Author: elbowsontable

Perhaps this was the ultimate sojourn. I have taken brief trips before but never have I packed so much into four days in my life. When we booked our Stockholm excursion we gleefully presumed that four days, three nights was plenty. Deep down I thought about all of the setbacks – mainly flight delays – and anything else that would put a damper on our trip. Sure, Sweden isn’t exactly a hop/skip/or jump away, but when you love Norwegian Air as much as we do, you’ll happily sacrifice your bed for a night flight anywhere.

When visiting all major Scandinavian cities at first I feel serenely overwhelmed by the spartan vistas, but find myself never fully achieving the drainage that comes with a Paris or Rome experience. I knew this would help the cause of avoiding as much sleep as possible. Bikes, bridges, and beauty abound, and Stockholm is a large city, with varying neighborhoods – from village-like to sprawling – that don’t seem cohesive – perhaps due water infiltrating the city’s layout. Stockholm is easy to maneuver – by foot, public transport, or… boat. Taxis can be costly, but when visiting for a few days. they’re worth the time-saving splurge. We based ourselves in the hip Södermalm area at the Scandic Sjöfartshotellet (Katarinavägen 26). A friendly Scandinavian chain, this Scandic had views of the Baltic, a fun rooftop bar, and rooms that were nostalgic of Swedish 70s seafaring culture. I was in love. Yes, there was an odd stale smell stemming from the waterways, and seagulls seemed to stalk our deck (and devour our sunrise McDonald’s snack), but it was all part of the charm. Initially a working class territory south of the historical Gamla Stan, Södermalm is made up of main thoroughfares replete with Scandi chain stores, indie shops, cafes, and everything in between. Laid back Swedes love life, not veering far from the Mediterraneans with their cafe culture and penchant for wiling the days away when sunshine beams. They even define their daily downtime as fika, a cornerstone of Swedish life that prioritizes daily gatherings over warm beverages usually accompanied by pastry. I underestimated the Swedes’ sweet tooth, and baked goods are truly prevalent everywhere. From sticky, cardamom-laced kanelbullar aka cinnamon buns, to coconut-coated chokladbollar and everything in between, it is impossible to not find a cafe to transform into the fika state of mind. The Eastern influences of cardamom and saffron weave their way through Swedish pastry, and although saffron is usually reserved for Christmastime, it was a treat to enjoy its flavor permeating through an ice cream scoop. A good place to initiate yourself into Swedish pastry is at the beloved chain Fabrique (locations around the city), while also finding a good indie-owned bakery in tandem.

Pastry aside, the Swedish palate is an intense clash of bitter, tart, sweet, salty, fishy, and fruity – sometimes all at once. Unexpected flavors emerged during every dinner, especially at Swedish gastropubs Pelikan (Blekingegatan 40, 116 62) and Kvarnen (Tjärhovsgatan 4, 116 21), which set the stage for two memorable meals. Storied interiors featuring sweeping ceilings, wood paneling, seafaring-themed art, and dim globular lighting traversed between elegant and casual. Convivial servers delighted and instructed – whether it was which aquavit to kick off with, or what beers would complement, and which classic dishes to choose. One of the best appetizers I have tried in my lifetime, Toast Skagen, was a delicate yet supple prawn salad atop crispy toast sprinkled with bleak roe (a Swedish caviar). The varying textures and cold, fruity taste were what I wish every meal would feature, rivaling our North American lobster roll. Lucy was more adventurous sampling gubbröra – anchovies, eggs, parsley, and dill served on sweet brown bread. Cliched, yes, but the Swedish meatballs were hearty yet delicate thanks to tart lingonberry sauce, accompanied by the creamiest mashed potatoes that rivaled my mom’s. Perhaps one of the best dishes I’ve ever enjoyed was Kvarnen’s simple presentation of smoked salmon with a slice of lemon, hedge of dill, and savoury dill-tinged creamed potatoes. Sampling “new” Scandi, Nytorget 6 (Nytorget 6, 116 40) was another assault on the tastebuds – with an enjoyable fish stew, seasonal asparagus, and juicy rotisserie chicken – but the rushed and unfriendly service coupled with dishes that had too much going on ended up making me miss the traditional delights of Pelikan and Kvarnen.

Aside from eating, we spent our time wandering around Södermalm’s storybook lanes and impressive (and Abba-free) vintage stores. Gamla Stan is the most touristic part of town, and while somewhat adorable, its two delights were the fried herring stand Nystekt Stromming (Kornhamnstorg 1) and harbor to board an afternoon cruise that sailed through the waterways of Djurgårdsbrunnsviken through the tranquil and leafy Djurgården. If you’re like me and want to outfit your home in mid-century Swedish design, stroll around Vasastan and pine over pottery at Bacchus Antik (Upplandsgatan 46) and Antique & Quriosashopen (Upplandsgatan 44). Shopping up an appetite, make your way to the grandeur of food hall Östermalms saluhall in the upscale Östermalm area – perfect for all your picnic necessities from an endless parade of seafood purveyors.

