Madrid: Tabernas trifecta + pan con tomate por vida

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We last visited Madrid a little over a decade ago. It was such an idyllic time – wandering around Spain’s beautiful capital under its endless sunshine and sipping Mahou without a care in the world. Mainly, the Only YOU Boutique Hotel (C. del Barquillo, 21, Centro, 28004) was at the center of this memory. Converted from a 19th century mansion, the rooms are smartly fitted in low-key luxury. Once you depart this serene cocoon, you’re in the middle of the exceptionally lively Chueca, with swarms of tourists, school groups, and weekenders queuing up for shows at the Teatro Enfanta Isabel. In an ever-changing world, it was nice to see the Only YOU – and Madrid – had not changed much.

There was no goal for this long weekend – just to walk around and embrace our inner Madrileños while devouring as much pan con tomate as possible. Descending into a rainy morning, the misty start called for some cafe time. We hit up what would become our daily hub, Toma Café 1 (C. de la Palma, 49, Centro, 28004) – a spartan space filled with good music and offering a pan con tomate that was one of the most perfect dishes, ever. The crispness of the bread, the olive oil’s richness pooling over, topped with a dollop of vibrant Spanish tomate rosa that is the perfect balance of fruity and savory – it is truly capable of curing jet lag/hangover/anything.

A second goal was to visit the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía (or simply, the Reina Sofía, C. de Sta. Isabel, 52, Centro, 28012), to pay our respects to Picasso’s Guernica. Especially in this exceptionally miserable time of war and societal uncertainty, it felt even more emotional viewing the masterpiece than in times past. Man Ray’s Larmes (Tears) also struck a chord in the recurring theme of feeling weighed down by the world. Even if you spend your time on this floor alone, you’re surrounded by the best of Spanish avant-garde, Surrealism, and Cubism.

Aside from the pan con tomate, another weekend focal point was to enjoy laid-back tabernas for unfussy comfort food. I love tapas as much as the next guy and the mystery act of accepting and eating what is given is a lot of fun (aka “what is this morcilla and will I like it?”). It was exceptionally enjoyable at Bar Sidi (Calle de Colón 15, 28004) munching on the zingiest patatas bravas and a crunchy bocadillo de calamares while people watching during a late night Sunday La Liga football session where kids snoozed and parents enjoyed beers until the end. After all, 11pm is literally childs’ play dining time for the average Spaniard. Having been around since 1943, Bar Sidi definitely felt like one of those “beating heart” places where all walks of civic life convene and there is never a dull moment. The equivalent to a British pub no doubt.

Some of my favorite Anthony Bourdain content was when he traveled to Spain. You could tell his appreciation of the quirky, left-field gastronomy over many other European destinations. But true to his core, he also dined at classic tabernas, and it was finally time to see these places in person. My cynical side these days feels like every old restaurant is destined for closure, but I still hold out hope, especially in Europe where there is more of an appreciation for storied spots where servers still wear a uniform and the history overpowers the need for another disposable trend. The walls of Restaurante Casa Salvador (C. de Barbieri, 12, Centro, 28004) are strewn with imagery of bullfighters and bullfighter-adjacent folklore. Dark wood paneled walls and check tableclothes of this two-story spot were packed with groups enjoying comforts like battered hake (a staple). The albondingas (meatballs) in a velvety, bright paprika-tomato sauce were smokily moreish, in addition to the perfectly fluffy tortilla. Night two focused on Taberna San Mames (C. de Bravo Murillo, 88, Chamberí, 28003), further out from the center of town. Known for their callos con garbanzos, the richness of the tripe, beans, and piquant peppers was something I was not prepared to enjoy as much as I did. As usual, Tim was a little shy tucking into tripe, but appreciated the very Italian scarpetta dipping factor of the bread in the sauce. Another night, another hake – this time lightly fried and followed by an exceptionally boozy tarta de chocolate al Armagnac (rich chocolate tart with a French brandy). This experience did justice to Bourdain’s time in this tiny, tile-laden space where a family-led brigade of servers and chefs whip between kitchen and dining room packed with obviously lifelong customers.

To round out the trifecta of tabernas, I needed to roll deep into Iberian mariscos. Tucked away in residential Tetuán, we spent Sunday afternoon with a showstopping Galician lunch at La Castañal Marisquería (C/ de Berruguete, 78, Tetuán, 28039). If you want to feast on the Iberian coast while still immersed in urban Spain – this is the place. By 1pm it was packed with families and walk-ins were turned away. People were settling in for an afternoon of eating roe out of a massive crab and toothpicking their way through mini mariscos. Veggies did make an appearance at the start, in a stellar empanada gallega. Because Tim is a kind person who knows how much lobster means to me, he forewent a steak to share a massive arroz con bogavante – a beautiful clawed lobster floating within paella and its juices. The amount of lobster meat was ridiculous as was the effervescent saffron from the rice. Tim did get his dessert wish, ending with a tarta de Santiago, a rich almond cake native to the region.

I left Madrid feeling totally placid – which is exactly what this city is all about. And, like all visits to Spain, could not shake that salty taste in my mouth.

Ferrying into Baltic oblivion (Stockholm to Helsinki)

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I will never forget how the blue of a Swedish summer’s night faded to mist in mere seconds….

Having wanted to visit Helsinki for a long time, there weren’t any accommodating direct flights from New York to maximize a long weekend’s visit. Better flight options to Stockholm and my friend Amy’s enthusiasm for catching an overnight ferry to Helsinki resulted in a resounding group “yes” – and rooms were immediately booked for a one way journey on the Viking liner.

