Sunny street in Richmond.

I usually travel alone, and I rarely go out of my way to see other people when I do. It’s not personal, I just relish my solitude and my autonomy; my lack of commitment to or responsibility for anyone but myself. Call me selfish—some people do, and there have certainly been some bruised feelings after such trips, when x person realizes that I was in their neck of the woods and—gasp—didn’t call on them. My sister is someone who could never understand my desire to be alone, and used to take it as a personal affront when I chose my own company over hers. I’m pretty sure she still doesn’t understand the way I am, but over the past five years it has ceased to matter, as ours has evolved into what I’m pretty sure is an adult relationship. Since I’m no expert on “adult” things, I don’t have much to go on, but we are mutually supportive, loving, and, despite our differences (which are vast and plentiful), we try to accept each other the way we are. This wasn’t always the case, but we got to a certain point in our lives at which we were both mature enough to understand the valuable allies we had in each other. No one else in the world knows our life, our childhood, our family, our quirks like the other; the love between siblings is unique, and the bond between sisters is strong. For this reason, I made an exception to my unwritten rule, and planned a trip down to Charlottesville, Virginia, to visit my sister and her husband before they graduate from their residencies and move back up north. Solo or otherwise, any vacation of mine is bound to involve eating and drinking, and while my sister is not a culinary zealot like myself, I know one thing to be true: good food is universal. It provides a neutral territory, bringing even the most diametric personalities together (as long as there are no vegans involved), and enhances pretty much any occasion. I decided that after two nights in Charlottesville, I would drive the 350 miles to Asheville, North Carolina, a town I’d long been meaning to visit, and have a few days of quiet relaxation there.

I love many things about Jet Blue, so when they don’t fly exactly where I want to go, I get grumpy. I want to watch HGTV and eat Pop Chips while I travel, dammit! As you might have guessed, they don’t fly to Charlottesville, but they do fly to Richmond, Virginia, about an hour away. My flight landed around noon, and as soon as I grabbed my rental car, I headed right into town to christen my trip with some food and wine—after all, nothing says vacation like day drinking. I found Secco Wine Bar and pulled up a barstool to peruse the selections.

Hmmm…

I peruse better with a sherry in hand—La Cigarrera Manzanilla.

Chicken liver crostini; charred bread, cool, buttery mousse, and fresh arugula.

Tasty little bite.

Kale salad with meaty little mushrooms, salty parmesan, and pumpkin seeds.

And a glass of Rioja from one of my all time favorite producers: López de Heredia.

I headed towards my rental car, happy and relaxed, but there was just one more thing I needed before it could really feel like vacation….

…there we go. Half butter pecan, half salted caramel.

I was all by myself, and I ate.

I made the hour drive to Charlottesville with just enough wine-and-ice-cream induced bliss to make it pleasurable but not unsafe. I stopped at a wine shop to pick up a mixed six-pack of kick-ass beer for my sis and her hubby and ended up stumbling upon a wine tasting—and an obscure little shelf holding my favorite white wine of all time:

I visited this vineyard when I was in Spain, and it was the first time a white wine really blew me away. If you’re reading this post with the appropriate scrutiny (wink), you’ll notice that this is the same producer of the glass of red Rioja I had at Secco earlier that day. They are magical wines that epitomize old world Rioja. If you’ve not tried them, I suggest you change that. Soon.

At my sister’s house, I received an enthusiastic and slobbery greeting from my nephew.

 Hi auntie.

When sis finally returned home from work, the two of us headed to Mas, a tapas joint in the Belmont neighborhood of Charlottesville. As previously mentioned, my sister doesn’t always understand me, and that’s particularly applicable to certain tendencies I have around dining. She thinks I’m exacting, opinionated, and send things back too often—and she isn’t 100 percent wrong (although in my defense, I really only send back poorly-made martinis and overcooked burgers, and I am very nice about it…). She doesn’t like staring at a camera lens instead of my face, and she certainly does not approve of me Instagraming during meals. Needless to say, I didn’t tote my Nikon D7000 out to the restaurant, but I was able to snap a few covert pics of our meal.

A killer white Rioja, rustic hearth baked bread, smoky eggplant dip, melting tomatoes, olives, and, since no (vaguely) Spanish meal is complete without it…

…chorizo. You know it’s good when it leaves a little fluorescent fat footprint on the plate.

We caught up as we shared plates, talking with a sense of ease and comfort that I feel with only a very few people in my life, maybe because family’s supposed to love you unconditionally, maybe because mine actually does.

I was with my sister, and we ate.

We then proceeded to a hotel in town where my sister’s coworker was having her wedding. We only caught the tail end of it, which I’m now convinced is the best way to attend a wedding—you get all the best parts: open bar, dance floor (on which we engaged in a sister-on-sister dance-off with a charming gay couple), and dessert. Any night that ends with a cupcake tower and the Electric Slide is fine by me.

I was with a bunch of complete strangers, and we ate.

The next morning, a team effort produced some delicious, if slightly homely, blueberry pancakes, and we were off to the wilderness. (Or a nearby forest, which is as close to the wilderness as this city girl has gotten for a while.)

Hurry up.

A couple hours trekking through the woods around a lake, crossing a few streams, falling into one stream, and we were ready for lunch. And perhaps wine…

The tasting room at Blenheim Vineyards, owned by one other than Dave Matthews.

The Virginia wines, both red and white and mostly blends, were surprisingly good.

And the view from the tasting table wasn’t bad, either.

Al fresco lunch; cheese, fruit, crackers, wine, and the undeniably delicious Sweets and Beets Terra Chips. Seriously, those things are magical (and not a bad pairing with Blenheim’s Painted Red…). Good enough food, but also proof that exceptional circumstances can elevate good food to something so much more.

We were in the sunshine, and we ate.

After showers and a few beers back at the house, we grabbed my sister’s husband and headed to Brookville, a neighborhood restaurant using all local products to produce food that is well intentioned, if a bit overly ambitious. The food aside, it was the first time I’d sat down with my sister and her husband since their wedding. I still think of myself as a kid, so I have no idea how my sister became this married adult doctor. Frankly, it’s uncanny.

I was with my new brother-in-law, and we ate.

A local glass of red–even the beverages are from within a set distance. (And thankfully, they didn’t serve the wine in Mason jars.)

Bacon fat popcorn was a hit.

Some grits, runny yolks, and plenty of pork products, and we called it a meal.

The next morning, I would drive to Asheville for the second half of my trip. I had no idea what a hairy journey it would be, so I was relaxed, especially after a tipple of bourbon. My man had placed the flask in my hand while dropping me off at the airport, just in case I needed it. Even when no one’s around, certain people find a way to be there with you.

I was all alone, but not lonely, and I slept.

Lesson #4: Take the scenic route, or it’s not about the destination, or stop and smell the roses…

When I mentioned this trip to a friend, he all but insisted that instead of taking route 5 all the way north, I veer off onto Chuckanut Drive, which hugs the coast and rims picturesque Samish Bay. The detour is well worth it for the views alone—at every wind and dip I had to pull onto the shoulder and stand at the brim of an outcropping amid yellow leaves and spruce trees, breathing in the air and looking at the pewter water and sky bisected by a ribbon of blue mountains. If I wax poetic, I’m merely trying to do justice to what I saw. Photographs can’t capture it, words probably can’t either, but I have to try.

Alright, alright, enough with the scenery—this is a food blog, after all. The other reason for detouring onto Chuckanut Drive is to hit up The Oyster Bar for lunch.

An unassuming little joint wedged between the road and the coastline on the perimeter of the bay, it’s actually a fairly upscale restaurant. Every table boasts a view of the bay, but there’s a little patio that juts out over the water, and I was determined to sit there. Sure, it was October in the pacific northwest, but I had a coat! It was clear that outdoor seating had been suspended for the season, but a truly accommodating waiter indulged the crazy tourist, toweling off the table, folding up a tablecloth for me to sit on, and laying a place setting for one. He also apologized for the giant cobweb hosting a silver dollar–sized spider in the corner of the deck—not my first choice for a dining companion, but I’d make do.

The view through the trees from my seat on the deck—last scenic shot, I swear! Hear comes the food…

Obviously, I had to start with oysters. A few local bivalves—and when I say local, I mean local; Samish Bay, Royal Miyagi, and Hammersley’s Inlet.

Classic pairing for oysters: a glass of minerally, citrusy Muscadet.

Then a bowl of the most incredibly plump, juicy mussels I’ve ever tasted, with tomatoes, fried leeks, and pesto broth.

With a dark local beer.

And finally, a warm salad of local chanterelles, local goat cheese, roasted garlic, charred tomatoes, and rosemary focaccia.

I continued the drive, relaxed and full, until I reached the tiny ferry terminal, where I pulled up behind a pick up truck to join the line of waiting island-goers, turned off the engine, and dozed until the ferry pulled up. A few moments at sea, and I rolled off the boat into a rural oasis.

Or, a scenic paradise, some might say. The inn, a few minutes drive along winding roads through farms and fields, was just as I’d pictured it. Mostly because I’d seen pictures of it.

It was picturesque, slightly rustic but classy, and peaceful, with the aromas of wood smoke and ocean permeating the air inside and out.

After checking in and depositing my bags in the little attic bedroom looking out on to the water (the room, poetically named “Sunset,” was advertised as “quaint,” which I’m guessing addressed the fact that it had a steeply-sloped ceiling and smelled faintly of kitty litter, but I can’t be sure), I wasted no time grabbing one of the inn’s bikes and setting off for a pre-dinner spin around the island. Unfortunately, like most one-size-fits-all situations from bikes to baseball caps, those of us in the lower percentiles lose out—these wheels were not made for 6-foot gals. Despite the cumbersome pedaling, I made a respectable seven-mile loop, and got back to the inn more than ready for a cocktail.

