Sense Memory

I got to thinking about this concept last night in the shower. Yesterday afternoon I stopped at Acme to buy new bath products, smelling all of the bottles of bodywash to see which I liked best. I picked one claiming to smell of lavender and rosemary (hello! awesome!), and despite the fact that it smelled of neither, I went for it. When I used it in the shower that night I was smacked in the face by a memory of the bubble bath I used as a child, long ago and far away. It didn't hit me in the store, but was transported so immediately and powerfully back to the five year old me, pushing bubbles around a tub, I felt like I'd been there and back in a fraction of a moment. That, twenty years later, a soap could take me to summer evenings spent rolling around in the grass chasing fireflies and playing with chalk on sidewalks almost took my breath. And then it happened again, this afternoon. I was ravenous at work and quickly heated a prosciutto and mozzarella panini til slightly burnt and melted (the best...) I ate it standing up, thinking about what I had to do the rest of the day, running lists in my head and calculating the remainder of my week - generally not thinking at all about what I was eating, or even how it tasted. (Which, incidentally, drives me crazy and I try my best to avoid - it seems to be a distinctly American tendency to eat while on the road, running from one thing to another, and not give more than a momentary consideration to that which we shove into our faces to sustain us. Bad. Habits. All.) Anyway, I generally eat this particular panini cold, yet had heated it today on a whim, and the flavor of the hot prosciutto combined with the doughiness of the bread and the co-mingling grease took me abruptly to a lunch counter in Spain. We had stopped specifically at this lunch counter, deep in the Basque region, to try their selection of bocadillo - sandwiches made on split bread. In general, and especially while you're there, they seem overly greasy, overly fried, and overly laid with HAM. All kinds and varieties. I tried one with fried prawns and had to ask for mayo lest I choke to death, as they're all served dry, save for the GREASE. I don't know if it's because I generally have a hard time living in the moment, because I'm constantly rushing to the next thing, but I've found that when I travel, it's rare I appreciate where I am and what I'm experiencing at that moment. Some things rush at you full force, especially in parts of the world so foreign from your own, that it's almost easier for me to disengage a little...I think it helps me to take things in? I'm honestly not sure, but I work on rectifying it daily. A consequence of such behavior is that at times completely unrelated to a certain place or time, I'm overcome by memories of places and people and foods and drinks that have changed me, that have made me the person I am. And nine times out of ten, these memories are brought on by smells and tastes. And if you'd asked me then, on that bar stool eating lunch in Bilbao, what I thought of the bocadillo I would have told you the truth - they're alright, I like the prosciutto - I never would have anticipated that a year later I would have almost cried from a stupid work sandwich that reminded me so much of the air on the beaches and the smell of fresh octopus served on a wooden plate. And thick chocolate and sugar donuts. And bitter apple cider.
Experiencing two of these moments in such a short time got me to thinking about what I associate with other places I've traveled, and oddly (not so oddly?) it took me all of a few minutes to rattle off a list.
Ireland came to mind first - Ireland I can conjure in a waft of peat smoke. Something I'm blessed with on most mornings if I ride North on 13th Street early enough in the day to catch the smells of some happy persons fireplace. In the general vicinity of 13th and Tasker, someone burns peat every morning. And whenever I smell it I worry I'll crash my bike because I'm so busy thinking of Guinness and pubs and laughing - of stepping on stones over water behind my Dad, the picture of my brother holding his arms out to God in the middle of a field full of sky. Of the tiny bakery with white lace curtains that sold us muffins.
I feel Thailand whenever I smell anyone grilling meat over charcoal. I see Italy in giant stacks of lemons - the lemons I saw at the outdoor food market in Turin. It's comforting to me that it's possible to feel, see and taste these places I've been on a daily basis. Like they're a part of me. I'm fairly certain if I were to ask others about this phenomena they'd agree. I have to wonder if it's as prevalent, though. I genuinely hope that it is. As we grow and change, to be able to become a child again for a moment because of something you picked up at a grocery store for $6.99 seems like a reasonable price. To travel across the globe because of your neighbors barbecue. To relive the happiest, most challenging, fulfilling moments over and over again because of this thing that most of us take so for granted - eating standing in the corner, or at a desk over an assignment of some kind.
I hope tomorrow it happens to you, in the most unexpected circumstances, and it makes you cry, in the happiest of ways.