Nightlife revolves around ex-industrial area Hornstulls, and Debaser (Hornstulls strand 4) is a throwback to university days with fun Britpop and alternative nights. Situated along a waterway of course, if this were any other city there would be something eerie about this waterlogged clubland. Maybe it’s the fact that sunrise begins around 3am or that Stockholm simply doesn’t have an air of danger – it’s hard to feel uneasy in this town. Street parties and neighborhood bars flood Södermalm and it was easy to get caught up at bars like Snotty Sound Bar (Skånegatan 90). While liquor isn’t as shockingly priced as Oslo, it was still fun drinking brews in the pinnacle of cool – at our friend’s Airbnb, owned by a Swedish-German electro DJ.

I slept for 12 hours in four days. Maybe it’s because I was completely invigorated and enlightened by the abundance of design, the earthy flower child friendliness of Swedes, and the fact that nighttime takes a backseat to daytime. It became clear that the only way to truly enjoy Stockholm was to believe that time had no meaning. When Lucy and I sat on our deck looking at the Baltic and talking until 6am, I awoke two hours later feeling like I had slept for days. I definitely felt the harsh reality of time upon returning to New York, but it only reinforced the dreamlike revel of our Swedish interlude.

Tasting the rainbow.

View from the top in Lyon

The symmetrical wonder of Le Bon Marche.

Vieux view

Lyon’s city center

Quenelle, we meet again

View from a corner.

Kir cassis and vin blanc.

Welcome to Lyon beer time

Quirky Paris

Minelle’s song sheets

Faces of Paris

Merci, Monsieur Bocuse.

Lavender blue hues.

The dark romanticism of Comptoir Abel

Chicken with morels

Vieux Lyon.

20eme views

Paris at its best.

Tim’s new friend at Comptoir Abel

Pure dairy.

Les Halles.

Spring pea soup in its forthy glory.

Dwelling among the trees.

In awe of the aligot.

Skeptical singing, part deux

Sorbet au marron et chocolat chaud

This looks like one of those cliched “influencer” shots.

Joyeuse

Saucisson chaud, lentilles tièdes

Beet-cure salmon.

Skeptical singing at Vieux Belleville

Another day, another quenelle.

Rum raisin boule.

Rhone Valley views.

A boy and his baguette.

Pur morning delights.

Praline paradise.

The highs of shopping

Lyon sidestreet

The ultimate candied fruit display.

Not thinking about food pose

Chicken fricasee at its best.

Ready for the next course

Moody Luxembourg.

Drinks at Culture Rapide in Belleville

Daniel & Denise

Joyeuse II.

Macaroni gratin at Comptoir Abel

Salade d’écrevisses

Berthillon at Smiths Bakery

Comptoir Abel

Wandering around the 20eme

The knife says it all.

Au Sauvignon afternoon

Sunday lunch vibes.

Tavern entrance to Comptoir Abel

Post-Bon Marche joy

Saint Suplice.

Celebrating our arrival

Quenelle of my dreams

Three cheers

The view from Rue le Tasse

View from a corner II.

The smothered pear.

Rue des Cascades

5th floor walk up in Lyon

Friday night feelings

Friday night cheers

Miles of quenelles.

As my attitude about Paris changed from ambivalence to obsession, I have been finding it really fun to convert the perceptions of fellow travelers. This time Lucy was my convert, and travelling with Tim and her is a nonstop party of booze, indulgence, and brilliance. The best thing that happened to my time living in London, Lucy is now a fixture in all of our trips and the best travel partner one could ask for. Her appreciation for shopping, drinking, eating, and her overall joie de vivre is what makes our adventures one better than the next. I knew that Paris would be no exception.

Retourner à Belleville
After our last trip staying in the 20eme was a success, Mama Shelter (109 Rue de Bagnolet, 75020) beckoned again. Most of our destinations were repeats from the last trip. Just like before, we kicked off Café Le Papillon (144 Rue de Bagnolet, 75020). Nothing wiles away the afternoon – and memories of air travel – than sitting with friends sipping a crème de cassis kir and enjoying the simple goodness of steak frites to reclaim one’s energy. I am usually skeptical of rooftop bars and avoid them at all cost, but Mama Shelter’s rooftop was an ideal way to toast a weekend of Parisian parties. Back to the repetition, we headed up to Belleville and enjoyed some pre-dinner drinks along the lively Rue des Cascades at Bistrot Littéraire Les Cascades (82 Rue des Cascades, 75020).

For our last evening together, we enticed Lucy with the idea of French singing, and she was confused, but when we arrived at Vieux Belleville (12 Rue Envierges, 75020) she knew the evening would go from zero to ten instantly. Minelle, her accordion, and yellowed song sheets graced our presence, and we had come full circle. We sang for hours, ate, laughed, and like before, drank enough red wine to again, sink a small ship. The night culminated with Minelle making Tim and me dance some sort of waltz in matching hats. None of it made sense, but when in France and you’re not a native, what does? We embraced everything about that evening, met new people, and then ended up deep in the weeds of Belleville, only to face the cold, harsh lighting of a McDonalds’s at 4am, sang English football songs down the Rue des Pyrénées, concluding with a blurry, post-McDo dance party in Lucy’s room before retiring.

