls. One paratrooper was caught on a church steeple in the town of Sainte Mere Eglise. His presence shocked the town, up before dawn, helping to extinguish a fire. It was their sign, before the heavy artillery began, that something big was coming. The paratrooper hung in the air for hours, until the Germans cut him down. He was taken prisoner, but not for long—the town was liberated that first afternoon, after the Allies managed to construct landing bridges to unload tanks on the beaches. It was considered one of the greatest engineering feats of the time.

Remainder of Transport Bridge

On that day, I also learned that Calvados, the local apple brandy that warms the body so well, became a problem for the troops. When grateful farmers wholeheartedly offered incoming soldiers sips of brandy, they quickly indulged. Who could blame them? They were hungry and cold and welcomed the comfort. However, drunkenness ensued. By D-Day +1 Calvados was off-limits.

Baked Apple with Carmel Sauce

Reading history in books is one thing, but feeling the wind whip in your rain-dripped face while standing on hallowed ground is another. At the end of the day, I, too, went searching for the comfort of apples.

Medieval center of Bayeux

Sacre Coeur in Paris

To indulge this fascination I went to Hotel School, learning the difference between American and European service, hospitality accounting and the mathematical formula used to decide whether or not any given city needs a new Marriot. I planned a career where I’d be surrounded by 5-star beauty and an extensive array of cleaning products until I truly understood the long hours and dismal pay. (That’s when I got into my car and drove to Mexico—if I was going to work all day for almost nothing, I’d work for myself, not Mr. Hilton, thank you very much.)

But every now and then, when I witness the rare occurrence of service industry perfection, the faded dream emerges —and that’s exactly what happened the moment we (my sister, stepmother and I) pulled up to Epicure at the Bristol Hotel in Paris.

Bread Basket at Epicure

It wasn’t on our itinerary. I actually had chosen another restaurant for the special birthday occasion—Astrance, labeled one of the top 50 dining experiences in the world. But, unfortunately, they didn’t understand the nuances of service when they gave our 2-month out reservation to someone else. Instead of a world-class meal, we got an extra helping of attitude and a suggestion to “try the fish place on the corner.” In the long run though, they did us an enormous favor, but only after we insisted they book us a comparable place for lunch. I wanted Epicure, my second thoroughly researched choice, and I wanted them to get it for us. Explaining (in my Hotel School voice) that it was the least they could do under the circumstances, the concept fell on deaf ears. Well, almost deaf ears. Luckily, one gentleman was paying attention and graciously made a few phone calls. After a lot of waiting, we were on our way to the best dining experience of my life.

Bristol Hotel

From the moment we pulled up and men in charcoal grey tails and top hats rushed to open our doors, the service was flawless. Greeted by various employees along the way, we were escorted to the dining room, where staff members seemed to be waiting for us. They knew our names and the special occasion —now I finally had an inkling what it felt like to be minor royalty. We were seated at a center table in the cream and crimson accented formal dining room that looked out onto a rose bush dotted patio with guests sipping tea and reading newspapers. Red velvet banquettes lined the white walls; freshly cut rosebuds in crystal vases adorned each table.

Amuse Bouche

Chef Eric Frechon, who began his career shucking oysters, earned his 3 Michelin stars the hard way—with 35 years in the kitchen. And even though his food is superb, what left me in complete awe was the service. The uber-debonair Marco attended to us. Tall, dark and handsome, he hails from Milan and has spent his career at the best restaurants in Europe. His title is assistant manager, but he’s actually a choreographer, for he masterfully directs every step of the experience, and usually with his eyes—no hand gestures, and definitely no words, in this dining room. From the amuse bouche of foie gras stuffed cream puffs, a popsicle of smoked eel and a tiny dish of minted pea soup to the last morsel of macaroon, Marco orchestrated every move. I was impressed when servers, bearing the first course of macaronis farcis—tubes of pasta stuffed with truffles, artichokes, and foie gras in a creamy Parmesan sauce, stood behind us and lifted their silver-domed plates in unison at the precise moment Marco tilted his head. I was more impressed though that we each were given macaronis farcis, and that’s because only one of us had ordered them. The two complimentary portions were smaller, but nonetheless, the rule that no one dines alone was adhered to.