I Want to Get Here

This place has never entered my consciousness as a viable vacation option. Sorry, Australia but I've never had the desire, and New Zealand fell into the same category. However tonight I was sitting in front of the TV watching a show called "House Hunters International", which is...just like it sounds. People look for homes across the world. This particular episode takes place on Great Barrier Island. And it looks. Amazing. I've been trolling around all night looking at airfares, just generally seeing what's up, travel-wise. Thailand's airfare has finally fallen to around $1100 (awesome! was super high for a while) - Ecuador looks pretty cool, as does Bali ($1300)...

but then this show came on about a family giving up their (pretty awesome) life in Australia to move "off the grid" on Great Barrier Island. Now, I'm not the greenest person. I recycle at home but I take incredibly long showers and I'm probably just...not a good example to future generations. But the whole idea of moving to a place as idyllic, and genuinely self-sustaining as that one blew my mind.

So. So. Beautiful.

Want to go? $2050. Only 27 hours.

The best thing about Philadelphia...

is that you get to leave. Today, for instance. My weekends are constructed of Sundays and Mondays, Sundays being the day I spend time with my Dad and brother brunching, followed by copious amounts of friend time that has been dubbed, over the years, as Sunday Funday. Mondays tend to be slightly foggy, waste-time kind of days. Today, however, I drove into Lancaster in search of one thing and one thing only...the Shady Maple Smorgasbord. Oh yes, friends. That mammoth complex is home to what must be the largest all you can eat buffet outside of Vegas. And, being located in Amish country, home to so many feel-good pork products you suffer a massive coronary just from stepping in the door. I was raised on a bizarre conglomeration of Slovak, German, Polish and Irish foods...lots of cabbage, potatoes, dumplings, and pork. There aren't many things in life that can replace comfort foods, and my heart was made happy when we discovered that not only does Shady Maple serve all of my favorites at their buffet, they have a gift shop, too!!
I can say with absolute certainty nothing could have made today better than the baked lima beans, sausage, cabbage soup and kruschiki (Polish "angel wing" cookies) - for which we we drove an hour and a half on unfamiliar back roads through intermittent downpours.
I remarked to Mike (my partner in crime) on the way that I'm having a harder time explaining to people why we seek out the destinations we do...we went to Spain in October, to the Basque Region, for no other reason but to experience their tapas culture, eat as many churros and hot chocolate as we could before exploding (our cioccolato con panna is remarkably similar, ps), and find the freshest seafood known to man. Mission accomplished, all of which in one tiny (somewhat tense,) village called Lekeito, on the Basque coast.
We're constantly looking for the best thing we can find, preferably in the cheapest, oldest, most authentic incarnation. Lancaster, Spain...last week we went to New York for a few days to experience what I can only say was the single most amazing meal we've ever had. Followed by the best milkshake I've ever had.
All I'm really trying to say is that while driving home today, fuller than I've been since, well...last week, I was thinking about how I'm totally ok with always being broke and tired. Always being broke and tired means I'm always out looking for some new food adventure. Means always finding the new best thing, if only for the two of us. Sometime's it's in Philadelphia and is the best hot dog you've ever had. Sometimes it's in Lancaster and it reminds you of your great great grandmother, who died before you were old enough to really know who she was. Maybe it's in Spain, in a tiny coastal village wracked with turmoil and violence because of their fierce dedication to independence - but you know? It was some of the best food I've ever had. It always is.
PS? There's a Pork Bonanza happening at Shady Maple in a few weeks. Who's up for a road trip?