Dépôt vente luxe interlude in the 16eme
Saturday morning’s destination was heading west to the 16eme, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. I had dazzled Lucy with the promise of plentiful designer consignment “dépôt vente luxe” shops around the Rue de la Pompe. Réciproque is the grandaddy of all the shops, stocked with a dizzying array of Louis, Gucci, Chanel, Hermes, and every other major name you can fantasize about. The shop excels in finding the Chanel jacket you’ve always dreamed of, or in my and Lucy’s case, her dream Louise Vuitton bag and my dream Chanel necklace. I love the variety of new and vintage – and that you can walk away with a Hermes neckerchief for €60, or really do some damage to your bank account. Walking around this tony area is a pleasure, and while Lucy and I drooled over designers, Tim did what Tim does best: sat in a cafe, people watched, and read his periodicals. We joined him at the next door Bar et Café Le Montespan (87 Rue de la Pompe, 75116) for a coffee. The interior seems to have stayed put since the late 1960s-early 1970s, transcending time and looking effortlessly stylish. It was temping to pitch up at the bar and enjoy a few apertifs with the locals, but we had more shops to visit along Rue de la Tour, namely the dépôt vente luxe on 14 Rue de la Tour, 75016. Service is brisk and to the point, but for a smaller store their stock is plentiful and Chanel bags/accessories abound. After seeing a stylish older woman sporting a 1980s gold Chanel necklace, I walked in only to find something similar. They clearly are a reliable go-to for the locals looking to purge their closets. Also along the street, generally opening later, is 3 Rue de la Tour, showcasing vintage goods. Aim to arrive in this area around 11am to make sure you can make the most of it, break for lunch (since most of these shops close for an hour or two), and go for another round of shopping at the depots that open later. Lucy and I were on a capitalist high, and knowing we were in the shadows of the Eiffel Tower needed to catch a glimpse – mainly to remember that we were in Paris and not some third dimension. Head to the nearby Rue le Tasse. This dead end street will provide the best Eiffel Tower photo op, with a perfect view. No tourists, no traffic, but maybe an influencer or two (so you’ll know it’s a good photo op spot). This street is so idyllic you’ll be hearing Ella Fitzgerald singing “I Love Paris” faintly in the distance.

Eternally in love with Saint-Germain-des-Prés 
We headed for the 6 and 7eme for lunch, to the newly opened Le Colvert (54 Rue Saint-André des Arts, 75006). Run by a group of young yet experienced restaurateurs, this corner spot had all the trappings of a cool modern restaurant- great tiling, velvet booths, lush wallpaper, and an impressively short but powerful menu, including a burger that was exceptional. Beet-marinated salmon tartare, cream of celery soup, steak, and juicy duck warranted both a lunchtime and a few days later, a dinner visit. It was nice to be somewhere that felt both Parisian and global, that has staying power in a generally fickle part of town where launching a new business must be cut throat. I introduced Lucy to Le Bon Marché (24 Rue de Sèvres, 75007), where even after a morning of being smothered in designers, witnessing the ultimate French department store brought a sparkle to her eye.

A rainy Sunday in the 7eme called for a post-party self-pitying lunch at none other than La Petite Périgourdine (39 Rue des Écoles, 75005), one of our mainstays during the first phase of Parisian jaunts during 2013-2016. The aligot comes to me in my dreams and it was time to meet again. This corner brasserie does the classics very well, with bonus points for having Berthillon ice cream on their menu. (This visit didn’t allow for time to make it to the Berthillon flagship, but were able to enjoy scoops both here and at The Smiths Bakery (12 Rue de Buci, 75006)). Sitting down at the Perigourdine on a gray Sunday afternoon was the perfect venue for a long lunch of French 101 including onion soup, followed by a thick filet of beef accompanied by the not-so-basic aligot– a fondue-like side dish popular in Auvergne. Presented in a pot and poured into your dish to form satin-like layers of potato and cheese, aligot will either entice or nauseate. For dessert, Berthillon’s dark chocolate and rum raisin scoops hit the spot. The rum raisin was buzz-giving-booziness to a tee. We then roamed around the rainy St. Germain, including the dreamy, postcard perfect Jardin du Luxembourg, then to the Église Saint-Sulpice (2 Rue Palatine, 75006). We ended the afternoon sipping coffee in the idyllic Au Sauvignon (80 Rue des Saints-Pères, 75007). This truly democratic wine bar has zero pretense and makes you feel like you’re in the epicenter of Parisian life- an ultimate stopping point for the local, tourist, or anyone who wants to absorb the electric energy of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. On our last day in town it was the fete du muguet, better known as May Day. Worried that the city would shut down and we would be wandering the streets bored and sharing a baguette, it turned out to be the opposite. Cafes were mostly open, people gathered with friends, and the most charming highlight was street corners flanked with sellers of Lilies of the Valley, meant to be gifted to those you want to wish luck- whether it’s your boulanger or mother. Fete du muguet was another French touch I wasn’t expecting, and we departed Paris charmed, yet again.