Melt in your mouth chicken–sous vide cooking at its best.

Course after course, we were fawned over, but not in that overly familiar American way, rather at a discrete and formal distance. We ate multiple courses and I discovered that contrary to what I thought I do like caviar…obviously just really good caviar, spooned on top of small buckwheat crisps with potato mousseline and haddock. When it was time for the cheese course, a marble-slabbed trolley appeared showcasing over 20 of France’s best cheeses. Wanting a bite of each, but narrowing my selection to only 4, was the hardest decision of my day.

Cheese Cart

We spotted the after-dessert cart long before it was our turn. A take on a magician’s box, it was stuffed with rows of richly colored macaroons, a generous dollop of homemade preserves sandwiched in the middle, as well as an assortment of chocolates and marshmallows pulled from an opening at the top. These treats were presented after our first desserts of wild strawberries encased in strawberry jelly and Peru chocolate served in a cocoa pod with lemongrass accented chocolate sorbet. Lamenting that we were stuffed and couldn’t possibly eat another bite, Marco presented us with small candy boxes to pack away whatever we wanted. Discipline and proper decorum prevailed, even though we really wanted to pack away more that the acceptable few pieces.

Cutting marshmallows from the after-dessert cart

Our birthday lunch lasted 4 hours. We were the last people to leave…by almost an hour and a half, but we were never rushed, never sped along, only fawned upon more. We thought our exceptional experience had ended with a tour of the kitchen and a heartfelt goodbye, but impeccable service is just that—impeccable.

Strawberry jelly encased wild strawberries.

Standing in front of the Bristol, requesting a taxi, we were ushered to the hotel’s private car. When I blushingly told the driver that we were just going to the metro (the subway), he said he had never heard of such a place. I repeated myself a few times, but no, in his world, there was no such thing as mass transportation. Then, I remembered that our stop was next to the Air France building. Hearing a respectable destination, we were whisked through the tree-lined streets and embassy-stuffed avenues, across the Seine in the most luxurious Mercedes I’ve ever come into contact with. Sated and happy, we held in our giggles and utter amazement, praising our luck and the attitude of the other 3-star restaurant that lead us to an experience of a lifetime. Carson would have approved.

It’s a sunny yet cool day in Italy’s Upper Tiber Valley, in Tuscany, ten minutes from the Umbrian border. I’m with my culinary tour group, visiting an olive oil mill, which has been operating in the same family since 1421. For those who are challenged with historical dates, that’s before Columbus sailed the ocean blue…71 years before the discovery of the New World. I’m talkin’ the Americas here: North, Central and South.

Next to  the Ravagni’s home is a small store selling their products.

The Ravagni Olive Oil Mill is my favorite stop on my Umbria tour itinerary. It’s amazing: the large stone wheel for crushing olives, the old woven mats used for pressing olive pulp into liquid, the family’s 15th century home, complete with soothing gardens and patio…it’s the Tuscany of magazine covers. But that’s not the reason why I adore the place. You see, I love the family more than I love their oil, even though I love that too.

Between visits, I remember the fun, often magical times, gathered in the family’s cozy, antique-filled dining room when it’s cold, or lounging under shady trees as the evening turns to dusk in the warmer months. I always schedule our stop for one hour, but we linger for 2-3, and hate that moment when we have to leave. Really? We can’t spend the night?

A cozier fireplace within a mammoth 15th century fireplace.