I popped back up to my room long enough to blot my post-ride cleavage sweat and pull on a chic yet stretchy ensemble for the meal ahead.

Lesson #5: Some experiences are meant to be shared.

As the fiercely independent (not to mention extremely stubborn) woman that I am, I never thought I’d admit this—I can enjoy sunsets and walks on the beach and momentous occasions just fine by myself, thankya. Well, there’s been some changes afoot. Don’t get me wrong—I still love traveling alone, dining alone, and the feelings of self-sufficiency and solitude, but I can’t deny my human nature completely; there are certain experiences that we feel compelled to share, certain moments that demand an ally. Part of the reason is that the other person confirms and validates what we’re feeling; part of it is the simple joy of sharing things, especially wonderful things; and the other part is the rather complex joy of seeing your own emotions reflected back at you. When the person you’re sharing something with is the person you love, your joy is their joy; the pleasure you feel is compounded by seeing their happiness, and vice versa. It’s just a big mushy clusterfuck of happiness, and it’s wonderful. There have been times before this when I’ve wanted to share something with someone, but it wasn’t until now that I had a very specific person with whom I wanted to share, and that made the sensation all the more acute. This meal was memorable and incredibly pleasurable, and I’m happy to have had the chance to experience it.

It began with a Manhattan on the deck…

…watching the sun set (totally enjoyable alone).

After that, my fellow diners and I were ushered into the dining room for the one seating of the night, and the food starting coming. After chatting with the sommelier for a mere moment, my passionate wine geekery became obvious to him—almost as obvious as my inability to finance this passion (the meal itself was nearly breaking the bank). Being the gracious professional that he was, and not wanting a fellow oenophile to miss out, he treated me to the wine pairings. The lighting in the dining room was romantic, but less than ideal for photography; nevertheless,these should give you an idea of the unique, creative, and sensual meal that followed. There were five courses, each with a wine pairing, and a whole bunch of “snacks” in between.

A glass of sparkling hard cider kicked it off.

Beautiful, earthy slow-baked sunflower root.

Crispy crepe with whipped cream, chives, and salmon roe.

Pickled Shigoku oyster with sorrel.

Toasted kale chip with black truffle and rye.

Scallop with lemon cucumber and quince.

Shiitake grilled over the fire. Simple as that.

First actual course: Aged venison leg, salted and shaved, with celery, watercress, bread crumbs, and pine nuts, paired with a 2011 Mt. Baker Vineyards Madeleine Angevine from Puget Sound. Stinky and floral—perfect with the gamey, bracing meat.

Awesome obsidian-and-antler knife—very apt utensil for venison. (And just kinda badass no matter what you’re eating with it.)

On of the best bites of the evening: local smoked sockeye salmon. Brown sugar, salt, fish.

Second course: Grilled onions, Madeleine Angevine grape juice, micro thyme, paired with a 2010 Ross Andrew Pinot Blanc from Columbia Gorge; briny to offset the sweet onions, floral to pair with the woodsy thyme.

Hearth-baked rye sourdough bread. With plain old butter? Oh no…

Home-churned butter with sea salt and roasted-chicken pan drippings.

Collecting beverages.

Third course: Local dungeness crab wrapped in pickled bull kelp with horseradish, brown butter, sea beans, and sea lettuce. So simple, yet such a delicate balance of sweet crab, briny kelp, and heady browned butter. The wine was a 2011 Buty Conner Lee Vineyard Chardonnay from Columbia Valley, which, even as a Chardonnay hater (especially of those that air on the side of butterniness), I had to admit made for an inspired pairing.

Crispy halibut skin with razor clam and an emulsion of the halibut meat.

Taking food notes by candlelight.

Fourth course…

A gorgeous dish of charred escarole with chanterelles, pickled rose petals and fiddleheads, capered elderberries, underripe apple, chervil stems, and a crouton. Reads like a big pretentious mess, eats like a practice in delicate flavor nuances and textural contrasts. The pairing? 2010 Vincent Girardin Moulin-à-Vent Cru Beaujolais; just enough stinky earthiness to match the veg-centric dish.

There were a few “snacks” here that I didn’t manage to get passable photos of. Blame it on the lighting, or the fact that my photographic saavy was rapidly waning with every sip of wine, but one of them was too special to omit entirely:

Liberty apples with goat cheese from San Juan Island, celery gelée, green fennel seed, and hazelnuts. It was like a pre-dessert.

My superlative sommelier also gave me a chance to taste one of the juices included in the non-alcoholic flight. Now, as someone who has poo-pooed more mocktails than you can shake a stick at, my hopes were not high for a “juice pairing”— the only juice I was interested in was made from grapes and fermented. To my delight, the wild carrot-queen anne’s lace juice that he poured was not only delicious, but more complex than many a wine in today’s market. Sweet, earthy, floral, pleasantly soapy but not perfumey—I wasn’t going to trade my Beaujolais for it, but it was damn tasty.

And dessert: pear cooked in embers with a malt nougatine and lemon verbena ice cream.

The final libation, a glass of 2011 Cascinetta Vietti Moscato d’Asti, and, unlike many a meal, this one ended on a note as high as its crescendo.

Lesson #6: Just when you start to relax and enjoy yourself, BAM! (This lesson would more accurately be called “Just when you’ve forgiven yourself for your first mistake and moved on, you once again prove your imperfection with an even graver act of stupidity.”)

As I lay in my bed the next morning, waking up gradually as the sun and ocean shone in my window, I began to imagine how my day would unfold. I’d enjoy breakfast in the dining room, pack up my things, and continue the drive north. I’d cross into Canada, and spend a few days exploring the city of Vancouver. At this point a foreboding feeling started to come over me like a cold sweat, and then I realized why: I didn’t have my passport. I simply hadn’t thought to bring it. As a semi-functional, somewhat well-traveled American adult, I am, of course, aware that one needs a passport to cross international borders, and I have absolutely no viable explanation for why I hadn’t packed mine. After a string of creative exclamations that I’m sure my neighbors heartily enjoyed, I made various calls to the Canadian border, the airline, the hotel in Vancouver, and my parents that vacillated between teary and hysterical in tone. It didn’t make it any easier that this was during hurricane Sandy, and half the country was experiencing travel-related woes more dire than mine. It was clear that I wasn’t going to make it to Canada this time around, but again, I refused to let this snag ruin my vacation. I made the necessary cancellations, and instead of continuing north, I decided to circle back and head south—I’d go to Oregon. I booked a flight out of Portland a few days from then, talked to the rental car company about switching my drop-off location, booked a hotel, and headed downstairs for that lovely breakfast—at least part of my fantasy could play out.

And lovely it was. The dusky, candlelit dining room of the night before was airy, and flooded with sunlight reflected off the water.

A French press of coffee with local cream, and a carafe of fresh-pressed local apple cider.

A savory chanterelle frittata, local rosemary hash browns with homemade ketchup full of clove and brown sugar, a currant scone with fresh cream, and homemade granola with pomegranate and fresh yogurt.

I headed to the ferry after breakfast, and I know I promised no more scenic shots, but the view on the ride back over to the mainland was just too much…

Okay I’m done…

…now.

I cruised the nearly 300 miles down to Portland in record time, just daring the universe to send me a speeding ticket on top of everything else.

Lesson #6: Go with your gut, especially when it comes to food.

When I’m visiting a city, I always want to check out the best, the newest, the most buzzed about place, and I’ll go out of my way to do so. When I arrived in Portland, I hadn’t done my usual extensive research, and given the day I’d had, I wasn’t ready to attack the town with my usual gusto. Nevertheless, I checked into my hotel, and flipped open my laptop to see what I could find.

(How did they know I might need the comfort of a fuzzy friend?)

I perused Yelp and the like to see where I “had to” eat, but nothing jumped out at me. I felt like I should take advantage of being in Portland, but what good is whoopin’ it up and going for broke if you’re not in the mood? If I was honest with myself, what I really wanted was a stiff drink and some tasty food that I didn’t have to think too hard about. Oh, and I wanted it to be within walking distance. Luckily, that’s just what I found.

A well-crafted barrel-aged Negroni at the bustling Clyde Common got me off to a good start.

I also checked out a great little cocktail bar/gastropub called Kask—this is a place to watch for sure. When it came time for solid sustenance, I ambled as far as the next door down to Grüner. Run by the same folks as Kask, it’s an “Alpine” themed (i.e. German) restaurant , and we all know that when it comes to Central European cuisine, comfort food is right in their wheelhouse.

Okay, admittedly not classic comfort food, but a delicious radish and pepita salad with toasted pumpkin seed oil, chervil, and dill.

A glass of Blaufränkisch from Austria.

And here comes the comfort—a wonderfully simple tarte flambée with sweet onions, smoky bacon, fromage blanc, and chives.

I returned to my hotel room early, ready to soak in the tub and climb into bed. Everyone knows that the only thing better than a bubble bath is a bubble bath with champagne—double bubbles, if you will—and wouldn’t you know, my sweet sweet man had sent a bottle to my room. Comfort indeed.

The next morning I started out into the drizzle to seek a good cup of coffee, and I found it at Courier Coffee Roasters.

Masterful soy-cappuccino art, and damn good espresso, too.