Sparkling Oyster Goodness

On a whim, after work the other day I headed over to Sam's Oyster House for my first chance to check out their amazing Happy Hour. As far as I'm concerned, buck a shuck oysters beats the hell out of half priced anything at every other bar in the city - except with discounted draft beers as well as cocktails, and a daily oyster shooter designed by the ever so talented (and charming to boot) Katie Loeb, I'm fairly convinced it's THE happiest hour. Ever. And because we're well into "months with an r", I say go to town oyster eaters!
We ordered 24 oysters, a side of brussels sprouts and shoestring fries. The SO ordered a draft Kenzinger, and I a sparkling house wine. Katie asked if she couldn't use me as a guinea pig (of course), and added a dried hibiscus blossom with some hibiscus simple syrup. While I was looking forward to enjoying the sweet sparkle of the wine with the briney-ness of the oysters, the hibiscus was a nice change and offset the flavors well.
I have to say, as much as I love the Oyster House, I'm not super thrilled by the fries. I always go craving something along the lines of what Monk's offers with their mussels - in my opinion some of the best fries in the city - and end up underwhelmed by the very small potato crisps they serve at the O.H. They very much remind me of Andy Capp Hot Fries...hmm. But you know, I don't go to a seafood place for the fries, and I definitely don't think they should be considered a deterrent.
One of the things I like the most about the Oyster House is its roots in Philadelphia's history. In varied representations, the oyster house tradition has been going strong since the beginning of time...or on the books, about 1901. Sam's stays true to tradition with the Snapper Soup, but most noteworthy, Philadelphia's Fish-House Punch. Punches were served for any number of gatherings - Philly's never needed much of an excuse to belly up to the bar. The Fish-House was first documented in 1732, involves peach brandy, cognac and Jamaican rum, and even comes with a little ditty:

There's a little place just out of town,
Where, if you go to lunch,
They'll make you forget your mother-in-law
With a drink called Fish-House Punch.

True story, even the most seasoned punch-drinker will be taken down by this concoction - it's nothing to take lightly (PS thanks to David Wondrich and his Imbibe! for the Fish-House Punch background story)!

All in all, top points all around. The Winter Clam Bake for 2 is AMAZING, as are the Stone Crab claws from the raw bar. Hope that Katie is working her cocktail magic, and ask her to shake you up a traditional style libation. You're good to go.

Cheers.

Taqueria Veracruzana

If two years running constitutes tradition, it has become customary that on New Year's Day, while braving the chaos and beautiful tumult of the Mummer's Parade, my crew and I make a pit stop at Taqueria Veracruzana on Washington Avenue.
With minor hesitation, it is my favorite Mexican food in Philadelphia. I hesitate because my absolute favorite (tamales) comes from a van that parks outside of my work every Saturday morning, but that's a whole other story. When I go after good Mexican, all I want is for it to be simple. Limes, raw onions, cilantro and tacos al pastor are all I need in life on a day when I just can't take any more Thai or Vietnamese (staple foods).
Beautiful things about Veracruzana: the SALSAS! Absolutely wonderful, and so bright. They serve homemade tortilla chips with salsa verde and roja, which for me is reason enough to come here. So often salsas aren't seasoned enough, aren't hot enough or are just too thick - these are thinner, spicy and perfect.
Tacos al pastor - well that's just easy. Pork and pineapple with drippy greasy wonderful. The mole isn't bad, and the burritos are a sure bet.
Bonus points for it being cheap as hell and a BYO - right next to the super classy, but to date has never let me down, "40 Sto'" for all of your Tecate needs.
Basically, if you're looking to fill the down and dirty needs that only a plateful of queso and greasy pork can supply, don't go to one of the American "Mexican" places - you know which I'm talking about...Veracruzana is all you need. (Go on the weekends and ask for tamales!!)

Cheers.