An early morning Stockholm arrival allowed for ample frolicking time. Yes – when in Stockholm, we frolick. Any opportunity to spend a few hours there is the stuff I dream of. The perfect half day experience is devised of: kanelbullar for breakfast, getting hopped up on ginger shots from the delightful Joe and the Juice chain, a snack of korv med bröd (aka hot dogs) from our favorite cart Oves Hjulkorv (Kungsgatan 43), and finally, a visit to the holy grail that is Svenskt Tenn (Strandvägen 5) for a dreamy lax lunch of toast skagen at their namesake cafe. Having to unglue myself from Stockholm’s streets, we boarded a much grander (than I imagined) Viking ship – replete with tourists like ourselves and many a group of Swedes and Finns – sports teams, stag dos – you name it. The boat was already boasting party vibes and we did not even depart Sweden’s shores yet.

I had never taken a cruise before. But, my prediction of settling into a tiny room and an even tinier shower rang true. The tiny accommodations are a meager concern, as you’re spending the majority of your time dining and meandering around the ship. The lively dinner buffet is splattered with the colors of the Scandinavian rainbow – earthen tones for reindeer meat, the bright oranges of trout roe, and the beautiful hues of salmon – smoked, sauteed, etc. I love the balance of Scandinavian cuisine – an even-keeled offering for carnivores and pescatarians alike. Dinner turned to drinks on the deck – gazing at the true blue waterways of the Baltic, dotted with classic red cabins nestled amidst swaths of lush, verdant pines. As the sky began to dull from blue to gray, we turned inwards to the disco, with partygoers dutifully singing karaoke to anything from ABBA to Frank Sinatra, increasingly clouded by fumes from the smoking nook perched above the bar.

As one does at this point in the night, we made our way to the expansive duty free shop. Maybe it was being a few lagers into the evening or the weird feeling one gets with lack of window access, but we were compelled to buy mementos as we swung our wagon through the aisles laughing like giddy teenagers. I walked out of said shop wearing sky blue aviators, Tim in a bucket hat, and Amy crouched in a corner eating a giant Toblerone.

Safe in our sleeping quarters, we awoke to the blue skies of Finland, followed by another assault on the buffet, with the shoreline fully in view. Spending two days in Helsinki felt like a good starter for a hopeful return. I had always envisioned Helsinki as a two-sided coin. One side is the tattoo-clad, black metal-tinged town that heartily endures the endless winter darkness. The other side is of endless summer daylight and images of whimsical Moomin characters. All stereotypes of course, and Helsinki is a complicated place that wears many faces agnostic of the seasons. Walking around, you’ll notice that brutalist Finnish architecture is complimented by the delicate designs from the grandfather of modern Scandi design (and a personal favorite), Alvar Aalto. Staying at the Hotel Helka (Pohjoinen Rautatiekatu 23), you’ll find every ounce of space ensconced in Aalto/Artek designs, and it was truly a top fiver of a hotel room that I never wanted to leave.

Antique shopping is a best-of for Artek, Iitala, Marimekko, Moomin, and much more. The best experience was at the expansive treasure trove Helsinki Secondhand (Korkeavuorenkatu 5). Search hard enough and you’ll find exceptional goods – from limited edition signed 1970s Iitala pieces to rare cuts of vintage Marimekko fabric. While I still see Stockholm as my shining star of Scandi dining, Helsinki had memorable meals of the standards – comforting meatballs and some of the most pillowy mashed potatoes I ever had at Restaurant Sea Horse (Kapteeninkatu 11).

Two days in Helsinki were followed by an early morning flight back to New York via Stockholm. Thanks to the pleasantries of Scandinavian travel, even when you’re running from station to station, airport to airport, you’re always met with above par amenities to make the experience feel civilized and miles away from the chaos that modern day travel can bring.

Roma in più: C’è sempre Prati

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I always see Rome as a compass to mark where I am in my life. I think back to the early 2000s when my Roman slice of life centered around dinners at Da Francesco, when the Roscioli empire was still a twinkle in the eye of in-the-know tourists, and you could still approach the Trevi Fountain, coin in hand, wish ready. Nights were spent dancing away in Testaccio, a working class rione all about the clubs that dotted along the slaughterhouse lanes. Time has passed and Rome has become an overblown version of itself in many ways (bla bla bla), smart phones and modern technology have blurred the lines of tourism etiquette (bla bla bla), and Roscioli has gone global (but is still the best in its hometown). But as I remind myself, Rome does not have to be perceived or experienced in an exhausting way.

Nothing is more important than an ease into the day, perching at a nondescript caffè, enjoying a pastry, and watching life pass by. Walking over the Ponte Umberto I (with not too shabby a view) in the crisp morning air, we wandered into Prati – a neighborhood one would expect to be maddening considering its border with Vatican City. Instead, with its tree-lined streets and upmarket sensibilities, it is surprisingly void of the hoards.

We anchored ourselves at a friendly no-name caffè (Via Terenzio, 23, 00193), returning for iterations of pistachio cornetti followed by afternoon beers. Among the streams of office workers, locals, and straggler tourists, sitting and enjoying an unhurried cappuccino is one of life’s luxuries that I never tire of. Alternatively, for a ridiculously Roman rush of caffeine, sugar, and buzzing conversation, head to nearby Sciascia Caffè 1919 (Via Fabio Massimo, n.80/a, 00192). Enrobed in wood panelling with a grand “we have been doing this for longer than you’d imagine” attitude – prop up at the bar and tuck into a maritozzo – a fragrant brioche bun, split down the middle, and stuffed to the gills with the freshest cloud of panna (aka whipped creamed). Medieval delight? Yes. Tempting to inhale solo, but better to share? Definitely.