My next stop was for lunch at Lardo. This place used to be a food truck, and friends had raved about their sandwiches. Now that they had a brick and mortar location (meaning I could stay dry and drink a beer while enjoying their food), I decided it was worth the trip over the bridge. At this point it was full on pouring rain, luckily, despite the passport fiasco, I had packed my bags with a modicum of forethought and brought my raincoat. Unfortuneately, I had left it in the rental car when I dropped it off at the Portland airport the day before. Halfway through the two-mile trek sans raingear, my feet were soaked through, and while crossing the bridge I had been splashed, movie-style, by a passing truck. I was not in good spirits. There was only one thing to do…

…eat fatty pork. Pork belly sandwich with fried egg and cheddar on brioche.

A dark, potent local beer to go with it.

And a raw kale salad with crispy chickpeas, just so I felt borderline healthy. Oh, wait—that’s not nearly as fun to look at as….

….yeaaaaaaaah.

I wandered around for the rest of the afternoon, trying my best to stay out of the rain while walking off my pork-induced stupor. I stopped in at a “teaching salon” for some budget pampering, and then gave in and lounged in my hotel room until it was time to seek food once again. And what did my gut tell me to do that evening? The first time I was in Portland, I somehow missed out on Pok Pok, and I had been living with that mistake ever since. This cult Thai food joint just opened up its second location in New York, and if the lines and hype are any indication, it was worth a try—as long as I didn’t have to wait in any lines…

A tamarind whiskey sour: tamrind, lime juice, palm sugar, and bourbon. A little on the sweet ‘n fruity side, but a good start.

Yam Samun Phrai: Northern Thai herbal salad with carrot, parsnip, white turmeric, betel leaf, basil, lime leaf, lemongrass, sawtooth, fried shallots, cashews, peanuts, sesame seeds, dry shrimp, ground pork, and Thai chiles in coconut milk dressing. Refreshing and crunchy, with complex flavor.

A local beer and sticky rice to accompany the spicy food.

One of their signature dishes: Laap Pet Isaan, Spicy Northeastern Thai chopped duck salad with duck liver and skin, lemongrass, herbs, toasted rice powder, dried chiles, lime juice, and fish sauce. Rich and meaty, yet bright—the magical paradox of truly good Thai food.

Served with phak sot; fresh herbs and garnishes.

And then, because it was just too intriguing to ignore, I tried the sticky rice and durian dessert. I’ve heard much about the infamous durian, and I simply had to experience this enigmatic fruit. It was a festive, casual meal—just what I needed on that night—yet one I couldn’t have gotten anywhere else (okay, maybe in NYC, 3+ hours from my house, but my point remains). In keeping with the whole trip, it was unexpected and satisfying.

So, in conclusion:

Lesson #7: Find things to be grateful for, no matter what.

I was never really a fan of Pollyanna. I remember watching the movie on TV when PBS aired it in three parts on consecutive nights, and I remember thinking she was kind of a twat. Really—no one wants a chirpy know-it-all playing the glad game at every turn; sometimes things just suck. That being said, I did find it incredibly helpful to seek the positive during my trip, if only to keep myself sane. No matter what happens, there’s usually something to be grateful for, even if it’s just having all of your limbs in tact and functioning. So, in that vein, thank you to my parents, friends, and man back home for the support, for listening to me bitch, and for keeping me smiling. Thank you Jet Blue employee #1 for waiving the transfer fee on my ticket to Seattle after I started blubbering like a baby. (It’s not a power that should be abused, but sometimes, crying works. Same with talking about your period.) Thank you Jet Blue employee #2 for upgrading me to an “even more space” aisle seat instead of letting me suffer in a middle seat. Thank you Yashar for treating me to a five-course wine pairing with my amazing meal at the Willows Inn. Thank you, little Nissan Versa, for hauling ass and helping me make it from Bellingham to Portland In record time, and thank you, Oregon state police, for not noticing. Thank you to the National Rent-a-Car employee for tracking down the Columbia raincoat I left in said car and making sure I go it back. Thank you Hotel Monaco for the eight dollar chocolate bar from the mini bar—worth every penny. Thank you to the two separate bartenders that carded me in Portland. And finally, thank you to Sydney at the Aveda Academy for the privilege of being your very first Brazilian wax, and thank you for not telling me that until you were done.

Addendum: As of last week, I have officially booked a trip to Vancouver for this June, and I’ll be sewing my passport into the lining of my pants. I’m anticipating four days of blissful, snag-free relaxation, food, and drink, but I’ll make the best of whatever comes my way.

Lesson #1: When traveling, bring proper identification.

Duh. But seriously. My adventure began when I dropped my wallet in my mother’s car on the way to the airport. No big deal, you say. As soon as I realized I didn’t have it (which was about 2.5 seconds after finding myself at the front of the line to check in at the handy little Jet Blue kiosk) my first reaction, being the calm, rational person that I am, was to dump the entire contents of my bag on the floor right there at the head of the line and rifle through it repeatedly like a kid in a leaf pile. My next step, and the first legitimately rational one, was to call my mom so she could turn her little Subaru around and return my misplaced property. Sadly, being of the mind that cell phones are more of a charming, new-fangled concept that a functional device meant for everyday use, hers was not turned on, meaning I had no way of contacting her until she reached home 30+ minutes later, at which point, it would be too late to make it back to the airport in time. I called my father, shrieking like a hyena, in the hopes that I had left my wallet at home as opposed to in the car. No luck. I called my poor slumbering man friend and roused him from bed to check his car, on the slim chance that I had left it there the night before. No dice. My father, ever ready to come to his daughter’s rescue, no matter how “adult” I supposedly am, hopped in the car to try and head my mom off as she exited the pike. And all I could do was stand there and wait. As my flight boarded, as it took off, I waited.  When all hope was extinguished of making my original flight, and Deb, the militant Jet Blue employee with the crew cut, had informed me that the next flight to Seattle was the following morning, I trundled, teary eyes, from one airline to the next in hopes of better news. My father showed up about ten minutes later, with a jacket and jeans thrown over his nightshirt, mislaid wallet in hand.

Lesson #2: I’m not perfect.

No, no—really, I’m not. My universe has almost shattered several times at this realization, and yet, I keep on deluding myself into thinking that perfection is an attainable goal. Once I had shed a few tears, gone through the customary procedure of self-admonition, and accepted the fact that I wasn’t getting to Seattle until the next day, I realized that didn’t mean my vacation couldn’t start now. I was using one of my precious vacation days at work, and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to enjoy it. So, thanks to the magic of technology, I hopped on my laptop, found a hotel deal, and booked myself a room in Boston for the night. My dad deposited me at the hotel and took off (but not before confirming that the doorman was going to vote for Elizabeth Warren, and making a hilarious wallet-related joke—too soon, Dad, too soon), and I was on my own. I spent the rest of the day being a tourist in my own city. It was a beautiful fall day, so I grabbed a latte and wandered around the common, passed the empty frog pond, the carousel, through the public garden, and passed the Make Way for Ducklings ducks that I hadn’t seen in years.

I walked to the North End and had an early lunch at Neptune Oyster—cava, oysters, hamachi crudo, and, of course, the Johnny cake, which, if you’re a Bostonian and you haven’t had, shame. A perfectly round buttermilk Johnny cake, browned and crisp around the edges, is topped with cold, smoked-trout tartar and Little Pearl caviar. The whole thing is drenched with honey butter, and the overall effect is dizzying. You bounce between sweet and salty, buttery and briny, warm and cool, crisp and creamy, and you just don’t want it to end. And it doesn’t…until it’s gone.

More walking, a little afternoon siesta at the hotel, and an early dinner at Myers + Chang, and I put my little imperfect self to bed, with two alarms and a wakeup call in place to ensure I was at the airport on time the next morning.

Lesson #3: Fewer options help you decide what you really want.

It’s like when you’re trying to decide between, say, chicken and fish, and you’re going back and forth, back and forth, weighing the merits of each. It’s not until someone says “you’re having the fish” that you realize, “gee, I think I really wanted the chicken.” I recognize that this particular scenario is only applicable at a wedding reception, or maybe on an international flight (where they actually feed you), but extrapolate with me, if you will. Going to Seattle, I had a laundry list of places I wanted to try; there were pros and cons to each—some required a cab ride, others were a little pricey, some had come highly recommended, while others just looked cool to me. Last time I was in Seattle, I had had a stellar meal at Sitka & Spruce, and when I finally got into the city this time, stomach growling, this was where I wanted to go. Yes, I was repeating a restaurant instead of trying something new for what was now my one and only lunch in Seattle, but ah well—I knew I’d be satisfied, and I wasn’t wrong. From the setting of this place, located in light, airy Melrose Market, to the clean, rustic décor, to the easygoing service and simple yet elegant food, it all made me feel at ease, and that was what I needed. As I sat there, sipping wine and eating this delicate, satisfying, thought-provoking food, I felt myself begin to relax. My shoulders dropped a few inches, and my sense of impending doom evaporated (at least for the time being).

Seat by the window, even if it was raining.

Advertising polictical convictions in a place of business? I dig it. (Assuming I agree with you, that is.)

Raw tremiti olives from Bitetto, Puglia, in water and sea salt; light, briny, barely cured.

House-made yogurt with winter squash, pumpkin seeds, and maple syrup; technically, this was a brunch dish, but the squash and the tang of the yogurt, as well as the fruity olive oil that mingled with the syrup, let it walk that savory line perfectly.

A glass of Marco Carpineti Collesanti Bianco from Lazio. The grape is Bellone, and it was delicious—light, refreshing, a little bit funky.