Francesco, the Ravagni’s youngest son, tall and thin with a seldom-tamed crown of brown curls, is the heir apparent to the olive oil dynasty. He runs the tastings, his father having retired a few years ago. I refer to him as the mad scientist of olive oil: natural, infused, scented…in creams, soaps and lip balms. Then there’s his homemade grappa—probably the best I’ve ever tasted. And his aged balsamic, boldly mixed with blueberries. But that’s not why I adore Francesco. I love his quirkiness more than I love his oil, even though I do have about 4 bottles of the “experiment” in my cupboard. That would be the blueberry balsamic.

Stone wheel for crushing olives

After touring the mill, our group slowly heads down a windy road, then up a small hill toward the family’s house. It’s a 15-minute walk, flanked with remnants of a medieval abbey, fields of olive trees, and the mountaintop town of Anghiari in the distance. Halfway there, I look behind me and Francesco, who said he’d follow us in his car, was stopped and madly flashing his headlights. I wait as the group moves forward. Francesco keeps pulsing the lights, faster and faster. Car trouble??

Olive press extracting oil

I turn around. When I reach the car, I stick my head inside the passenger window to see if I can be of assistance. And there he is, grovin’ to the beat, singing at the top of his lungs, one hand in the air, the other on the lights, flashing them to the tempo of Gloria Gaynor belting out “I Will Survive.”

“Get in,” he says. “Let’s dance!”

I look toward my group, who steadily keep their pace and think for a moment what would a professional person do. I really want to dance with Francesco, but I’m technically on the clock and I do have a reputation to protect. Or do I?

“Come on! It’s disco.”

Temptation pulls me in one direction, good judgment in the other. It’s “no one is going to know” versus “they’ll see me and loose all respect.” Reminding myself that not everyone shares my sense of humor, I turn and re-join my group.

Lazy afternoon in the Ravagni’s courtyard.

Once, when I had chosen spontaneity over professionalism, I ended up in a ditch outside of Salvatore Ferragamo’s country estate. Luckily, my trial tour group was comprised of friends who, like myself, thought it a brilliant idea to scrap the day’s itinerary in lieu of gently and innocently stalking Ferragamo. (Spoiler alert: we got inside the gates—stay tuned for details).

Olives before the harvest.

Back in Tuscany, we gather inside the Ravagni’s house. Francesco is refined and attentive, acting as if the disco episode never happened. He introduces his petite, always impeccably dressed mother who’s prepared a few snacks for us. We sit around the table, look at family photos and taste the oils: garlic, truffle, sage, pepperocino, to name a few. We drink wine, made from the grapes on the vines we just walked past, and marvel at Signora Ravagni’s hard work. When her husband joins us, I tell the group that she was once an opera singer, her husband a philosophy professor whose hobby is 15th century music. And that’s when they start to sing, sometimes together, sometimes alone, from classics to ballads once popular in the Medici courts of Florence. It’s a far cry from disco, but the experience is equally enjoyable.

Wait, a truffle hunt? Something, via my culinary tours, I know well and have the good fortune to partake in once or twice a year. Could it be that Oprah, the Queen, could be envious of mere mortal me? Or is she handing me a marketing tool on a silver platter? Maybe both. See, I knew we had a special connection.

Truffles just pulled from the ground.

I was thinking about this recently, on a cool Spring day, in Italy’s Upper Tiber Valley, where my Umbria tour’s truffle hunt takes place. I was wishing Oprah were with us (and also calculating that if she really were with us, how much could I have charged the other people).

We were gathered on private land, under a grove of oak trees that was planted 40 years ago to increase the chance of finding truffles and ward off competition to discover them first. Wrapped in scarfs and light jackets, cameras in hand, we met Giacomo, the hunter, and his dog, companion, and business partner Emma…for without Emma there would be no truffles.

A morning’s worth of truffles. Thank you, Emma.