To see where well-heeled Romans buy their foodstuffs, Castroni (Via Cola di Rienzo, 196/198, 00192) is a fun browse. A local mini-chain of stores kicking around since 1932, Castroni is a delight to peruse pastas, sweets, and coffees (featuring brands that span Italy). Next door to the Cola di Rienzo location, pencil in a lunch of pizza al taglio or tavola calda options from another smart looking establishment, Gabrini (Via Cola di Rienzo, 200, 00192. The suppli were exceptional, and their hosting of evening tasting meals made it appealing to return next time to see what this classical establishment with a youthful edge is up to. To end the afternoon, any average scoop of gelato would have satiated. Instead, we stumbled upon Guttilla Alta Gelateria Italiana (Via dei Gracchi, 93, 00192), where a fountain of warm pistachio sauce oozed itself into the bottom of my heavily stylized cone.

Even if you find yourself spending the day seeing the major sites, making provisions for an exceptional dinner is a must. Back to Prati, do not dismiss La Fraschetta Romanesca (Via Tacito, 54/a, 00193). On street level it appears to be a tiny restaurant, but head downstairs to the cellar and you’ll be greeted by trays of homemade crostata di marmellata in a friendly, well-run establishment – that happened to be the best Roman meal of the week. Of course sharing the quadrant of pasta classics (alla gricia, amatriciana, cacio e pepe, and carbonara) is fun with a large group – plus the meatier options for secondi like trippa alla romana and coda alla vaccinara. Shout out to artichoke season, where the carciofi alla romana was beautifully bulbous and entrenched in its oils with a texture that was heartier than actual meat. We did return to beloved Testaccio for a few evenings, and despite Rome constantly changing, I appreciate that Via Marmorata and the surrounding streets host some of the best restaurants you will experience within city walls. Trattoria Perilli remains a must – with its terrazzo floors, bright gallery-white walls, and memorable involtini with fava beans. Nearby Il Grottino a Testaccio broke up the pasta reliance for a fun Friday night of crackly crust Roman pizza and delightful fritti – from salted cod/baccala to stuffed squash blossoms.

Despite tourism becoming increasingly more unpleasant and Rome bearing its brunt, I am happy that the outlying neighborhoods continue to get stronger and evolve with every visit – as I wander (and eat) my way through life.

Quando Napoli ci ha rotto

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How a trip can go from sheer exhuberance to feeling physical pain is never a surprise when you add up the factors: too much bread, summer, Italy, southern Italy, summer, HOT, heat – and again – too much bread. It has clearly taken me a long time to reflect on my first visit to Napoli, a city that took me to the highs of energy, inspiration, and reflection, only to depart feeling so tired and overwhelmed I needed time to process this experience.

I grew up always thinking about San Gennaro and the ritual of his liquefying blood that basically is responsible for keeping Napoli in one piece. Also hot-blooded, I busted into Napoli with so many reservations and stereotypes floating around in my mind. The usual horror stories Americans tell of winding down the wrong mandolin-soundtracked alleyway at night, getting in the thick of some local gangland feud, or, simply being pancaked by Vespa culture still shockingly reign supreme.

Ready to experience the ups and downs, we marched into town only to feel all the tired tropes melt away and embraced the instant burst of life that smacks you in the face. The train station was modern and had a Hudson News shop [hello, Penn Station?], without the piccoli scugnizzi waiting to mug us. Sure, we should have taxied to our accomodation, but walking through the area skirting the train was doable and not “dangerous.” The only dangerous thing was sweating profusely thanks to the energy-sapping heat.

We made the utterly vibrant (and so cool it does not know it is cool) Rione Sanità our home for a few days, opting to tap into the local arts community at Atelier Ines (Via dei Cristallini, 138). Ines and her husband Vincenzo are the proprietors of what can only be described as one part ‘art laboratory’ and one part B&B in a previous open-air cinema/theatre. Upon entering through the gates you immediately escape from the madness of the streets into a serene courtyard, meeting Ines’ team who transport you into an otherworldly space. The rooms are spacious, stylish, and an artisan-antique lover’s dream. Palazzo Dello Spagnuolo is literally a minute away (minus hoards of tourists), a palacial masterpiece that has become a postcard image when one thinks of Napoli – and in true form – is quietly tucked away behind an open-air fruit market. Descending on the city and taking in Atelier Ines and the palazzo in under an hour was enough stimulation to warrant a pizza lunch.

We had to try one of the classic establishments, and Starita (Via Materdei, 27/28) was top of the list. Of course it delivered, but I found the fritti / fried snacks the star of the show – from genovesina to frittatina di pasta to montanarina, it is amazing how one can stuff and sauce fried dough. Of course the pizza delivered, thanks to the magic being in those Vesuvio-enriched tomatoes.

There is no need to depart Rione Sanità after dark. Here you have the mix of old and new Napoli – old family businesses and open-air markets still chugging away, complemented by young proprietors coming in and adding a splash of new to the tried and true street culture. Another pizza experience – and it definitely was an experience above all – is the highly-lauded Pizzeria Concettina ai Tre Santi (Via Arena della Sanità). Whether it’s the magic show of presenting your fried goodies and pizza once they hit tableside, sprinkled/oiled/sauced with pizzazz, or the cool wine offerings, or just the general nightclub-like buzz outside – you better have a booking or know someone to get in. Pasticceria Poppella is across the street – meaning your top-notch, rum-soaked baba and sfogliatella needs are met. A little further down Via Vergini, and Antica Cantina Sepe was creating a street dance party alongside a chalkboard noting the owner’s sheer disdain for spritzes. Point taken! I could have sat there all night and people-watched. We tried an evening up the hill in posh Vomero, and while the winding car ride up and vision of a more middle class Neapolitan existance were interesting, it did not match the purity of Rione Sanità.