Carrot salad with currants, green lentil sprouts, and mustards; dense but tender hunks of orange and yellow carrots, bitter greens, cilantro, and sprouts dressed in a creamy, cumin-laced dressing. When I complimented the flavor of the dressing, the waiter informed me that they used emulsified duck fat as the base…figures.

Le Grand Bouqueteau Chinon rosé from Château du Coudray Montpensier.

Juniper-loxed trout, shaved radish, kohlrabi, and fennel pollen. A beautiful dish—salty, refreshing, lean fish and radish tempered by creamy kohlrabi remoulade and chewy rye toasts brushed with more fruity olive oil.

After lunch, I indulged in some wandering and people watching, during which I remembered two things about Seattle, the first being that Pike Place is incredibly overwhelming and overrated (unless, of course, you like tourists en masse, grocers shoving samples of Asian pear at you, and toddling through halls of useless crafts and tchotchkes at the pace of whoever is the widest and slowest in the pack—don’t get me wrong, there are wonderful things to be had here, just not on a Saturday afternoon), and the second being that walking around Seattle, especially up in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, is like being in a time warp. Seriously, someone needs to break it to these people that it’s not 1998. Ready….not it!

There’s also good espresso on every corner in Seattle…

And I feel compelled to try as much as possible.

When it came time to choose my dinner destination, I again had to go with my gut. Friends had told me to try this or that place, but fancy Italian and Indian weren’t what I was feeling. My mind kept going back to this place called The Walrus and the Carpenter, but it was a cab ride away in the Ballard neighborhood. On top of that, a Seattle chef friend had told me that while it was great, it was a place you’d go for a snack, not for dinner. That sold me; snacking is basically how I like to eat all the time. I’d rather have a handful of “snacks” for dinner than sit down to a bowl of pasta or a pork chop. So I coughed up for the cab fare and headed out.

The place was tiny and  bustling, and after inserting myself unceremoniously into the one empty bar seat, my first order of business was securing a cocktail.

Bearded lady: anejo, cynar, averna, and laphroaig mist; delightfully bitter.

Local oysters: blue pool and sister point from Hood Canal, WA and treasure cove from Case Inlet, WA, mignonette and freshly grated horseradish.

Vietti Roero Arneis from Italy.

Butter clam tartar; ice cold, perfectly seasoned, creamy clam, lemon, crunchy cucumber, herring roe.

A glass of Occhipinti SP68, a favorite of mine from Sicily made from Grillo, Muscat, and a grape with one of the funnest, most made-up sounding names: Zibibbo. Hearty freshly baked bread with olive oil and butter, in the same dish—love it.

Grilled sardines with walnuts, parsley, and shallots. Anyone who thinks sardines are gross needs to eat these. Crispy, charred skin and pleasantly-oily meat with tons of fresh herbs and, as you can see, plenty of olive oil.

For dessert, Carpano Antica over ice.

And roasted medjool dates with olive oil and sea salt. Dense, silky, and warm inside with a delicate, smoky exterior; so simple, so good. Totally worth the cab ride.

And the next morning, what did my gut tell me? First of all, coffee.

Soy latte. Once my gut was properly caffeinated, my next step became clear: crumpets.

Another repeat for me, The Crumpet Shop in Pike Place market had been a site of revelation for me about a year earlier; fittingly, it was where I had my first real crumpet.

Freshly made crumpets are churned out all day. You can get them with butter, jam, honey, cheese, or…

…ham, eggs, and tomato.

No matter what combination you choose, the crumpet is the headliner. Yeasty tang, crispy griddled bottom, and moist, tender, almost custardy center. Thank you England.

Before picking up my rental car to take off for my next destination, I took one last lap around the market.

As I walked, the sun came out. I took it as a sign that the rest of the trip would be relaxing, easy, and free of controversy. This was optimistic at best, but more likely delusional.

The next leg of my trip was taking me north along Chuckanut Drive to Lummi Island. It ended up being amazing, and it was truly relaxing—at least for the next 24 hours, at which point, the universe continued to school me…

When it comes to real estate, we all know what they say: location, location, location. When it comes to restaurants, however, there’s no such mantra—ostensibly, the food is paramount, but it’s not that simple. A bad location can doom a decent restaurant as fast as it can turn buyers away from an otherwise desirable rent-controlled apartment, but there are countless other considerations in the restaurant business that can sully the diner’s experience as fast as the proverbial fly in the ointment (or, soup, as the case may be). Unlike selling condos, selling a restaurant to a potential customer is twofold: there’s the initial pitch (the website, the press, the reviews, the location, curb appeal, and décor), which may or may not succeed in luring the customer in for a meal, and there’s the experience of that meal, which in a way is a sales pitch in itself, determining whether or not the customer will return, whether they’ll recommend it to friends, and what kind of review, if any, they’ll contribute to the ever-expanding pool of information and opinions floating around online. The pitch may be twofold, but the whole equation is complex, multifaceted, and—in a business that’s constantly evolving—fugitive.  As a food and restaurant lover, this dynamic is endlessly fascinating to me, and nowhere has it resonated more deeply than in New Orleans.  On my recent trip down south, I ate at a variety of different restaurants, with vastly different cuisines, clienteles, characters, and locales. With such a saturation of tourists and such an iconic cuisine, New Orleans has become something of a crucible for restaurants. It’s a delicate balance between staying true to the food of the south without being trite, and being innovative but not over the top, not to mention attracting tourists while maintaining the loyalty and respect of residents and natives. When a restaurant manages to walk these lines, it’s truly a beautiful (and delicious) balance to behold. Lots of things can make a restaurant experience special, but it only takes one to derail it. When I looked back at my NOLA foodie tour through this lens, I understood more clearly the things that are important to me as a diner, and, ultimately, what made for a few very special nights in a very special city.

CHARACTER

To me, restaurants are like people—if they don’t have a personality, they’re not worth my time. If you eat out enough, you begin to get diner deja vu, where every table setting looks the same, every chirpy twenty-something waitress sells you the same spiel, the tastefully muted walls and dim lighting of one restaurant are the same as the next, and dishes are nearly identical from one menu to another. Unfortunately, many Americans thrive on consistency and seek out all things familiar, even when it comes to food. Chain restaurants wouldn’t be so successful if this weren’t the case; apparently people want to know they can get the same exact chicken caesar salad and glass of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio whether in Minneapolis or Maui. I like to be surprised. I like to walk into a restaurant, sit down, and not have a fucking clue what I’m about to experience. That’s just how I felt upon arriving at Jacques-Imo’s.

That’s right, peeps—this is real N’awlins food.

Apparently sometimes they through a table in the bed of the truck and let some lucky couple dine al fresco.

Inside, it looked like a group of preteen girls had created they’re dream clubhouse. My twelve-year-old self was smitten.

Every inch of space was filled with whimsical paintings, twinkly lights, and seemingly random objects. This place has personality in spades.

I sat down at my plastic-clothed table in the middle of the bustling space. The sign says “shut up and eat,” and that’s just what I planned to do.

Homemade corn muffins with garlic and parsley butter.

Local brew.

Duck and andouille gumbo, with tender shreds of duck, snappy pieces of sausage, perfectly cooked rice, and a slow-building heat.

Fried green tomatoes with grilled shrimp and remoulade. And yes, those are potato chips on the salad.

Throughout the meal, my waitress (clad in a t-shirt and cutoffs, like most of the employees) was personable, genuinely interested, and attentive without being overbearing. Oh, and she suggested that I order this…

Fried grits heaped with gravy, shrimp, tomato, chiles, corn, two kinds of cheese, and scallions. As over the top as it was purely, hedonistically delicious.

I left Jacques-Imo’s feeling slightly ill, but oh so satisfied. Everything fit here, everything jived; it’s undeniably New Orleans, and couldn’t exist anywhere else in the country, but is distinct from everything else in the city. As I stood outside waiting for a cab (and doing some digestion-aiding breathing exercises), I met two young men from Italy, a couple from Chicago, and a local; some were there for the first time, others came back every time they were in the city, but they were all satisfied customers.

Later in my trip, I found myself at another place that had its own distinct personality. I had read good reviews of Satsuma, and decided to stop by for breakfast one morning.

It was a bit out of the way, and, as was becoming my custom in this city, I walked in the doors with hair matted to my damp forehead and sweat trickling down my back. Unfortunately, one doesn’t “glisten” in New Orleans in June; one sweats like a pig.

I ordered, while dabbing myself with a wad of napkins, and took a seat.

The clientele was as colorful as the decor, and struck me as largely local. This is not a place you happen upon after a night of drinking on Bourbon Street (unless you’re very, very lost).

Gotta love Anne Frank and the Virgin Mary on the same wall.

Beet lemonade.

Americano.

Homemade granola and yogurt with fruit and honey.

It was a simple, wholesome breakfast. Nothing complex, nothing mind-blowing, but the place was charming and just a little bit quirky. Apparently my taste in restaurants echoes my taste in people.

Again, I left feeling satisfied, and far less ill than after my meal at Jacques-Imo’s—thank god for caffeine, hydration, and good old-fashioned fiber.

SERVICE

I eat out for the food. If the meal is amazing, you can pretty much throw it at me from across the restaurant and I’ll be happy. I’m not looking to be coddled or bottle-fed, I’m not looking for you to describe every last garnish and tell me the provenance of every leaf of micro-greens on my plate, and I’m not looking for you to make hollow recommendations and feign interest in the food and wine if you’re just there to make a couple bucks. My standards are pretty…well, standard, and unless you spit in my food and call me fat, you’ll probably get your 20 precent tip. That being said, I have some pet peeves when it comes to service, and at one restaurant in New Orleans, my buttons were pushed.