Lyon 
We had an early night and I awoke with the sunrise to prepare for part two of the trip- a night in Lyon. I had always been intrigued when told that Lyon is the gastronomic capital of France, and I always understood what that meant, yet knew it was something I had to experience firsthand. I am an adventurous eater to a limit- I will not eat offal, and most meats do not entice me. But techniques, textures/flavors, and the overall heightened dining experience are what I deem gourmet- and was excited to experience this firsthand.

TGV high-speed rail service will get you to Lyon Part Deux station in two hours. Considering the drive can near five hours, the train is worth every penny. Gliding through the verdant Rhône Valley, we arrived into the city, and like with most French train stations, you need to taxi it over to the heart of town. We were staying at the new-ish Okko Hotel (14 Bis Quai du Général Sarrail, 69006), the ideal millennial hotel replete with all-day free snacks, stylish work-socialize spaces, and minimally modern bedrooms. Feeling like a kid in a gourmet candy store, I could not give a toss about exploring the city much. Wandering around Vieux Lyon and its quaint cobblestone streets did not appeal to me, when normally that is my ideal Euro experience. Rather, my goal was to spend our hours in divine restaurants enjoying both high and low brow cuisine, eating our way to the heart of what it means to be Lyonnaise. Little did I know that my gourmand dreams would soon come crashing down thanks to modern technology.

Les Halles de Lyon – Paul Bocuse (102 Cours Lafayette, 69003)
Upon arriving, we dropped our bags at the hotel and dashed over to the epicenter of all things food, Les Halles de Lyon. This food hall is the heart and soul of what it means to be French. Les Halles takes your “foodie” nonsense, spits it out, and laughs at you. I hate the word “foodie”, it’s just stupid. I love all types of food, but what I love more is people who are passionate about it sans pretense, and that is what Les Halles is all about. You can be as much as a food snob as you want, but until you come here, your bark is bigger than your bite.

To fully know and understand what it is to be an Epicurean, one must venture here. That is the sheer urgency I felt when visiting Les Halles. I had to take a moment to reflect, to understand that this is so above me and I am nothing but a mere voyeur, peeking around, smelling and tasting. In my lifetime, I don’t think I can fully ever grasp everything this building purveys and means to those in the culinary world. Observing the traiteurs opening their stalls, preparing their fish, positioning the candied fruits… it was watching pure passion in action, and I simply felt lucky to be there.

Paul Bocuse, one of French cooking’s lauded innovators, recently passed away, hence his nomination. I always think of the scene with him and Anthony Bourdain in Parts Unknown when Bourdain stated, his voice breaking, (which seemed rare for someone of his character) that this was “the meal of his life.” That always stuck with me, because you can see that eating in Lyon, at many of these establishments, is what people aspire to do throughout their whole life. Visiting Lyon is something one should not take lightly, and I made sure to savor every smell and taste.

Lost in Lyon
Les Halles sentiment aside, after perusing the aisles, we stopped for a lunchtime beer only to remember that we had to dash for our reservation at family-owned A Ma Vigne (23 Rue Jean Larrivé, 69003). Lunchtime in Lyon is not anytime- if you’re dining at a restaurant, remember that lunch is from 12-2pm. No ifs. Ands. Or. Buts. Well, Tim did not realize that the data on his phone wasn’t functioning, and somehow we lost sight of where we were from the hotel. We wandered around for an hour- perhaps it was the lack of sleep from partying in Paris, or the intensity of being in Lyon, but we ended up on the Pont de Lattre de Tassigny over the Rhône where I embarrassingly broke down in tears. We had missed our lunch reservation and after hours of not eating in the land of lauded food, I so desperately wanted to just eat. We wandered in a haze attempting to find somewhere that would serve us (and surprisingly, did not come into contact with anyone knowing a lick of English), only to end up on the doorstep of La Mère Brazier (12 Rue Royale, 69001) who is only the queen of the French kitchen. I figured it was a sign… a sign that we were rebuffed, as “lunchtime was over.” Feeling like an American street urchin, I turned to Tim re-stating that lunchtime was over, only to sob a little more. Our walk through town was a greatest hits of the missed meals- like Brasserie le Nord (18 Rue Neuve, 69002) where I sadly observed a man eating the dessert waffle I had craved, drooling through the stained glass window, once again, like an American street urchin. Giving up on the notion of a sit down lunch, we enjoyed a rainbow of delicious glace from Glacier Terre Adélice (1 Place de la Baleine, 69005) and wandered the charming (and very steep) cobblestone streets of Vieux Lyon, as I had planned not to do. Sob story aside, we returned to Les Halles, righted our wrongs, and took an arsenal of cheese and bread back to the hotel for a late afternoon feast.

Café Comptoir Abel (25 Rue Guynemer, 69002)
Aside from needing to be in the heart of French gastronomy, I needed to be in the heart of where my favorite dish originates. Quenelle de brochet (pike dumplings served in a “Nantua”- a shellfish sauce) was my introduction to the wonders of Lyonnaise cooking at the dearly departed, family-owned Moissonier in Paris. I like to think that the Moissonier family gave up the Paris rat race and returned to their native Rhône region, safe in the knowledge that they ran one of the best, most welcoming restaurants Paris was lucky to have.