Spending your days winding down the many rioni that dot the city center, don’t miss taking in a relaxing and quintessentially locals-only lunch in the Chiaia neighborhood, at the storied Umberto dal 1916 (Via Alabardieri, 3). The menu was truly the best of la cucina partenopea – from fried carrozzas to paccheri with octopus to the creamiest tiramisu.

It felt strangely familiar being in Napoli, like maybe in another lifetime I had been there before. Little moments made the biggest memories – the familiar smells emanating from kitchens, the dialetto, the stunningly emotional aedicula (street shrines) – or even when a man squeezed us fresh limonata from his little cart, putting more love into it than some people do a full dinner…and more limonata runs thanks to the lady who squeezed and, as a bonus, sang to us one as we gazed at Vesuvio in the near distance. Watching glistening, golden Neapolitans sit on the rocks outlining the Bay of Naples, as cruise ships dock. I thought about my father and grandparents who all departed from that same port to come to New York decades ago, and weirdly how I had come full circle, returning to where their journey began…. But now I am experiencing a very different side of Italy.

At 4am, we dragged ourselves into a van headed for Rome airport. The streets were dark and shadows of boys hung out on their bikes, while kitchen staff started turning on their lights to bake bread and prepare for another sweltering day. I realized that this city is and will always be still shrouded in so much mystery and magic. As the famous song says… Napule è tutto ‘nu suonno, e ‘a sape tutto o’ munno, ma nun sanno a verità.


Copenhagen: Eat the rules

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What does “foodie” even mean anymore?
I still cannot wrap my head around Copenhagen’s dining landscape. It is a city where Noma and its real (and faux) foodies have congregated since the millennium to splash cash and elevate its reputation as a culinary untouchable. But, it’s also a city where the highest praise is also given to the local pølsevogn/hot dog or kanelsnegle/cinnamon bun purveyor. Regardless of whatever the jargony term “foodie” means anymore, Copenhagen tirelessly proves there is little tolerance for mediocrity in churning out a food product whether it is below $5 or over $500. It’s funny writing about Copenhagen after watching the hit American series The Bear and observing aspiring pastry chef Marcus’s visit, where he palms a hot dog, staring in awe at its delicate construct, then spends his days working on some of the world’s most complex dessert presentations. That episode pretty much sums up the level of food appreciation you will encounter here.

Embrace the traditional
In my opinion, if you want to create a successful Danish dining capsule – limit the experimental and bone up on the classics. The Scandinavian palette is an appreciation of salty, bitter, sweet, and bland – sometimes all mingling in one dish. You can tickle your palette at traditional taverns like Restaurant Puk (Vandkunsten 8, 1467) and Restaurant Karla (Dantes Plads 1, 1556) where reliable offerings span from generous hunks of beef artfully surrounded by a mote of piped mashed potatoes to shellfish bisques to the always-reliable array of smoked fishes. Then, you’ll need to mine the aquavit menu selection (known in Denmark as snaps) – a distilled liquor from grain or potatoes, with a distinct lean towards caraway or dill flavor, served in small, chilled shot glasses. Some servers might be enthusiastic about their modern, trendy aquavits on offer and the explosion of notes you’ll experience (see: Restaurant Puk). On the contrast (and true to the frank Danish form), other servers might bluntly admit they think it is disgusting, then slam a bottle down for your tastebuds to be reckoned with as you hold back the laughter (see: Restaurant Karla).

Spend your Sunday afternoon in smørrebrød paradise at Restaurant Kronborg (Brolæggerstræde 12, 1211). Witty servers will talk you through not over-ordering their delightfully delicate open-faced sandwiches and which snaps compliment, while families and friends gather, pissing the afternoon away in this cozy basement-level institution. But, the crowning classic that takes the tavern experience to the next level is Hansens Gamle Familiehave (Pile Allé 10, 12, 2000 Frederiksberg) – a spot slightly away from the city center, perched along Frederiksberg Park. Dating back to 1850, Hansens is overflowing with only a specific brand of quirk the Danes can execute, and you can feel the decades of family touches and local appreciation that has fueled generations of patrons. At first glance, the checkerboard tablecloths make you want write Hansens off as a family-friendly dud made for average food and drawn-out family Sunday lunches, but, the plentiful menu delivers (try the zesty choucroute-like pork-paprika dish). The long tables are heaving with diners in party mode and the decor is nothing to turn your nose up at. Look around and you’ll notice eccentric artwork and even a dedicated dining room to the cherished 20th century artist/humorist Storm P. – once a regular – and as usual – proves that Danish dining is always replete with a quirk or two and defies that notion that “traditional” dining has to be stale or boring.

Go experimental: Italy and Denmark – where two brilliant worlds collide
If you are going to invest your time and money in one experimental dining experience, go to Barabba (Store Kongensgade 34). Run by two Italian chefs, the shabby chic dining room feels like a clash of southern Italy with modern Danish sensibility, crowned by showstopping spearmint-green Murano lighting that sparkles above while you enjoy a nine course tasting menu including the most flavorful chickpea farinata (pancake) and succulent octupus you’ll ever enjoy. The standout? My pasta fever dream: spaghetti with butter colatura (anchovy) and caviar – the most unforgettable, indulgent delight that is the holy grail for a pasta lover. A solid new wave soundtrack and a rotating cast of cool Italian chefs presenting their creations tableside makes this place sheer heaven.