I had heard only awesome things about Cochon, and after eating at their more casual joint, Cochon Butcher, for alunch a few days before, I was left with a decent enough impression.

I had a reservation at Cochon, and was promptly seated at a table along a wall, sandwiched between two couples. Usually, this wouldn’t bother me, but the couple to my left were a pair of legitimately obese folks (I’m not being judgmental here, trust me) who were enjoying their desserts in a manner that should be reserved for the bedroom, and trying to strike up a conversation with me between bites. The couple to my right consisted of a well-groomed 30-something guy and a stick-thin, bleach-blond chick with some kind of Eastern European accent who picked at her food, repeatedly answered her cell phone, and tried to order—brace yourself—a Red Bull and vodka.

Company aside, I was excited for the food. My waiter was nice enough, and made a few halfhearted recommendations, but his speech seemed canned, and he was clearly in a rush to get back to the other tables he was attending. The place was bustling, to be sure, but truly good service shouldn’t suffer because of this—I don’t care if I’m a solo diner, a whiny Russian waif, or a zaftig tourist downing a second piece of chocolate cream pie, I should feel worthy of your time.

Of the four small plates I tried, two were awesome, and two were good enough, but good enough food becomes subpar in the hands of poor service as fast as mediocre food is forgiven in the inverse situation.

The wood-fired oyster roast was perfect; a little spicy, a little smoky, with meaty little morsels of briny oyster cooked until succulent and just warmed through.

A simple glass of Rhone rosé to accompany.

The pork cheeks with roasted corn grits and tomato salad were tasty, but underwhelming.

This was probably my favorite dish of the night; not much to look at, but the combination of raw, shaved mushrooms, mint leaves, chewy dried lemon rounds, and meaty fried beef jerky in a lemon vinaigrette was balanced and just weird enough to be intriguing.

Now, as a big foodie, and perhaps an even bigger wine geek, I’m a huge proponent of having the proper wine with certain foods. My rosé was nice with the oysters, but at this point in the meal, it was gone, and I wanted some red for my next course. I did my best to catch the waiter’s eye subtly, then resorted to the peacock-like neck-stretching, head-bobbing maneuver where I follow him across the restaurant with my gaze, hoping that even if he doesn’t catch on, another waitperson will see the wine-deprived desperation in my eyes and come to the rescue, but to no avail. I was still working on the pork cheeks when a food runner unceremoniously dropped the next dish on my table and bolted.

By the time I turned my attention to the pork belly with spicy pickled vegetables, it was room temperature at best. Again, a tasty enough creation, but it didn’t send me.

I left Cochon feeling slightly embittered. One of my favorite parts of eating out on vacation is ordering dessert—something I rarely do in my everyday life—but my patience had worn thin, and I took my leave. The service wasn’t horrendous by any means, and my waiter got his 20 percent tip. I had high hopes for that evening, and I was let down, but even more than doing a disservice to me, failing to recognize the importance of  hospitality does a disservice to the food, and everyone who worked so hard on it, and in the end, isn’t the food what it’s all about?

At another, very different venue, I had stellar service. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t anticipating it; in fine dining, I expect the service to match, but in diners, cafes, and the like, it’s a crapshoot. On my last day in the city, I rented a bike. It was a too-small cruiser with foot brakes and one speed, and was rented to me by a tiny little pistol of a woman wearing cut-offs and two nicotine patches and doing business at a picnic table out back of an antique shop. When she told me in no uncertain terms that failure to return the bike would result in a $250 penalty, I took her seriously.

I rode to the Bywater area to Elizabeth’s Restaurant. There wasn’t much around it, and I couldn’t quite tell what kind of neighborhood I had landed in, so with no small amount of trepidation, I locked my rental to a nearby telephone pole and ventured inside. The waitress who greeted me was like a caricature: flowered dress under a patterned apron, ponytail, glasses, lovely in that hard-working, I-was-meant-for-better-things-but-I’m-paying-my-dues sort of way. I asked her if my bike would be safe outside, and she didn’t seem certain either way….less than comforting.

I sat near a window, which I hoped would afford me a view of the bike, but the angle was wrong. The waitress bustled around, and from the get-go was genuine, if a bit flustered, but always attentive.

Good, strong coffee in a chipped mug that would’ve been campy if it wasn’t so obviously unintended.

Between taking my order and checking on my coffee level, my waitress struck up a conversation, made a few sightseeing recommendations, and, starting halfway through the meal, began periodically poking her head out the door and calling out to me “bike’s still there!”

Grits with hot sauce, some fruit.

And delicious, hot calas cakes.

A largely forgotten New Orleans specialty made of rice and a thick, cinnamony batter and fried until crisp on the outside and fluffy in the middle.

This place was special. It had the character, the food was solid, but I just felt so taken care of. This girl went above and beyond, and it wasn’t to kiss my ass, and it wasn’t to squeeze more tip out of the 11 dollar check. I don’t care what you’re serving—this is service.

LOCATION

As I said from the start, location is only one of many factors at play in the restaurant equation, and while convenience may bring in the tourists, sometimes being off the beaten path is key. These restaurants aren’t relying on foot traffic, and have to give people a reason to go out of their way; because of this, there’s a mutual respect between diner and staff, and a tacit understanding that the ensuing experience will be worth the hike.

For me, Restaurant Patois seemed like such a worthwhile destination, so I made the trek.

It was sleek and serene inside—not to mention largely empty.

Sitting at the bar, I was served attentively, and had a quiet, leisurely meal.

Freshly baked brioche rolls to start, in a charmingly homespun pottery bowl.

A clean, refreshing white Belgian ale.

A decadent pile of fresh crabmeat, bound with just a touch of mayo, cubed avocado and mango, and paper-thin slices of fresh hearts of palm.

I’m a sucker for a copper bar….

Fall-off-the-bone tender lamb ribs with a fruity, tart, green tomato relish.

This place could never exist in the Quarter—its subtlety would be lost, its character would change. What I ate there was good—really good—but I enjoyed it that much more because I felt like I had worked for it, I had sought and found something, instead of just stumbling upon something. For this, I will gladly sacrifice convenience, and for that, I feel like one of the lucky ones.

And finally…

THE WHOLE PACKAGE

There are other factors I could spotlight, but I’d rather talk about the one meal I had in New Orleans where the stars aligned and everything came together. To do that, however, I have to bring up another element: renown. When a restaurant makes a name for itself, it usually means they’re doing something right. It also means that people are walking in the door with knowledge and expectations, so they’d better keep on doing it right. I’m not one for celebrity chefs, as all too often it seems that renown enables resting on one’s laurels; famous restaurants can too easily cease to be inherently good, and instead become good simply by reputation. John Besh is a big name in New Orleans, and his Restaurant August seemed far too stuffy and mainstream to make it onto my short list. But when a friend gave rave reviews of a meal she had there, I decided to go for it. And with a prix fixe lunch for $20.12, what did I have to lose?

Inside, it was elegant but unpretentious.

My server, a lovely woman who wore a suit, and was, I would later learn, a “captain”as opposed to a waiter, instantly made me feel like I was the most important person in the restaurant, if not the world, but not in a smarmy, brown-nosing way. She helped me pick a wine and left me to peruse the menu, and with her parting words—”sit back and let us take care of you”—I think I breathed a little deeper.

The amuse bouche alone was enough to blow me away: fish fumet custard, truffle zabaglione, caviar, a brioche crouton, and a single chive flower. The texture of the whole was unctuous—very much like a soft-cooked egg, and the flavors were at once briny, earthy, and bright. I also appreciated the playfulness of eggs (caviar) within an egg.

An obscure varietal—Petite Arvine—made for a clean, bright wine with a bit of a cheesy funk and lots of stony minerality.

Next, a salad of toothsome chunks of roasted Japanese eggplant, cooked watermelon, marcona almonds, and goat milk labne, with a spicy charmoula vinaigrette and a pesto emulsion. It was perfectly seasoned, the textures were sensual in combination, and the cooked watermelon took on a squash-like flavor that was oddly appropriate with the eggplant in a ratatouille-esque way.

A glass of Whispering Angel rosé to go with the second course…

…and this thing….oooohhh, this thing. A “buster crab” BLT.

Brioche bread pudding and basil aioli topped with a fried soft-shell crab; green and red tomatoes, okra, charred lettuces, and lardons of Benton’s bacon. It was like nothing I’d ever had before, and yet the flavors were so familiar—the basil, the bacon, the perfect tomatoes were all so evocative.

And finally, a wild blackberry tart with cornmeal crust and crumbs, bourbon, and sweet corn ice cream. Not overly sweet, and so perfect in its summery simplicity that I’ll forgive them the cliched mint-leaf garnish.

I left August wishing I could return the next day. The food was truly exceptional, but the whole experience impressed me. This place epitomizes fine dining at its best. I floated out the door and promptly returned to my hotel for a lengthy afternoon nap—a sure sign of a good meal.

New Orleans is such a unique city, and it only stands to reason that it would be filled with unique restaurants. I was lucky enough to experience a handful of them, but I barely scraped the surface. Some I’d go back to in a heartbeat, others, not so much, but I’m just one of many diners, and these are just my humble opinions. We all seek something different when we walk through the doors and choose to patronize a restaurant, and what’s important to me may not be important to you—luckily, this is what keeps the industry going. Experience is subjective, but at the end of the day, I think we all just want to be fed.

