Tag: travel

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.


Travel Capsule: Quebec – Montreal & Quebec City (Autumn 2018)

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Late night shots of Acerum, a fuel for good conversation.
Cheers-ing Montreal.
Mystery cocktail and branded ice at Chez Tao!
Walking through Vieux-Quebec.
Early morning bagel duty. Don’t forget to ask for a plastic knife!
Nouveau Palais’ luncheonette-turned-bar.
Nouveau Palais’ timeless signage.
Timbo enjoying Canuck vibes at Nouveau Palais.
Cold weather lunching at Phil’s in Quebec City.
St-Viateur’s iconic signage.

It so happened that Timbo’s parents had embarked on a month-long voyage across the Atlantic on the mighty Queen Mary 2. They were heading up the East Coast to Quebec City and it was the perfect opportunity for a regional amuse-bouche.

After a swift 45-minute flight, we had only eight hours in Montreal (four of them sleeping). Despite whizzing by in the dark, the city felt exceptionally French with North American architectural might. We spent the short evening wandering around Mile End’s residential plex-lined streets, taking in its culture – a mix of French, Jewish, Greek and more. Bagel duty called, and I arose with the sun to prep our St-Viateur bagels before boarding a bus to Quebec City. Three hours and lots of agriculture later, we arrived in one of North America’s oldest settlements resting on the St. Lawrence River.

The city is comprised of peaks and steep hills dotted with towering structures from Frontenac to the Plains of Abraham to Vieux-Quebec. Divided into the upper and lower towns, “Haute-Ville” and “Basse-Ville”, it’s easy to feel like you’re experiencing two different cities. Haute-Ville is comprised of the old town’s picturesque touristic sites, a sliver of colonial France towering over the river. But the true working class Quebecois heart beats in the lower town.

We stayed in the “trendy” Saint-Roch neighborhood. Rue Saint-Joseph Est leads into Rue Saint-Vallier O, a stretch of food and drink excellence. Sandwiched along this winding street are independent restaurant groups that appear to thrive on civic camaraderie and an obvious joie de vivre for Franco-North American drinking/dining. It seems like L’Affaire est Ketchup gaining publicity on Parts Unknown provided a lens into this little world.

Montreal
Nouveau Palais (281 Rue Bernard O) This was very much a 2018 restaurant-bar in the body of a 1970s Canadian diner. With only a few hours to experience Montreal nightlife, we ventured to Mile End wanting a late dinner and walked into wall-to-wall wood paneling, with extra Canuck points for taxidermy. It was everything I was looking for and more. Unlike a typical greasy spoon, the menu is a tasty mix of Canadian-American comfort executed with superior know-how: a popular burger, moules frites, fried chicken and poutine. After dinner we went to a few more spots around the area, but were lured back to the Palais for a nightcap to sit at the luncheonette counter-turned-bar to get in a few last drops of this exceptional spot.

St-Viateur Bagel (263 Rue Saint Viateur O) As a New Yorker who loves bagels I had been dying to try Montreal’s rendition for a long time. The beauty of exploring late-night Montreal included a stop at St-Viateur’s original shop that never closes. Expecting the usual NYC experience that overwhelms you with topping and schmear varieties, I was happy to choose good old sesame and a tub of Liberté cream cheese that was a little on the sour side, but somehow complemented the chewy, honey-hinted bagel. It was the best Montreal souvenir to take on the next morning’s regional bus ride.

Snack’n Blues (5260 St Laurent Blvd) A dimly lit bar whose axis revolves around the two old men owners constantly filling up bowls of bar snacks and making sure their patrons are happy was a delightful find. An impressive DJ booth overflowing with jazz/blues, and retro BBC nature programs on a projector was all very art-house. Mile End’s cool kids populate the space, playing pool and congregating at tables. It was nice watching generations come together appreciating a timeless bar.

Quebec City
Phil’s Smoked Meat (461 Rue Saint-Joseph Est, Québec) It was officially crisp Canadian autumn and after a morning of travel, hunger was mounting for smoked meat and poutine. Another Montreal staple, smoked meat is result of the Jewish diaspora and the abundance of places you can find quality eats shames NYC into 2nd place as a deli meat destination. The menu was solely smoked meat in traditional sandwich varieties or “quirkier” offerings smattered over spaghetti or poutine. The sandwich was tender and went against the grain topped with recommended dijon, while the poutine was the perfect gooey accompaniment. It was the best way to sample two regional dishes in a place that knows what it’s doing.