Copenhagen: Bjørn Wiinblad and The Blue House

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There was something extra special about a recent visit to Copenhagen. The last time there was a pre-pandemic Christmastime weekend spent sipping gløgg at a holiday market and watching The Nutcracker in Tivoli’s earthy, wood-paneled Concert Hall. We mainly traversed the city among the candlelit darkness, but this sun-fueled springtime jaunt centered around a pilgrimage to The Blue House. This is the former home (and now shrine) to the personal life and career of Denmark’s beloved Bjørn Wiinblad. One of the most famous modern day artists to emerge from post-war Denmark, Wiinblad created both private and commercial works – but was exceptionally successful on the retail side, reproducing his designs of whimsical women and fantastical, borderline psychedelic faces [mainly in pottery form] for houses Rosenthal and Nymølle Denmark – making his work accessible at all price points. Perhaps if you have a northern European grandma or are an antique-shop-rummaging pro, you will have most likely spotted his pottery reproductions nestled in a pile or hidden on a dusty shelf. I discovered his work at a Brighton Oxfam back in 2007, and knew my design interests would never be the same again; Wiinblad was my gateway into the world of 20th century Scandinavian arts.

Taking the train from Copenhagen central about 30 minutes into the suburbs, you’ll wind up in the leafy Lyngby area. Exit at the Sorgenfri stop, and you’ll be met by a quaint set of local shops – worthy of a quick browse and hot dog snack. Make sure to pop into the bookstore Greens Boghandel (Sorgenfri Torv 20, 2830 Virum). Upon making conversation with the owner, it was immediate proof of how many lives Wiinblad touched in his community and beyond. The owner explained how he was once gifted with a custom-made piece of pottery that still sits on his desktop, and even disclosed details about the day of Wiinblad’s funeral. He went to “the house” and sipped champagne, nibbling luxurious bites – all meticulously planned by Wiinblad to reinforce his eternal love of finery. Even before approaching The Blue House it was a testament that this artist simply loved life and creating a sense of happiness for anyone in his orbit, even after his time on earth. I thought about how I discovered his work soon after his 2006 passing, a testament to the powerful afterlife that artists possess.

Private tours can be booked, hosted by Wiinblad’s longtime chauffeur and right-hand man, René Schultz. We were guided around the petite cottage property that sits over two floors – replete with a drafting room, workshop and private residence. Upon entering the workshop, you’re greeted by the artists studio where two older (whimsical) women sit on a daily basis, having been trained by Wiinblad when they were young. They now reproduce his pieces, with classical music playing in the background and the sun shining through. I have never felt like more of a voyeur into someone’s life, gazing at the midcentury monochrome rooms – a green-hued parlor with the seat cushions still showing signs of imprints, the grand but cozy blue dining room that literally sparkled – with handcrafted table settings [Wiinblad always customized his dinner guests’ placements] surrounded by what appeared to be some of his most beautiful pottery creations ever seen. You could envision the elaborate caviar-fueled dinner parties with the queen of Denmark and other celebrity friends. Housed in this modestly sized property were riches of a well-lived life – with no photographs allowed – which truly made you feel like modern life was miles away.

But, that is so Danish – having lived this larger than life existence, but in a modest, understated way. Mr. Schultz dazzled us with anecdotes where you could feel Wiinblad’s presence – such as another part of the funeral story – when the veranda’s ceiling tiles (all hand-placed by the artist) came crumbling down not long after his burial. Or, when I asked who inspired the faces of the whimsical women. I was expecting some grand response in the vein of Greek godesses, but Mr. Schultz simply retorted: “I think Bjørn was inspired by his mother’s face.”

I could not help but be emotional visiting The Blue House. It was everything I was expecting and more. There are few people whose life I would like to emulate, and Bjørn Wiinblad’s is one of them. He truly loved art, travel, and the wonderment of life. I hope that my fellow antique-mad travellers continue to discover his work and keep the appreciation for his whimsical aesthetic alive.

Lagom & Light in Sweden

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For the past few years, I have a been accumulating a compilation of very clear snapshots from my Swedish experiences. A constant of these visits is the presence of a neverending cerulean blue sky, purveyor of the lack of sleep I can’t help but experience….

24 hours in Malmö
I think about the night before our visit to Malmö, when I couldn’t fall asleep, then spent the long ride waking up intermittently to new passengers – the teens napping and clutching their snus as we chugged across the achipelago dotted with cozy red cottages. Arriving in this unassuming, small city was an understated surprise, packing a punch with some impressive antique stores [especially one of the coolest shops I have had the privilege of visiting – RåMå Antik & Design (Kärleksgatan 4)], followed by late afternoon fika, indulging in devilishly memorable chocolate cake at record store-cafe Folk å Rock, and staring across the street at the storybook landmark Casa “Ekströmska” (Skomakaregatan 11). Then spending a crisp night seeing Kings of Convenience at the hauntingly industrial venue Slagthuset (Erlend and Erik happened to be the catalyst of this trip), followed by inventive Nordic-Italian small plates at Ruths (Mäster Johansgatan 11), and finally putting ones feet up at the velvet-clad [courtest of House of Hackney] party hotel, MJ’s (Mäster Johansgatan 13).

Strawberry season in Stockholm
Apparently Swedes think their strawberries are the best in the world. Fact? I don’t know – but on a recent May 2023 visit, they were the sweetest I ever sampled and seemed to dollop and drizzle on bakers racks around town. More on the strawberries in a moment. I find that the recipe to visiting Stockholm is accepting that the reliable, longstanding spots overtake the new, and there is something nice about a city that, in this uncertain economic climate, manages to hold on to longstanding businesses that feel like they aren’t ever going away – especially coming from NYC where it feels like everything reliably classic is being demolished.