My last full day in Montreal began with a hot, frothy café au lait by a sunny window at Café Sardine.

The place was comfortably distressed, bordering on campy, with quirky touches that would have seemed shopworn elsewhere; two aproned cooks wearing newsboy hats and suspenders worked out of a tiny back kitchen, and fresh doughnuts were for sale by the register, stacked in a shiny red enamel toolbox.

For the solid portion of my morning meal, I retraced my steps from the previous day, ending at Au Kouign-Amann.

I resisted the temptation, however, to repeat my orgiastic inhalation of their signature pastry, choosing instead to see if the bakery’s culinary aptitude extended to their croissants.

It did. Fresh, flaky, and perfect with a chocolat chaud.

Sufficiently full of hot beverages and buttery pastries, I biked the 6 kilometers to Marché Atwater. Luckily, it was mostly downhill, meaning my newly acquired bulk worked with, not against, me. (Thank you, laws of physics.)

The smaller of the city’s two markets, it was less impressive than Marché Jean-Talon from a couple of days before, but was nonetheless a bounty of visual stimuli…

It blows my mind that nature can be so voluptuous and gaudy—almost obscenely so.

And feature designs that are so seemingly illogical…

…this, on the other hand, makes perfect sense.

Ditto this. Although why is everything phallic shaped…

For lunch, I had my sights set on a Korean place in the downtown area. When I think of Montreal, Asian food is certainly not what comes to mind, but Kazu had received such stellar reviews that I decided it was worth a shot. Plus, perhaps it was the embittering experience of being shut out of Guchi’s midnight ramen in Boston too many times, but I was just excited at the prospect of eating really good ramen without having to jump through hoops, join a secret society, or sign away my first born to the imperious culinary powers that be.

They open at noon, and I’d been warned that there’d be a line, so, even though it was a Monday, I did my first walk-by at exactly 11:50. No action yet, but after one circuitous and rather stalker-esque stroll around the block, I took my place in the incipient line.

The address, in English and Japanese.

The tiny interior.

One by one, we were seated elbow-to-elbow at the bar, like sardines being stacked into a can.

My view was of the grill, and the giant tower of mai fun noodles, waiting to top tuna bowls.

The daily menu, with post-its stuck on the edges to announce the specials…

…while the permament items garnered their very own sheet of construction paper and a spot on the “menu wall.”

Watching the salad station at work.

A simple little Junmai sake to tipple.

A dainty, sweet-tart potato salad to begin.

Scooping rice for the 48-hour pork bowl.

Next, tofu with kimchi sauce.

Ice-cold silken tofu enrobed in a spicy sauce, topped with crunchy lettuce and black sesame seeds. The clean, sweet taste and custardy texture of the tofu were the perfect backdrop for the complex heat and unmistakably fermented tang of the sauce.

But I was still waiting to wrap my lips around a spoonful of that ramen…

…I watched as broth was ladled and garnishes were applied to bowl after bowl. She broiled slices of pork belly one order at a time, boiled noodles in a little conical sieve before transferring each serving to its giant porcelain vessel.

Blame my history of being jilted by ramen-slingers, but with every serving that went out I sat up a little straighter, opened my eyes a little wider, and willed the waitress to come my way with a steaming bowl.

Finally, my silent prayers were answered, and future anxiety dreams of ramen rejection were circumvented.

One inhalation, and I knew this was good shit. After giving myself a full-on umami facial, I raised my spoon and dug in. The noodles were perfectly al dente—tender, but sturdy. Pickled radish, pleasantly gelatinous seaweed, scallions, snow peas, black and white sesame seeds, and toasted nori were gently heated by the steaming liquid.

Buried beneath the surface were rich slices of pork belly and the most unctuous, creamy-yolked egg I’ve ever eaten. And the broth….ohhhh, the broth. It was so flavorful, so incredible savory and well seasoned, yet not salty in the least. A restrained sprinkling of white pepper—an ingredient I usually abhor—and the dish was complete. As I slurped in a rhapsodic, broth-induced haze, the heat from the grill not three feet in front of me, and the sake I sipped from my little bamboo cup, warmed me inside and out.

I took my leave, belly full, and when I realized that it had poured rain for the exact 45 minutes I had been in Kazu, I felt even more caressed by the benevolent ramen gods.

I biked back up to the plateau, and stopped in at La Maison du Macaron, where they sell but one thing…

…give up? Macarons, bein sûr. I chose a couple flavors, and found an idyllic park to sit and enjoy them.

Raspberry-thyme and salted caramel.

The raspberry-thyme was a bit too herbaceous—not enough raspberry and too much thyme.

The salted caramel, however, was a winner; airy and crisp on the outside, with a luscious, sweet filling cut by flaky sea salt.

After popping back to the hotel to preen, I remounted Bixi and took to the road. Work was letting out as I biked to my destination, and as I joined the cycling masses, I got completely swept up in the energy of the crowd; perhaps it was a bit of the herd mentality, but I felt like I was part of something, and I liked it.

I (we) entered a bike path that wound around and up through a park; near the top of the park, I parted ways with my posse of pedaling escorts, and headed towards towards Le Lab.

Le Lab is a bar that intrigued me. I could say it was for their deft hand in mixology or the swank atmosphere and I wouldn’t be lying, but the main attraction was the fire—if you check out their website, you’ll understand. So quite literally like a moth to a flame (albeit a theoretical one), I was lured to Le Lab.

Sadly, at 5:30 on a Monday evening, what I found fell slightly short of blazing flames licking the forearms of burly, exhibitionist barmen as they flipped bottles to within an inch of the ceiling. What I found was an empty bar, with two tenders dutifully prepping for the night. No matter—more barmen for me, burly or no.

After chatting up said barmen, who, upon closer inspection, I might more accurately describe as bar boys, I settled on a Negroni Truffle.

Dripping with trepidation at the prospect of a cocktail with “truffle” in the name, I was pleasantly surprised when I took my first sip of this Tanqueray, Campari, and Cabral Reserva Especial (tawny port) combination laced with two kinds of chocolate bitters. It was bracing, bittersweet, and well balanced, cocoa-dusted rim and all.

A few other folks straggled in while I was drinking, but for the most part, it was just lil’ ol’ me.

I perused the menu again, and as an homage to Bixi, decided my next drink had to be La Bicyclette: Citadelle gin, Dolin red vermouth, absinthe, and elderflower.

After imbibing, I climbed on the cocktail’s eponym, and rode (a bit wobbily, in all honesty) down to the Old Port.

This is the part of Montreal for which the city is known, and frequented by North American travelers hungry for the European “experience;” the intangible quality that turns a modern metropolis into a snarl of cobblestone streets and sidewalk cafes to be discovered.

There’s an authenticity in the architecture, even where it’s clearly pastiche; a significance to every statue and stone.

Coming to this part of Montreal after inhabiting the world of skyscrapers and Starbucks less than a mile away seems to dissolve decades, inserting you into the anachronistic bubble that is the old town.

I wandered, not yet sure of my destination, but with a few options in mind.

I ended up at Bocata, a modern wine bar with a cozy, subterranean vibe.

 As soon as I’d taken my seat at the bar, I knew I’d chosen well; the chalkboard wine menu listed obscure grapes and unknown regions, with options of half or full glasses from the Enomatic behind the bar. It was wine-geek paradise—I was amongst my people.

Romorantin from the Loire, Bobal from Spain, and as soon as the folks behind the bar detected my ardor for the arcane and my sincere appreciation for delicious wine, no matter the label or denomination, it only went uphill.

Oh, and there was food, too: Octopus with morcilla (blood sausage), confit fingerling potatoes, tomatoes, baby watercress, and tomato “molasses.”

Scallops and pork belly with poached quail eggs, carrot-miso puree, shallot confit sauce, and crisp, buttery toast.

A Grenache from Domaine Clos du Rouge Gorge in France; an incredibly elegant yet earthy 100 percent Sangiovese vino da tavola.

Veal with creamy Manchego polenta, apple, and tomato-olive “condiment.”

Perhaps my favorite wine of the night: an oxidized, biodynamic Sauvignon Blanc from Domaine des Maisons Brûlées in Touraine. Awesome.

After closing down the restaurant, I apparently earned the respect of the staff (or else they figured they weren’t going to shake me at that point), and we headed back downtown to a few Irish bars, where a few friendly beers turned into a few too many shots of Jameson. To protect all parties involved, I’ll leave it at that, and with the sentiment that a picture’s worth a thousand words…

….this. And yes, that’s my cardigan.

Needless to say, the very last thing I wanted to do the next morning was make the 6 hour drive back to Boston. Clearly, copious amounts of caffeine and carbohydrates were in order.

There are two bagel places in Montreal that vie for supremacy amongst tourists and locals alike, and in the name of research, I turned my post-bender carb fest into a side-by-side taste test.

St. Viateur‘s bagels, while tasty, were slightly cottony and dry on the inside, with the smoky char flavor bordering on acrid, and a serious lack of salt.

Fairmount Bagel was, to my taste, the superior bagel. Chewy, crispy, with a slight charred aroma and a perfectly seasoned, slightly sweet flavor.

Sufficiently bolstered, I made the drive over the border and back home. Despite my rambunctious night, my former impression of Montreal as a party destination had been permanently supplanted by the a truer picture of the vibrant city I had experienced over the past few days. Cultured and grand yet unaffected and blithe, full of good food and wine, and, yes, plenty of nightlife should the mood strike. For a travel junkie such as myself, realizing the proximity of such a treasure is dangerous; with such a desirable destination half a day’s drive away, what’s to stop me from indulging again and again? Making a habit if it? I’m already jonesing to return, but, still riding high on the last trip, have managed to keep the cravings at bay. I guess that’s the difference between an enthusiast and an addict, and even if not, I can think if no better addiction.