Pied Blu (179 Rue Saint-Vallier O) My quest to find Lyonnaise specialty quenelle de brochet led me to this homey spot, located in the epicenter of Saint-Roch’s stellar dining street. Specializing in offal and meat-centric dishes, one side of the space presents itself like a butcher shop, with the wood-clad dining room small enough to feel intimate but jovial. We sat in a tiny side room among lace curtained windows, the perfect set up for three courses of rustic fare. Kicking off with a hearty variety of pâtés and dried sausages, spread across fresh baguette. Sticking to the most mainstream dish on the menu, beef bourguignon was my family’s choice. Rustic hospitality and generous portion size seem to be core to any Quebecois spread, and a steaming large cauldron of bourguignon was presented, swimming in a rich red wine bobbing with carrots. My quenelles were the perfect balance of airy texture floating in a rich Nantua sauce, reminding me of where my obsession began with this dish at Moisonnier in Paris. It was an interesting contrast to the even lighter, foamier version at Aux Lyonnais. In true Gallic style, remixed with modern approaches to dining, a cool chef from the Alps slumped down, plonking a crate of digestifs and shot glasses. $5CAD a drink, tell them how many you had and you’re leaving with a smile on your face having experienced the perfect balance of high cooking in a cozy Quebecois homestead.

Kraken Cru (190 Rue Saint-Vallier O) After dinner at Pied Bleu the chefs recommended we visit fellow food voyageurs across the street for a nightcap. A tinier space than Pied, Kraken specializes in fruits de mer, and definitely can’t house more than 40 people. The tiny bar was packed and kind patrons who made room for two more. We pulled up a stool to view a minuscule kitchen with a stove dating back to the 70s, a tiny worktop and a narrow well-stocked bar. Like Parisians, it seems that the Quebecois know how to make use of every inch of space they’re dealt. Abundant platters of oysters and such were presented to super cool clientele, and despite wanting to enjoy another night with the Cru, they were of course hosting a party for a local cider brewery on Sunday.

Le Renard et la Chouette (125 Rue Saint-Vallier O) We planned on a traditional 1960s-esque French dinner at Le Continental in the old town, but the lure of spending one more night in Saint-Roch beckoned. Located a few doors down and also owned by the Pied Bleu team, Le Renard feels more casual and communal, still the same rustic space but whitewashed and brighter with an open kitchen. The changing menu leans towards small plates and family style dishes – from French classics to Middle Eastern standards thanks to the chef’s heritage – think cassoulet to doner kebab platters. It was the eve of regional elections and we chatted with the young team about Quebecois matters, like healthcare and their unique culture, over shots of Acerum (liquor made from fermented and distilled maple sap concentrate). Again, we left with a warm feeling thanks to the Acerum and our fortunate consistent exposure to genial locals.

Chez Tao! (104 Rue Saint-Vallier O) As mentioned, I am never seduced by the concept of a cocktail bar, but this place was truly impressive and most importantly unpretentious. Apparently this bar gets “loud” and passing by Saturday night was proof, but visiting on a quieter Sunday night was pleasant. 90s hip hop was the soundtrack and another friendly (+ very talented) bartender talked to us about his Quebec, while sharing a new drink he was trialing. I don’t even know what he did but a beautifully presented cocktail with elements of fruit spices went into a tiny “smoking box”, was topped with sesame seeds and christened with a large square ice cube branded with the bar’s logo. I had never been so impressed with a drink presentation before, and the amount of care that went into this creation surpassed that of any bar in NYC I’ve experienced. I didn’t want the night to end.

Deux22 (222 Rue Saint-Joseph Est) One of my favorite bars in NYC was called the Dressing Room and it was part clothing store, part bar. It was nice to relive the memories of drinking in a hybrid retail-bar. The drinks and plates are mainly Mexican and this was another quality bar to enjoy a few on this lively street.

Fou-Bar (525 Rue Saint-Jean) This was my favorite street within the Haute-Ville. Fou-Bar reminded me of a classic French auberge where you can drink whatever and stay however long, with locals and staff erupting into raucous conversation and laughter, allowing the ambience to speak for itself.