It feels like you can always dance Saturday night away to Euro classics after a slap-up traditional dinner at Kvarnen (Tjärhovsgatan 4) – then feel sorry for yourself on Sunday wandering the halls of the ABBA museum, as Waterloo and Gimme Gimme Gimme drive you mildly crazy. Or, you can always get your design fix in the same shops heaving with sedate and earthy ceramics from the likes of Gustavsberg/Rörstrand – Berndt Friberg, Gunnar Nylund, and Lisa Larson, to name a few. This and showstopping lighting/furniture can all be found the supreme antiques street – Upplandsgatan – especially at Bacchus Antik and Domino Antik. Neighboring Omega Records is worth a browse for local vinyl and random vintage sounds. There is also the mammoth, all-encompassing beauty of what is perhaps the most unique fabric and home furnishings store in existence, Svenskt Tenn (Strandvägen 5) – a welcoming haven to a plebiean design lover like myself or member of the neighboring Swedish Royal Court.

On this past visit, our friend the strawberry queen Amy joined us. Another lover of all things Scandinavian, I enjoyed seeing Stockholm through her eyes as she wandered the streets munching on crates of strawbs, toting her signature LV x YK Painted Dots bag. I think about all of the new spots she exposed us to: zipping through the ornately designed underground train system that borders on being a dark and creepy rabbit hole of terrazzo flooring…or sitting on an unassuming park bench while enjoying the most incredibly colorful box lunch of Danish-style smørrebrød from Nybroe Smörrebröd in Östermalms saluhall (Östermalmstorg 31). We laughed our way through a store that prides itself as the ‘best design store in the world, since 1912’ – Nordiska Galleriet 1912 (Nybrogatan 11) – as she dropped a bag of Kina chocolate rice puffs in her beloved Louis, and was then in need of an afternoon pickmeup, raiding mainstay licorice chain Lakritsroten with some creamy, salty soft serve in the coolest black waffle cone.

Amy also shares a mutual love of hot dogs, and in a matter of 3.5 days we paid many visits to – Oves (Kungsgatan 43) smack in the town center to satisfy those late afternoon cravings – nobody puts more love into dressing a dog than this man – and late night destination in Södermalm, Pölsemannen (Medborgarplatsen) – for post-party snacking. And finally, back to old reliabel Svenskt Tenn – but this time, discovering their magical cafe, and having a lunch that almost felt too pretty to be true, drooling over the branded space where we literally wanted to buy everything in sight – over a verdant springtime spread of blanched asparagus from Gotland, poached egg, and ramson butter – plus a Rhubarb-baba with rum, compote and cream that was a dream in a dish.

Amy noticed something that stuck with me. She observed a collection of apartment windows and said “what do they all have in common?” Because I had design on the brain, I immeditately said “stylish lamps” – and from then onwards all I could see is lighting in every residential window. Apparently this tradition was meant to help people that may be lost in blizzards – so those in peril would be guided by the collective light that framed the darkened streets. Such a small but touching tradition – like their practice of fika – can change your mindset, and even for 3 days, make you feel licensed to adopt these sweet cultural traits as your own.

Each time I return to New York, I always feel a little different. I am increasingly met with a sense of feeling satisfied with “enough”. I guess this is my incremental adoption of the lagom mindset, ingrained in the Swedish psyche of knowing when something is “not too much, not too little.” I accept that even if I am in this placid, dreamlike place for 3 days vs 30, I can return home grateful, that I barely slept and made every moment count, and that hopefully, the old reliables and new discoveries will be lighting my way back, soon.

Milan & the design fast-track

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When I was 23 and still learning the travel ropes, I took a solo trip to Liguria in August. I felt smugly pleased with the timing of this visit, soaking in the sunlight amongst the locals with their ferragosto vibes. For some reason I decided to leave my relaxing premises and venture to Milan for the day, since it was “right there.” One of my top 5 ill-informed travel moves: visiting Milan on a Sunday in August. I wandered the hot empty streets parched, with barely anything open aside from a random restaurant where I sadly ate gnocchi and phoned my parents who pitied me, paying for my pathetic dinner. Similar to the Parisian mishap of my teen years, it took nearly 15 years to return to Milan and defy my twentysomething misadventures.

En route to a wedding in Florence and jaunt back in beloved Liguria, we spent a few magical days in Milan during the summer of 2022. A monied town that is the capital of not only Italian design and finance, it is a multicultural melting pot, with parallels as a NYC sister city. I never found Milan – or many northern Italian cities – to be particularly beautiful in the same way as southern cities, where you are held visually and emotionally captive. Architectural opulence is undeniably everywhere, but the regional color palette feels a bit more muted and staid – with an overarching regional arrogance that is hard to ignore. And that is fine. Milan spends every minute reminding you that you are here to be indulgent – to surround yourself in all things Italian luxe – whether it is gawking at Fornasetti or buying a piece of fashion you’ll have forever – while eating rich cotoletta Milanese and risotto accompanied by a decadent velouté.

Landing in Milan Malpensa, there is a direct train to the city center, including a stop in the Porta Garibaldi neighborhood, a lively area and convenient access point to stylish enclaves like Brera – aka retail heaven. Staying around Porta Garibaldi also makes for a good point to explore nearby Chinatown, along Via Paolo Sarpi, a main drag brimming with Asian street foot spots and probably one of the coolest wine bars ever – Cantine Isola dal 1896 (Via Paolo Sarpi, 30, 20154). This is the best way to start your evening, spilling out onto the street and sipping wine paired with free savory snacks (cheese, picked veg, cured meats). Aside from discovering your favorite wine stop, one cannot visit Milan without sampling its signature drink – the spritz. This now globally-loved tipple is ingrained in daily life, especially during the sacred ritual of apertivo – something the Milanese do not mess with. While time did not allow for a stop at the famed Bar Basso, Saturday night around Porta Garibaldi on Piazza Venticinque Aprile did the trick and was fueled by fizz. A duo of fizz purveyors set up shop in the middle of the piazza, slinging spritzes to the cool kids all night long as music blasted and crowds grew larger – an impromptu street party at its best.