]]> http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/06/22/la-femme-faim-the-hungry-girl-in-montreal-part-trois/feed/ 0 DSC_1823 seasonedandcured DSC_1823 DSC_1824 DSC_1825 DSC_1826 DSC_1827 DSC_1828 DSC_1834 DSC_1830 DSC_1833 DSC_1832 DSC_1836 DSC_1835 DSC_1839 DSC_1840 DSC_1859 DSC_1841 DSC_1842 DSC_1861 DSC_1852 DSC_1846 DSC_1847 DSC_1857 DSC_1849 DSC_1856 DSC_1854 DSC_1858 DSC_1862 DSC_1865 DSC_1860 DSC_1866 DSC_1868 DSC_1869 DSC_1871 DSC_1872 DSC_1874 DSC_1875 DSC_1877 DSC_1879 DSC_1876 DSC_1882 DSC_1884 DSC_1886 DSC_1887 DSC_1888 DSC_1889 DSC_1891 DSC_1892 DSC_1897 DSC_1893 DSC_1895 DSC_1900 DSC_1899 DSC_1896 DSC_1906 DSC_1910 DSC_1907 DSC_1902 DSC_1915 DSC_1916 DSC_1917 DSC_1918 DSC_1920 DSC_1922 DSC_1921 DSC_1923 http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/06/12/la-femme-faim-the-hungry-girl-in-montreal-part-deux/ http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/06/12/la-femme-faim-the-hungry-girl-in-montreal-part-deux/#comments Tue, 12 Jun 2012 04:35:09 +0000 Rebeccah http://hungrilyeverafter.com/?p=1024 Read more]]> Day two in Montreal was notable for a few reasons; first and foremost, it was the day I met Bixi. Until then, it had been about ten years since I’d ridden a bike. Implausible as it may sound, I assure you, this is not hyperbole. The last time I straddled a set of wheels was pre-college, and—without revealing my age—that was a decade ago, folks. Since moving back to Boston, I’ve toyed with the idea of getting a bike. I’ve spent too many hours idling in traffic, becoming ever more aggravated as hipster cyclists whiz by, taunting me with their autonomy from the road rules that shackle us motorists. So what was holding me back? Fear. Fear of weaving through lanes of traffic, dodging cars manned by angry Boston drivers whose states of mind I was all too familiar with. That, and a scenario that loops through my head of me, bike-born, smacking squarely into a swiftly-opened car door and sliding down, cartoon-like, into a puddle on the asphalt below. Luckily, vacation Rebeccah is not constrained by the irksome (but often rational) worries that plague everyday Rebeccah. Vacation Rebeccah saw that Bixi stand (Bixi is Montreal’s genius bike sharing system, with stations on nearly every corner) and marched right up to it, head held high, pushed buttons until the machine complied, and rented a bike. In vacation Rebeccah’s mental scenario, cars of even the most gargantuan proportions bounce off her with barely a glancing blow as she soars over the pavement, not a care or encumbrance in the world—not even a helmet. (There’s a fine line between vacation Rebeccah and self-destructive Rebeccah…)

So off I sped, like a grounded Wonder Woman, and just like my superhero prototype, I had a mission.

All my globe-trotting foodie friends who had preceded me on the Montreal culinary beat, and whose footsteps I faithfully followed, had told me about this little bakery in the plateau.

Flying relatively under the radar, the tiny boulangerie serves beautiful croissants and quiche, but I was there for their namesake pastry, the kouign-amann (pronounced kwee-ama).

A whole kouign-amann is a large, round pastry that looks a bit like an extra thick pizza crust, sans toppings.

So I bought myself a slice, and a café au lait, and settled outside to enjoy.

One bite and I was smitten. Its obscure, hard to pronounce name is fitting, because this thing defies designation, and is nearly incomparable to anything we know in the sad, mono-linguistic, pastry-deprived world of the lower forty-eight.

On top, a delicate, flaky layer, somewhat akin to the exterior of a croissant; inside, undulating strata of chewy, moist, sweetness, reminiscent of a stack of crepes, or maybe blintzes; on the bottom, a crisp, crackly crust, caramelized like the top of a crème brûlée.

See the strata?

 As I sat on a sidewalk bench and ate, I’m pretty sure my eyes were shut, and between that and my desperate scramble to wrangle every last crumb of the thing into my mouth, I must have looked like I hadn’t eaten in days (I had, see Part Un).

With a few calories to burn before lunch, the halcyon afterglow of “discovering” a new and potetially life-changing food, and a Bixi bike station around the corner, I hopped on my vélo, and headed up to Parc Mont-Royal to tool around. I began to ascend what looked like a gentle, sloping hill, and after two-ish minutes was panting and sweating like I’d just run a marathon. Once I discovered that I could change the gears on the bike, it got a little more bearable, but I was still ready to collapse by the time I reached the cemetery in the heart of the park‚ so that’s just what I did.

A half hour sprawled on the grass proved a sufficient airing out period, at which point I was relatively certain my odor no longer made me an unacceptable restaurant patron. And that could only mean lunchtime. Cruising down the hill I had just busted my ass to  climb was a blissful, all-too-brief experience that forced me to seriously question how the phrase “all downhill from here” can possibly have negative connotations. Such was the shit-eating grin I wore as I descended that I’m surprised I didn’t catch a bug in my incisors.

Riding around the residential tree-lined streets of the plateau neighborhood, I began to imaging myself in one of these little flats…

…locking my bike up on the wrought iron railing every night, having a glass of wine on the sun-dappled patio. I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is, but there’s some fugitive quality that makes the whole place feel very foreign; even before anyone utters an accented word, the people, the streets, the clothing, the architecture all seem to have a patina of otherness. Needless to say, as a stupid American, I find this unspeakably charming

 After bidding goodbye to my imaginary French-Canadian husband and donning my imaginary beret, I consulted my list of restaurants under the “Sunday lunch/brunch” category (and people say I’m not spontaneous…). I peddled around, casing a few of the places on my list, and was taken with one in particular, Le Chien Fumant.

Now unless there’s some dialectical interpretation of which I am unaware, this translates into “the smoking dog.” Without giving it too much thought, I chose to imagine a bulldog with a cigarette hanging from its jaw, as opposed to some canine version of lox (they do eat horse in Canada, after all…).

The restaurant was adorable, but I am an unabashed slut for decor—with wainscoting and distressed floors like these, they could have literally served me Lassie and still gotten a thumbs up.

I sidled into a seat at the bar, and upon scanning the chalkboard menu was reminded that despite it being my second meal of the day, it was brunch time. And we all know the best thing about brunch—brunch cocktails!

The suave bartender began to craft my morning libation, something called a Morning Glory Fizz, and when he got out the blow torch, I knew I’d ordered well.

It was a delicious, not to mention beautiful, combination of Scotch, lemon, absinthe, angostura bitters, and egg white, shaken to a frothy emulsion, brûléed, and topped with zested lemon and star anise.

Being short on space, every inch behind the bar (where the entire kitchen was housed) was utilized; the bar was literally hanging from the ceiling, each bottle dangling from its own hook, with a very impressive muddler that I mistook for a baseball bat front and center.

I ordered a tarte à la tomate; delicate layers of pastry filled with sweet, tender tomatoes, topped with a spicy watercress salad, poached eggs, and a bacon-black olive vinaigrette with basil and scallions.

The second best thing about brunch? Runny yolks.

I ended up meeting the manager of the restaurant, whom the bartender, David, insisted on introducing me to after learning that I was a cook. They were all incredibly warm and friendly, as I was generally finding to be the case in Montreal, and gave me some good recommendations for the rest of my trip.

Later that afternoon, I acted on some of their advice, and headed to Dieu du Ciel, a no-frills brewpub with an impressive list of beers on tap.

Every table was full, including the outdoor terrace, and the bar was tiny, but I squeezed onto a stool between two other solo imbibers who later chatted with. On my right, a well-coifed dude from LA drinking a pint of something light, off to meet up with his pals later on; on my left, a bearded, tattooed guy from San Fran, in the process of driving across the country solo after losing his job, sipping on a sampler of dark brews. It was an interesting contrast, and there I was, smack in the middle, which I guess makes me….Fresno?

I started with the pénombre, a bitter black IPA with balanced hop.

All the draught beers are offered in pint, glass, or sampler size. Had I known about the sampler at the time, it might have been a wise choice, but I couldn’t try just one beer…

The péché mortel, a boozy, heady imperial coffee stout.

My dinner plans took me only a kilometer or so up the street; a quick cycle, and I was there—La Salle à Manger.

Another cute interior…

…another seat at the bar.

I started with salmon gravlax with fresh goat cheese, hazelnuts, a salad consisting of fiddleheads, asparagus, microgreens, tomato, and red cabbage, and a tarragon sour cream.

They weren’t trying to reinvent the wheel here, but the dish’s simplicity contributed to its success; the salmon was salty, perfect with sweet, licoricey tarragon, the goat cheese was mild and slightly tart, the nuts were well-toasted, adding crunch a slight earthy-smokiness, and the salad underneath clean and fresh.

A glass of French vin de table; Clos Canarelli, a wine made from the obscure Corsican Bianco Gentile grape.

Homemade breads.

Dinner entertainment.