Knowing she had a job to do, Emma was anxious and impatient, begging to be set free, her charcoal grey nose twitching frantically. Emma is a trained hunter, from a long line of respected hunters, and she was there to do a job. So, it was no surprise that when Giacomo removed her leash that she darted into the trees, leaving us behind. We tried to keep up, ducking under branches and watching not to trample small patches of wild asparagus. When Emma suddenly stopped to sniff the ground with intent, giving us time to gather around her, we watched in anticipation. Then, she squatted and…well, as my father would say, “did her business.” Thank God Oprah’s not here, I thought to myself. I would be horrified.

With that done, Emma moved forward and away, dragging her nose on the leaf-covered ground, until she began to dig. Giacomo ran behind her and dropped to his knees. He called for Emma to stop, but she was quick, and she loves truffles: summer blacks, precious whites. They’ll all good. Emma popped the truffle into her mouth, but Giacomo was also quick and gently removed it from her jaw, showing us the 2-inch round nugget, one of the world’s most famous delicacies, in the palm of his hand. One by one, we excitedly sniffed the unique, earthy aroma. When we were done, Giacomo carefully covered the hole in the ground, leaving it exactly the way it was—so another truffle will grow in its place. Emma’s efforts were indeed rewarded, but with dog treats.

Emma finds “twins”–two truffles growing side by side.

Emma loves her job. She thinks of it as an entertaining game; however, in Umbria, it’s big and very serious business. Umbria supplies 70% of Italy’s truffles. Fortunes are made, prized dogs stolen and sometimes even killed. It’s a way of life in these parts, not a hobby, and definitely not a game.

Truffle hunting is deeply rooted in the Upper Tiber Valley, from the Roman times to the Renaissance, when truffle hunting was used as entertainment for noble families. Due to Umbria’s favorable climate and rainfall, there’s a different truffle for each season of the year: two black varieties, as well as two white. They have been used in central Italian cooking for centuries.

A spade helps remove the truffle, so not to damage it.

Emma began her training like most dogs, when she was a few months old. Giacomo started by hiding pieces of truffle or truffle-infused food at home and letting her find them. The next step was hiding truffles under the dirt, rewarding each find with a tasty treat. Dogs are taught never to take the truffle, only to dig in order to show the hunter where it is; however, it seems that Emma hasn’t really mastered this step yet…and maybe doesn’t plan to. Trained dogs, without this tendency, I suspect, are worth around 4000 euros. And what about the acclaimed truffle-hunting pig? Well, as Giacomo says, “You can’t get a pig in a car…and well, they’re pigs. They eat everything, all the profit.”

Truffled Cheese Fondue–amazing!

When it’s time for lunch, we gather in Gabriella Bianconi’s kitchen as she explains how to use truffles. Normally shaved on pasta, eggs, gnocchi or meats, truffles are used sparingly and rarely cooked–the exception being white truffles, which are sometimes tossed in a pan of warm oil to heighten their flavor and then spooned on top of bread for crostini.

Gabriella shaves truffles on the tagliatelli.

I hate to break the news, but the truffle oil commonly found in America has nothing to do with truffles. Its intense aroma and flavor comes from a chemical compound that resembles it closely, but no cigar. It’s not real—it’s just flavored sunflower oil.

But we feast on real truffles, shaved in front of our eyes, devoured with anticipation and curiosity by the newcomers and savored with love by those who long for their delicate taste once again…and that’s exactly why Oprah wanted to go on a truffle hunt. She adores them.

The summer black in all its glory.

Oprah recently went on her bucket list truffle hunt, and in Umbria, so I no longer have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done something that she desires…but I do have the satisfaction of knowing there will be another hunt, another afternoon spent with Emma, enjoying the fruits of her labor.

Arriving to Venice for a 2-week home exchange, I unknowingly stumbled onto the opening of the Biennale—Venice’s famed contemporary art festival, considered one of the most important in the world. However, this story isn’t about the festival, because then it would be about commoners, like myself. Instead, I prefer to delve into the lives of the lovely, the privileged.