Trying traditional Lombardian delicacies is a big departure from what most people think of when getting stereotypical about Italian food. Red sauce and seafood abundant this region is not. Rather, it is meaty, rice-y, and not shy of featuring rich sauces. Heading to the nearby Moscova (bordering Brera) neighborhood, La Vecchia Lira (Largo la Foppa, 5, 20121) makes for a reliable foray into regional fare – where you’ll find large groups alongside regulars. Standouts were the riso riserva San Massimo with an asparagus veloute and stracciatella, vitello tonnato, the unique riso al salto allo zafferano farcito con fontina – (a fried risotto oozing with fontina) – and of course the near-perfect cotoletta Milanese. Nearby, another standout yet more obscure spot was Al Matarel (Via Laura Solera Mantegazza, 4, 20121). While my first trip to Milan resulted in a top 5 travel fail, visiting Al Matarel made this trip a top 5 travel win. This was one of the most visually stunning restaurants I have ever visited. A cosy, family-run tavern with wooden accents overtaken by dazzling, primary colored-Murano lighting and an eye-popping colorful mid-century wall mural were enough to make any design enthusiast squeal, alongside nearly perfect food that scales from typical Lombardian favorites you’ll see on most local menus, to the showstopping tortelloni, ossobucco, trippa, or polenta. It was hard to make a wrong move, and just soaking up smartly dressed Milanese families of all generations enjoying Sunday dinner was a delight.

With only 2.5 days in town (and many shops closed on a Sunday), fast-tracking my design fix was a challenge. Walking through Via Brera, there is something for anyone wanting to snag a piece of design – from affordable fast fashion to stores that are worth a moment and a bow – including the beautiful, museum-like Ginori 1735 (Piazza S. Marco, 3, 20121). Keep walking down Via Brera and you’ll arrive at the inevitable mecca of fashion, Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II (Piazza del Duomo, 20123), where any luxe lover would be fortunate to spend time gawking at the goods in Fendi or Prada, or even just to soak in the glorious sunlight that bathes the arcade. That being said, the balance of old and new requires taking a few footsteps back to Via Brera, to the popular and well-stocked Cavalli e Nastri Brera (Via Brera, 2, 20121) – sure to quench the palette of someone looking for a piece of vintage Italian design – from Versace to Gucci, and it made for fun hunting and thinking about the city’s noted fashionistas of yesteryear.

But, the most standout experience was the hidden treasure trove Magazzino76 (Via Merano, 18/interno cortile, 20127). If you care about modern Italian design and want to score a piece that screams Memphis Milano, Gio Ponti, Kartell – or anything spanning 1950s-80s – this is your place. Browsing two stories stocked with some of the coolest antiquities (at fare prices) was mind-boggling. While I couldn’t fit a banana yellow table into my luggage, the cool and knowledgeable staff managed to rewire a 1970s Guzzini lamp for me – and I am still dizzy thinking of this stimulating shop (and the impressive array of ashtrays of all shapes and sizes that those fashionistas of yesteryear probably owned). Back to making the most of the city with limited time, we did (literally) run off the plane, arrive in town, and taxi to the outskirts to the indoor antique market Di Mano in Mano Milano | Collezionismo Rarità Modernariato Antiquariato Vintage (Viale Carlo Espinasse, 99, 20156). But, like all antique shops, it is luck of the draw – an interesting array of anything from vintage Cinzano bottles to 1950s dining room furniture.

Back in Porta Garibaldi, if you want to visit somewhere with prices that are out of reach for most – and also one of Milan’s flagship destinations – then spend some time browsing the best of modern European design (or sipping an espresso) ensconced in the signature black and white interiors of 10 Corso Como (Corso Como, 10, 20154). Around the corner is another flagship destination – Eataly Milano Smeraldo (Piazza Venticinque Aprile, 10, 20121). I literally ate my words thinking this location would be akin to the chaos of the NYC branch – and I was wrong. This is the megamall of Italian gastronomy, in a beautiful spacious layout that will impress any commercially-branded skeptic. It was also my last stop before departing Milan, where I awoke bright and early, lining up for opening doors to score a fresh loaf of bread to house the previous night’s cotoletta for the plane ride home – a fitting end to an indulgent few days.

Cork, without the music

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During the summer of 2021, Ireland’s “6 ft apart” floor sticker and hand sanitizer game was strong. The discipline around Covid protocol was beyond impressive – and taken so seriously by most of the population. Regulations extended to pubs of course – bartering for their reopening sans music/entertainment. But, it was one step towards normalcy and the practicality of Ireland adapted – opting for early closing times and drinks outdoors. Of course soon after we departed, the music ban was lifted, but looking back, it definitely made for a strange visit frozen in this strange moment in time. But, in a time when being abroad was a renewed blessing, going without music was a small sacrifice to start to feel “normal” again.

We started off in Dublin – visiting the usual haunts, exploring our Northside reliables Tommy O’Gara’s (19 Stoneybatter), The Cobblestone (77 King St N, Smithfield), John Kavanagh The Gravediggers (1 Prospect Square, Glasnevin), central icon International Bar (23 Wicklow Street), plus a dignified afternoon tea at The Lord Mayor’s Lounge at The Shelbourne Hotel (27 St Stephen’s Green).