Knowing that Lyon’s bouchons would be like a million overwhelming Moissoniers,  it was clear that stakes were high in recreating the quenelle de brochet brilliance. Following in Mr. Bourdain’s steps again, our first meal was at the classic bouchon Café Comptoir Abel. Bouchons initially served as small inns for passing-through silk workers in the 17th and 18th centuries. Unfussy, family owned establishments that are both convivial and cozy,  I am certain that this is a haven for the most unique, superb food that France has to offer, and the proud Lyonnaise would probably agree. Classic dishes like quenelle de brochet, the pork and lentil-laden salad Lyonnaise, and lots of meaty/offal dishes round out what you’ll find in a true bouchon.

Comptoir Abel is a dark, woody storied house that immediately transports you into an eerie French fairytale, where the wallpaper talks to you in riddles and the candlesticks break into song and dance, nearly lighting you on fire. Walking in, you can imagine silk workers devouring their hearty meals, now replaced by casual family and business meals. Served by bustling staff who don’t have time to indulge your foodie fantasies, we sat down ready to enjoy one of the best meals of (my) life. Wine had no place in this meal, and enjoying locals beers was the perfect crisp accompaniment that would contribute to the would guaranteed post-dinner fatigue.

One of the tastiest dishes I have ever tried, the salade d’écrevisses (crayfish salad) was gently tossed with haricots vert and olive oil, combining everything I love about food in a dish. I think about this salad at least once a week. Tim enjoyed the silky and sultry saucisson chaud, lentilles tièdes (hot sausage, warm lentils). Finally, the quenelles arrived- piping hot out of the oven, swimming in a house gratin, and truly divine. I was proud of Tim for not making a b-line for the steak, but rather, went for the chicken with morels and cream. A known mushroom/funghi hater since the moment I met him, he strayed away from the morels that I happily pecked on. We had to enjoy the Lyonnaise version of macaroni and cheese, a side dish that appears in most meals here. It’s richer, slightly blander, but better than the neon yellow variety you tend to find elsewhere. Despite the fatigue setting in and the room feeling darker and smaller as each minute passed, we couldn’t deny a sweet ending with sorbet au marron et chocolat chaud – the most delicious chestnut sorbet accompanied by a pot of chocolate sauce for DIY pouring. With the highs and lows of the day washed away, I went to sleep feeling like I fully understood the unfussy yet immaculately skilled magic of Lyonnaise cooking, and like Mr. Bourdain, I had visited Lyon to experience one of the best meals of my life, and I was grateful for every minute.

Daniel et Denise Créqui (156 Rue de Créqui, 69003)
A Michelin-approved restaurant that is reaching the ranks of legendary, I knew we would be in for a different experience than the laid back Comptoir Abel, and visiting here would be best experienced at lunch time. As soon as you walk into the bright, cozy environs, you know you’re in a place where young chefs aspire to work, walking around with a speed and energy that makes you pity the battered kitchen door. Sauces are poured above your head, massive trays of pastry are presented for your picking, and waiters talk about your lunch in the most intricate, loving detail. Everything seems to be happening over your head here, photos hang on the walls of storied chefs, pots of sauces are drizzled by waiters above you, trays are heaving with some of the finest cookware you’ll ever encounter – and would not want falling on you. Spend your time looking up at Daniel et Denise, and you’ll witness nothing but splendorous synchronicity.

Going with the menu saison, Tim went for the crème de petit pois, oeuf poché et pickels de légumes – a frothy pea soup, delicately poured and garnished with a poached egg. I couldn’t leave town without sampling the salade Lyonnaise, Daniel et Denise style, featuring lentils from Croix-Rousse, smoked herring, and potato amandine. For our main courses I couldn’t not fawn over the quenelle de brochet, a petit version from the night before’s heaping portion, in a slightly frothy Nantua sauce. Tim’s chicken fricassé was perfectly succulent swimming in an onion gravy. The macaroni gratin was of course present, along with carrots in clarified butter (our first vegetable in two days), and Lyonnaise potatoes. Reminder: this was lunch. The couple next to us steamed through their meal and were presented with a comically sized tray of dark chocolate eclairs, to which they each enjoyed, and I observed their hearty appetite in envy. I knew we could muster sharing a poached pear, swimming in a rich chocolate sauce, of course carefully poured over our heads from a searing pan. As tempted as I was to enjoy the l’Ile flottante aux pralines de Saint Genix (a “floating island” of meringue on crème anglaise dotted with rose pralines), I was happy to see its pretty pinkness devoured in the distance.

Unfortunately we had a train to catch and I underestimated the fact that lunch would be only two hours, met by befuddled waiter when I asked for the check midway through our pear. Typical rushing Anglo folk, he must have thought. This is the opposite of the lunch rush. As I learned the day before, lunch might be from 12-2pm, but once you’re in, you’re in. Perhaps this is the French version of a pub “lock-in”, you’re not leaving until you have eaten, imbibed, and digested, when you’re then released back into the streets of France, counting down the days until you can muster another delicious dalliance with Lyon.