Biennale Art Delivery

The most important Biennale parties take place a night or two before the opening, when the Grand Canal is packed with elegant, wood-veneer water taxis. These boats are normally stuffed with picture-snapping Chinese, but on the night of the “beautiful,” they were honored with the presence of only two elegant individuals. The men, dressed in tailored navy suits (never black) and crisp white shirts, with colored silk peaking out from their breast pocket, stood in the open rear of the boat. They held a cell phone in one hand, gripped the rim of the cabin in the other, and spoke with what seemed like authority to someone on the other end. The women, many pencil thin and some wearing gold stilettos, were seated inside, careful that a gust of wind never touched their coiffed heads.

No, not the “Beautiful” People.

Eyeing the action from my perch abroad a vaporetto (Venice’s answer to mass transit), I almost toppled over, my sailor stance failing me, when a private boat cut us off in the middle of the canal—think of a BMW coup cutting off a Costco delivery truck. Our captain slammed on the brakes and shouted insults with frantic, and sometimes obscene, arm gestures. The nearby gondoliers stopped as well, joining in with cries of Madonna! Mamma Mia! Stupido! The well-tanned, silver-headed man and his entourage disembarked in front of a palazzo. He turned around only once, giving us a look that knows no nationality, no border—the look of entitlement.

The driver couldn’t have been Venetian, for the ways of the canals are handed down from generation to generation with respect and silent obedience.

Good Canal Day with Respectful Drivers

The palazzo was flanked by machine gun totting soldiers in black. It’s entrance screaming: Someone important is inside. The President of Italy? A Saudi Prince? A Hollywood celebrity?

Speaking of celebrities, Johnny Deep’s Grand Canal house was nearby, dark and empty and for sale…if anyone is interested.**

Arsennale, Venice

That evening the world’s biggest and finest yachts lined the waterfront of the Arsennale (Biennale headquarters and Venice’s former shipyards, from its days of glory and global domination…even when the world was still flat.) I’ve heard that docking fees in Venice are astronomical and the few available slots are reserved, not for your average millionaire, but for your select billionaire. Their boats…if I can still call them by the name of an inferior floating device…were a spectacle equal to that of the Biennale. The Chopi-Chopi had a handsome, buff, uniformed crew fluffing outdoor pillows and polishing rails. According to yachtowner.com, “a man with a very large family who likes to spend the month of August at sea” owes the vessel. (Pictures for gawking at: http://megayachtnews.com/2013/11/megayacht-news-onboard-crn-chopi-chopi/)

Not one of the world’s most spectacular yachts, at least not this century.

Music spilled onto the Grand Canal from the various parties, the Gugenheim was decked out in black and red, beaming large spotlights into the dark, but there would be a price to pay during the following days, when the parties ended and the “beautiful “people went home.

Biennale Installation: Receptionist Desk, “I will always be too expensive to buy.”

“Can you believe they stole the silverware?” Andrea exclaimed over coffee one day. I just happened to be sitting with a friend of his when he joined us. Andrea, who could trace his lineage back to two Doges, came from a noble family and like many landed rich, he needed to rent his palazzo for special occasions in order to earn some extra cash.

“Eighteen-century, absolutely irreplaceable! They took 3 different pieces,” he barked, and rightfully so. “You would think with the money it takes to rent my palace that they wouldn’t need to steal the silverware.”

Andrea  insisted that it wasn’t the staff. They, at least, had respect for family and history and wouldn’t do such a thing. It had to be the nouveau riche renters who hosted a dinner party on the eve of the Biennale—their behavior appalled him, for you can’t buy lineage and etiquette, nor obviously 18th century Venetian silverware.

The Griffin–Hong Kong Pavillion at the Biennale.

And so it goes. They appear and then disappear. They spend and they allegedly steal. They dazzle and they repel. They entertain us with their presence, yet we’re relieved when they go away and the world becomes normal again.

Oh, the “beautiful” people.

**For more on Johnny in Venice read

http://deliciousexpeditions.com/blog/2012/06/a-dog-depp-afternoon/