A direct train journey from Dublin to Cork, situated in the southwestern Munster province, will take around 3 hours. Cork is easily walkable, snaking around the River Lee. Start the day at the Crawford Art Gallery (Emmett Place) – a gorgeous ex-custom house from 1724 housing 3,000+ works of Irish and European art. Dining al fresco in the gallery’s cafe garden and enjoying a traditional breakfast with cups of tea nestled in vintage porcelain was peak Irish charm. Charlie’s Bar (2 Union Quay, Ballintemple T12 A376) would normally be a showstopping music bar, but it had charming outside seating along the Quay to make up for the loss. A sprawling ex-apothecary found new life as a cocktail bar at Arthur Mayne’s Pharmacy (7 Pembroke Street) – the perfect stop after chomping on sausage sarnies at the winding and historical English Market (Princes Street). As it gets later, planning your night on the tiles along Barrack Street is a wise choice. The street is dotted with many an old man boozer and makes for a fun crawl. Start at Mr. Bradley’s, then Tom Barry’s, O’Sho, and finally, head down to Sullivan’s Quay, make a right at Mary Street, and pop into The Laurel Bar, a discreet spot that feels very locals only – where you should not ask the bartender to make you a Long Island Iced Tea. Trust me. Food was not a centerpiece of this trip. Maybe it was still the lingering Covid effect of dining indoors and feeling out-of-sorts with restaurant culture again, but ham and cheese toasties and munching on McDonald’s under the Cork night sky was a charming and memorable part of what was a very strange summer indeed.

Iceland (Summer 2021)

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Back in 2005 my smug self would chuckle at eager friends flocking to Iceland. Whether it was going to Iceland Airwaves or gazing at the Northern Lights, their outdoors selves were delighted at the prospect of baking bread in the earth and the incredibly accessible natural wonders they would behold in this tiny country (around five hours direct from NYC).

Fast forward to 2021. It feels bizarre writing here again. In fact, it has taken a really long time to get back here because I went from living in an Adidas tracksuit everyday to trotting around Europe as soon as we received the green light from the powers that be. I truly believed we would not travel for a very long time… and that it would never be the same… and that overall, it would take a long time to feel normal again. Much of that was and still remains a truth for many, and in 2021 I felt almost embarrassed to document my travels because everything seemed to revolve around so many scenarios, worries, and pre-departure test result stressors.

Iceland was one of the initial countries to welcome back U.S./U.K. tourists, and that was enough to plan our first translatlantic voyage, and meet our longlost friend Lucy for the first time in over a year. We arrived masked up, sitting in Reykjavik airport among hundreds of New Yorkers in athleisurewear awaiting tour buses. The acceptance of mask-free living was culture shock enough, but we settled into Icelandic life quickly, in the heart of Reykjavik with the Radisson Blu 1919 Hotel (Pósthússtræti 2) as a homebase. Modern and spacious rooms serve as the perfect compass to access touring meeting points for both land and sea. I am not going to lie – part of the allure of this hotel was its proximity to a pølsevogn [hot dog] stand Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur (Tryggvagata 1) – a little luxury that was open very late and served one of Scandinavia’s favorite street foods.

Barring the apparent traditional delights of whale or puffin meat, Icelandic comfort food was delightful, especially at the classic taverns Café Loki (Lokastígur 28) and the quieter and slightly more charming Þrír frakkar (Baldursgata 14). You cannot go wrong with a hearty, warming fish pie (plokkfiskur) or lamb soup (kjötsúpa). Another standout was Seabaron (Geirsgata 4a) – for freshly skewered and charred seafood, and a showstopping lobster soup, fresh from the waters you sit beside (accompanied by some violently hungry seagulls). While we enjoyed a few days of hearty meals, they soon became one hit wonders and some spice was needed. Reykjavik has a delectable offering of solid Thai spots further away from the town center, namely Krua (Skólavörðustígur 21) and Ban (Laugavegur 130).

While I was never a major Björk fan, being a 90s child she was always a fixture in my life’s soundtrack, and of course a style icon. It was cool being in the land of The Sugarcubes and Sigur Rós. The vibrant Icelandic music scene that tickled our ears in the early noughts remains, and its HQ is 12 Tónar (Skólavörðustígur 15) – home to a trifecta of secondhand + new music, and an all day cafe-bar. It became our base along with what would only qualify as an old man boozer, Den Danske Kro (Ingólfsstræti 3), a solid, no-nonsense spot for darts and occasional live music for the obligatory Oasis singalong. Icelandic folk like to drink and party you say? Oh, they really do. I don’t know if it was my quarantine-meets-nightlife shell-shock, but the aggressive party vibes were pretty intense, so keep in mind that you’ll be bumped into and shoved at many night spots (sans apology) …. many, many times. This was very much apparent at the Britpop-themed Kaffibarinn (Bergstaðastræti) [once apparently co-owned by 90s dreamboat Damon Albarn].

We crowned our trip with seeing the sites of this mystical land. After being housebound for so long, it felt surreal winding through a haze of muted colors. So many greys, lavenders, greens, and browns. Tread the tectonic plates, gaze at Gullfoss [Golden Falls], walk among the geysers [mind the sulfur smell!], board a boat for some puffin-watching [for such adorable little things they are quite territorial and bitchy – who knew?!], and finally, reward yourself with a lounge in a geothermal lagoon at the new-ish Sky Lagoon (Vesturvör 44-48 200, 200 Kópavogur). It was one of the best – and memorable moments of this trip. Descending into the warming, fresh water, sipping on champagne, and admiring the foggy grey coastline ahead, it was a healer for the body and mind after such a dreadful few years for everyone… and the perfect reset to begin traveling again.