 

 

 

Vintage signage #2.

Vintage signage #1.

Fair fun #1.

Candy coated dreams.

Fairground beignets.

Entrance to L’Esplanade.

Neon fair lights.

Meert’s tea room.

Who doesn’t love some vintage tile.

View from the estaminet.

Kicking off dinner with an a cordial.

Speculoos flavored mousse, a beautiful Franco Belgian marriage.

Estaminet knick knacks.

The cheesiest Mairolles

Tim awaiting his dinner.

Afternoon delight at Meert, with gratis dark chocolate and raspberry sweets.

Fair fun #2.

Ice cream dreams.

View to a cozy estaminet.

Strolling through Vieux-Lille.

Community view from L’Esplanade.

Chewy, gooey, gaufres goodness at Meert.

Lace curtains.

The original Paul patisserie.

Desserts fit for Marie Antoinette at Meert.

Northern France is known for cider variety.

Vintage signage #3.

View from the tea room to the chocolate shop at Meert.

Grand Place.

My friend mentioned a potential visit to Lille, sparking a reflection on my time there in September 2017. Lille is not just the northwestern Hauts-de-France Eurostar stop en route to Paris. Lille represents many things. This is is a place of cultural elasticity where French and Belgian tradition collide.

Vieux-Lille is a ten minute drive to Eurostar terminals, and best experienced on foot. L’Esplanade B&B (42b Façade de l’Esplanade) was our base. This beautiful structure is removed from the town center, quietly facing the green Esquermes area, featuring the Citadelle de Lille. The B&B’s facade is in classic Lille style, unlike what you’ll find in most French cities. Brick, Flemish-style structures are the norm here, replete with oversized windows and tall, narrow doors. Owned by a charming couple, our room was huge and modern, kitted out with quirky modern furnishings, a grand old fireplace, and of course, a Nespresso machine. Breakfast was a Continental dream, from chewy gaufres to fresh patisserie.

I didn’t know a trip to the 1980s was in the itinerary.

Playing with silver clouds at the Warhol museum.

View over the Strip’s food markets.

Lost industry #1.

No-nonsense Italian vibes at La Prima.

The man.

Smoked banana with cashew, tamarind, + pineapple flavors.

Nico’s karaoke party.

Espresso at La Prima.

Classic PGH view.

Superior Motors bar.

Pierogies are life in PGH.

Neon dining at Primanti Brothers.

Latte at La Prime.

Stainless Steelers country at Kelly O’s.

Sour cherry cider was superb.

Mahla & Co.’s impressive antiques warehouse.

The gym at the Ace.

Klaven’s kounter.

Iron City beer’s brilliant packaging.

In a city of bridges, walking over the Andy Warhol leads you to his museum.

The Ace lobby.

Arsenal cidery (left). Atypical cider in a typical row house.

Lost industry #3.

Lost industry #6.

Lost industry #4.

The moody view from the Ace’s towering windows.

Wood panel tripping at Condrin Tavern.

Klaven’s is klosed.

Lost industry #5.

Iron City meets Labatt at Nico’s.

Lost industry #2.

Lost industry #8.

S+D Deli Polish pride.

Lost industry #7.

Condrin’s Bar.

Haute take on meat + potatoes at Superior Motors.

Just a light lunch at S+D.

Warhol c. 1980s.

Classic PGH view.

The Andy Warhol Museum facade.

Tim’s excitement at Primanti Brothers.

Sturgeon at Superior Motors.

Next level smoked potatoes + creamy whey vinaigrette.

Supreme vegan pierogies at APTEKA.

The glare from U.S. Steel.

“Yinz” wait to be seated.

Pastel colored cocktails at APTEKA.

The famed Brillo boxes.

Arsenal cider house.

When Tim revealed that he was planning a surprise February weekend away, Pittsburgh was looming in the back of my mind. For years I had mentioned my desire to visit The Andy Warhol Museum, and hearing mutterings about a city “rising from the [literal] ashes” seemed exciting. Then of course, Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown visit solidified that Pittsburgh’s renaissance was well underway.

The arrival journey was filled with the usual holiday weekend rush hour fodder. We defied traffic, snaked our way through stressful security, and handled my fear of flying in small planes somewhat calmly. Leaving the uncomfortable trappings of domestic travel behind, we touched down in PGH to an empty airport that contrasted with LGA’s madness. “Where are all the people?” was my first thought.

Passing through 35 minutes of darkness, through never ending suburban roads and a tunnel, you’re met with a brightly lit cityscape, tangled in a smattering of bridges connecting pockets of grand, lit up skyscrapers – on the banks of the conjoining Three Rivers. Pittsburgh’s “spaghetti” motorways curtail in and out of the metro area, providing an even more interesting ride. Moving on from the somewhat exciting feel of Downtown, passing through various, dimly lit neighborhoods with non-functioning industrial builds grasped a feel for the Pittsburgh I was expecting.

Pittsburgh does not feel “cheerful”, but rather stoic and purposeful, as expected, considering the city’s past. Overcast, cloudy skies are the norm, complimenting the terrain’s sedated color scheme. There is a no-nonsense, driving work ethic that permeates through everything. Entrepreneurial young business owners seem intent on giving customers the best experience – whether you’re in a dive bar or high end restaurant. A “roll up the sleeves” dedication to quality and dependability is something that runs deep here.

The Ace Hotel was our base in the East Liberty neighborhood. As our driver noted, this area was untouchable only a few years ago, only to be redeveloped as a stereotypical “Brooklyn light”. Despite that, there is a melting pot of locals and new inhabitants, breathing creative life into an area so clearly deserving. A few minutes over in Shadyside, streets of massive turn of the 20th century homes were reminiscent of London, and relics of the city’s grand past. Thinking we could walk from East Liberty to Bloomfield in a few quick steps was wrong, and taxis became our best friend. The city’s sprawling layout isn’t akin to quick neighborhood jaunts, unless you’re spending a lot of time in the Downtown Strip and Cultural Districts.

Bloomfield & Lawrenceville

APTEKA (4606 Penn Ave, 15224) Friday night’s arrival called for a swift check in and immediate cocktails. While I was swayed to linger in The Ace’s lobby bar thanks to a cool anti-Valentine’s party playing 80s and 90s jams, I was intent on a late night snack at APTEKA. Pittsburgh’s dominant culture is Central and Eastern European, meaning starchy, hearty goodness does not disappoint. I do not love pierogies but can appreciate innovative adaptations. The atmosphere of this vegan, Central/Eastern European spot was romantic industrial chic – where Pittsburgh purpose meats dreamy. A successful trifecta of unique imported liqueurs, wildflowers draped everywhere, and a standout menu of the best vegan pierogies one could ask for rounded out the APTEKA experience. The pierogi should be Pittburgh’s mascot, so there is clearly a level of excellence that chefs must reach to impress discerning locals. There was nothing more appropriate than starting the night with an apertif and sampling of crispy pierogi dressed with bright red beets, cool green cucumbers, and creme fraiche. It was the fuel needed to move on to our next stop.

Nico’s Recovery Room (178 Pearl St, 15224) Amidst the row houses and alleyways is this wood paneling-clad corner tavern, with an atmosphere that hasn’t changed in 40 years. We plonked down at the bar and in true Pennsylvania dive bar tradition, were greeted with an ash tray followed by ice cold Iron City beers. I enjoyed Nico’s warmth so much that we returned the following night at their popular karaoke party, which is apparently the “best in Pittsburgh”. Despite wanting to sing a tune or two, the list was fully booked up – the highlight being a jolly older man who told the crowd that “the 70s ruled” then belted out Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way”. Everybody in the bar sang. My corner tagline for this place would be “Nico’s Recovery Room is the remedy for Pittsburgh-style fun at its best.”

Arsenal Cider House & Wine Cellar (300 39th St, 15201) A husband and wife operation and the first cidery in Western PA, makes Arsenal both a brand and bar that has a lot going for it. Named after the Allegheny Arsenal across the street, the cidery sits in a typical row house, with a living room-turned-bar on the first floor, and the backyard serving as a premier daytime drinking destination. Again, the sensibly entrepreneurial spirit of the city is reflected everywhere, and Arsenal is a perfect example. Flavors range from dry to fruity and deliver the boozy kick that cider is known for. While I am normally suspect of brands that try to evoke an “old timey” 19th century pastiche, Arsenal does it right without laying on the kitsch.

Braddock

Superior Motors (1211 Braddock Ave, Braddock 15104) Nestled adjacent to the city’s lone functioning U.S. Steel plant that sits along the Monongahela River, Superior Motors is a fine dining spot in an old Chevy showroom. That is a mouthful, as is everything about this restaurant. Not just any modern farm-to-table space, Superior Motors has embedded itself into the Braddock community, a place that has clearly been through more downs than ups. Despite all that, the vibe was exciting and the gleaming lights of U.S. Steel added a magical yet surreal glow through the large windows. After a day of hefty old world European “peasant” food, the transition to modern American cuisine was welcomed. We quickly propped up at the bar and were seated next to the lauded sculptor whose artwork sits in front of the restaurant, and looking around you could sense that the “who’s who” of the Pittsburgh area frequent this place. Sitting down for dinner, our server was young and incredibly excited about the food; a cheerleader for everything on the menu. Everything we sampled: zingy ghost pepper beef tartar, brown buttery short rib, shoyu-laden sturgeon, smoked potatoes in a creamy whey vinaigrette, and more smokiness in a banana cake – were inventive and enjoyable. I also appreciated the vastness of their booze offerings – from high brow wine and spirits to cheap cans of Iron City lager. It was clear that the Superior Motors team want to ensure that their patrons preferences are seen to, sans judgement.

The Strip District

I wasn’t expecting much from this area full of converted warehouses and tatty sports gear stalls – but it turned out to be a highlight. The main drag is dotted with low-level food market stalls, Italian, Asian, and Polish delicacy shops, and an endless parade of restaurants and bars.

Kelly O’s (100 24th St, 15222) Thanks to an exuberant Uber driver, we were pointed in the direction of Kelly O’s. The standalone diner was a greasy spoon dream, outfitted with a giant banner notifying us that we were in “Steelers Country”. Living in NYC, our idea of a weekend breakfast generally involves a bagel, so sitting down to a dish of corned beef hash with poached eggs is quite the Saturday morning treat. Bonus points for perfectly toasted marble rye and quintessentially friendly diner service. The buzz of this place made it clear that this is a go-to for “Yinzers” (local dialect for people from the area).

La Prima Espresso Company (205 21st St, 15222) Pittsburgh’s sizable Italian population is apparent in Bloomfield, but more so in the Strip, where there are copious delicacy shops, along with this coffee bar and cafe. The coffee side was quite spartan and no frills, with a gaggle of old timers conversing in Italian, and the general buzz of people getting their morning caffeine. The cafe specializes in hot dishes and varieties of pizza- including a nearly perfect Margherita slice with a transcendent crust. I would return for the pizza and old school, no-nonsense aesthetics that felt more Italian than the hoards of trendy spots that vie for authenticity.

S&D Polish Deli (2204 Penn Ave, 15222) The Strip was interesting because it was a cultural melting pot, and Central/Eastern Europe’s influence is predominant across the city. Traditional Polish food of the “peasant” variety is not exactly “light” eating, but after walking all morning, the brisk weather called for hearty fare. One half of the deli sells Polish foodstuffs, while the back is a cafeteria-like affair, with an obscure counter that purveys heaving plates of the classics. We opted for the reliable- kielbasa on a delicious roll, boiled potato pierogies, and one of the best stuffed cabbages I had ever sampled. A notable addition was haluksi, fried egg noodles and cabbage, resulting in buttery goodness. The price to food ratio was all about the value – a running theme in this town.

Primanti Brothers (46 18th St, 15222) I am not a fan of french fries making their way into sandwiches, unless one or two unlucky stragglers attaches to my cheeseburger. This local chain specializes in monstrous sandwiches stuffed with fries and a heaping layer of coleslaw. I personally didn’t see what was so special about this local mainstay, somewhere you’d find on Man vs. Food or other shows about extreme eating. I was impressed that this location is a 24 hour joint, and that it felt like a sports bar meets diner as waitresses deliver your freezer-wrapped sandwich in hand, sans tray. Being married to someone who loves sandwiches like Dagwood made this a must visit. While Tim devoured his stack of pastrami, I opted for the chili which was exceptionally spicy and a good alternative. When in Pennsylvania, one must “Whiz” it out, and the cheese fries, in all of their glistening, neon yellow glory, were the perfect hangover helper. Would I rush to return here? Probably not. But, I would return for the theatrics of witnessing patrons like the Brits behind us whose conversation dwindled into silence as they greedily devoured their sandwiches – in the obvious awareness that experiences happen, and stay in Pittsburgh.

Klaven’s Ice Cream Parlor (2801 Penn Ave, 15222) I love old ice cream parlors because they are definitely a dying breed, and tend to be in bustling parts of town near antique shops and other cutesy businesses. Klaven’s is definitely an outlier, situated near nothing adorable, in an empty stretch of the Strip. Sounds like a destination, right? The area might look intimidating and somewhere you wouldn’t consider bringing the kids – but it’s just another part of town that is in transformation. It will soon be home to tech startups and high rise apartment buildings. I was excited to visit for a Saturday afternoon sweet treat, only to be met with a sign on the door noting a private party was happening. Did I think about crashing the party, perhaps buying a mini bike and pretending I was an out of town cousin? Yes. Did I walk away huffing, only to go to some “hipster” ice cream spot wishing I was enjoying an old fashioned sundae? Yes. We did return to an empty Klaven’s on Sunday, and it was definitely worth the trip. The place is stuck in time and the chocolate ice cream was devilishly rich – with a texture that was almost cake-like, and the chocolate whipped cream was best trimming  a sundae could ask for.

North Shore

The Andy Warhol Museum (117 Sandusky St, 15212) This is one of the world’s most comprehensive collections dedicated to a singular artist, and the museum’s experience was pretty mesmerizing. Eight floors symbolize Warhol’s career, and the experience allows you to experience his ascent as a pop culture icon – from his humble Pittsburgh beginnings on the top floor, with the levels below representing a different decade in his life/career. Maybe there is something symbolic about this layout, around starting at the top in your youth and reaching the bottom with older age. Warhol’s work ethic and development as a commercial artist was in sync with his origins and the success that befitted him. He was a visionary who wasn’t afraid to turn his art into a business while inserting himself into the most elite social circles as key player and “court artist” all at the same time. His modest beginnings were a testament to the first generation American work ethic that he never abandoned, and despite what some might think, he was a one of a kind ingenue who accomplished his mission of making the world a more visually vibrant place.