Next, a duck slider; a juicy, succulent “duck cake” with tomato, frisée, foie gras terrine, and pickles and a salad of fiddleheads, cucumbers, purple carrots, and parsley. It was the perfect little bite (restraint in portion sizes was something I hadn’t seen a lot of in Montreal thus far—what, did they expect me to restrain myself?)

Again, nothing rabidly creative here, but everything was well thought out and well executed. The colors were vibrant, the ingredients seasonal, and the flavors worked; the intense hit of dill from the tangy pickles balanced the richness of the duck and the foie.

Growlers of water.

My final small plate was a steamed yucatan pork bun with spicy lime sour cream and herb salad.

The bun texture was lovely; airy and ethereal, but with a chew that held up to the shreds of pork inside. A slaw-like salad of pickled vegetables and fresh herbs mitigated the heat.

A funky, floral wine; 2000 Domaine Oikonomy from Sitia, Crete, made from the Liatiko and Mandilaria grapes.

And finally, gâteau aux carottes. A plank of moist cake topped with carrot confiture, spiced caramel, four nuts (pecans, walnut, hazelnuts, and cashews), and goat milk ice cream.

A very unique digestif; 2000 Clos les Brumes “Solidago” Hydromel, a barrel-aged mead-style wine from  Québec.

Unlike my experience at Joe Beef the night before, which felt very “Montreal,” La Salle à Manger was decidedly French. The atmosphere, the clientele, and the staff had that je ne sais quoi that I encountered more often than not in Paris. Don’t get me wrong—they weren’t outright rude like a few of the Parisians I came across, but I definitely got the impression that I was far from the most important customer, and they didn’t mind if I knew it. The service was leisurely, despite a full house and a bustling back kitchen, and the English was less forthcoming than I had become used to.

But hey, I’d come to Montreal to experience the city, and part of the city’s identity is Francophile. If anything, it demonstrates the  gracious nature of Québécois culture as a whole that anything less than gregarious warmth and camaraderie stood out as atypical.

Merci, Montreal, for another day, another meal, and revealing another layer of your character. Oh, and for Bixi.

]]> http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/06/12/la-femme-faim-the-hungry-girl-in-montreal-part-deux/feed/ 1 DSC_1811 seasonedandcured bike DSC_1762 DSC_1763 DSC_1765 DSC_1764 DSC_1766 DSC_1767 DSC_1769 DSC_1772 DSC_1774 DSC_1775 DSC_1778 DSC_1791 DSC_1779 DSC_1781 DSC_1782 DSC_1785 DSC_1783 DSC_1787 DSC_1790 DSC_1799 DSC_1793 DSC_1792 DSC_1796 DSC_1801 DSC_1803 DSC_1810 DSC_1811 DSC_1805 DSC_1808 DSC_1807 DSC_1815 DSC_1816 DSC_1804 DSC_1818 DSC_1817 DSC_1814 DSC_1821 DSC_1819 DSC_1812 http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/06/02/la-femme-faim-the-hungry-girl-in-montreal-part-un-2/ http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/06/02/la-femme-faim-the-hungry-girl-in-montreal-part-un-2/#comments Sat, 02 Jun 2012 20:02:16 +0000 Rebeccah http://hungrilyeverafter.com/?p=906 Read more]]> Until recently, my perception of Canada—our neighbor to the north, home of the maple leafs, the most mocked accent in the northern hemisphere, and affordable prescription drugs—was split. On the one hand, there was Quebec, a charming, quasi-European city where my best friend and I had spent a lovely week, drinking wine, listening to jazz, eating cheese and baguette, getting matching tattoos, and generally doing little to dispel the rampant high-school rumor that we were a lesbian couple. On the other hand, there was Montreal, a city where I passed a handful of drunken college weekends, my recollection of which is limited to the inside of a shitty bar and the inside of a shitty hotel room. Apparently, however, there is more to Montreal than strip clubs and ample opportunities for underage drinking; don’t get me wrong, there are these things, but it also happens to be a culinary hub with an ever-expanding food and wine industry whose profile is gaining ground on the radar of serious foodies countrywide. With the Old Port offering all the winding streets and cobblestoned charm of a European capital, a vibrant student population inhabiting the downtown area, keeping it just trashy enough to remain a party destination, and the slightly grungy, fugitive vibe of the plateau, where bike-riding hipsters and atavistic Québécois seem equally at home, the city wears many hats. But despite having one foot firmly in the old world (meaning great French wines at every turn), and the other planted in North America (meaning everyone speaks English), Montreal is 100 percent Canadian, with a character very much its own. All this, and I didn’t even have to board a plane to get there. Thus, I approached my trip to Montreal by adopting a new and very appropriate motto: Pourquoi pas?

After a half-day of work on the Friday before Memorial Day, I hopped in my little Toyota, refueled at the gas station and then Starbucks, and headed north. Instead of a straight shot to Montreal, I opted to spend the night in Randolph, Vermont, with a couple I had found on airbnb.

Despite warnings from cynical friends that any such arrangements could only end in hidden bathroom cameras and Buffalo Bill-inspired lotion scenarios, I chose to trust in the good of mankind—call me naive, but it all worked out. I arrived at their lovely home, settled into my room, and after a stroll around the neighborhood and a hot shower in my clawfoot tub, settled into a chair next to the open window, and officially initiated the metamorphosis into vacation mode.

It took some work, but with a little help from a bottle of Gamay, I was able to cajole my mind into letting go, with the promise of much food and wine to come, and the heartening knowledge that for the next four days I had nothing to worry about, and no one to answer to but myself.

An early start the next morning got me to Montreal by breakfast time, and I didn’t waste any time securing my first meal.

I settled under an umbrella at Le Croissanterie Figaro.

Their namesake pastry did not disappoint, with an uncoiling skein of layers so light that the buttery flavor was the sole indication of richness (that and the transparent smudges my fingers began to leave on the pages of Food & Wine). When only crumbs remained, and most of them were tucked out of reach in the folds of my scarf, I slurped the last of my cafe au lait, and took my leave.

Not far from breakfast was one of the city’s open markets. It had been on my list since the formative stages of trip planning, and with my new camera in hand and the mid-morning sun providing ideal lighting, it was irresistible—a vast sensory buffet. Bear with me….

Aisles and aisles of flowers, plants, and shrubs….oh to have a green thumb, but such is my inaptitude that I barely dared train eye or lens on the flora lest they should shrivel and die on the spot. Kids are easier to rear, right?

An exhaustive array of herbs…

….some local flavor…

…and, of course, the obligatory food porn.

Unlike the immutable displays of the supermarket aisles, the offerings at markets such as this actually reflect the seasons…printemps is in the air.

Little baby mushrooms, no bigger than your thumbnail.

I loved the level of interaction taking place—vendors with customers, people with food, people with people. Needless to say, there was not a self-checkout on the premises, and samples were everywhere—germs be damned!

Even without basic French, this sign is legible….

…ah, yes—the universal language of cured pork.

This can only mean one thing as well: time for a mid-morning snack.

A little taste of BC oysters, with freshly-grated horseradish, bien sûr.

On the edge of over-stimulation, and weighing the pros and cons of trying to smuggle home an entire wheel of raw-milk cheese, I dragged myself away from the market and went to check into my hotel before lunch. A deal on Bloomspot had landed me an affordable yet comfortably-cush room at Le St. Martin Hotel.

Lord help me but I love a king bed.

Especially one I can see right from my shower; that’s right, the glassed-in shower is open to the bedroom on one side—exhibitionists rejoice.

After settling in, I headed down to the Old Port neighborhood for lunch. I’d read good reviews of a place called Olive + Gourmando, and after seeing it, I was sold. I am a hopeless sucker for ambiance, and this place had it in spades. Luckily, the quality was more than skin deep.

Chalkboard sign upon entering.

It was packed on a Saturday afternoon…

…and I was seated elbow-to-elbow with my fellow diners at a communal table.

A glass of rosé, an open window.

And a simple, hot, crispy, sandwich of asparagus, pesto, mozzarella, and spicy capicola.

Not sure what these were, but I know what they weren’t…

In the halcyon haze of sunshine and wine, I wandered down a random street in Old Port, and happened upon a street fair of sorts.

A little wine tasting.

And perhaps something sweet…

…a petite canelé, sold to me by a girl who couldn’t have been more than eight. Custardy and tender on the inside, with a slight chewy-crisp exterior.

I watched as women expertly filled and flipped these little round Asian dumplings, resisted the urge to get my face painted like a tiger…

…stumbled onto a movie set, and continued to roam until the promise of dinner lured me back to my hotel.

Before the main attraction, I stopped in at Dominion Square Tavern for a cocktail.

Another great interior—very “speakeasy,” with fixed stools along the copper-topped bar and tiled walls and floors.

A Canadian Old Fashioned: rye, sugar cube, angostura bitters, lemon zest, triple sec, and morello cherries.

Now, typically, I save the most anticipated eatery, the gem in my culinary-destination crown, for the last night of my stay. In the past however, this has worked against me, when after days of nonstop imbibing and giving in to each and every hedonistic gustatory craving, I end up sated, and unable to fully appreciate the much-anticipated meal. Joe Beef was a restaurant I knew would take all my culinary chops and the full extent of my insatiable appetite to do justice, and I wanted to be on top of my game.

Named after a 19th century Québécois tavern owner, and run my two arguably insane and certifiably quirky dudes, Joe Beef has become an institution in Montreal. After reading an interview with David McMillan and Frédéric Morin (parts one and two on Eater), my admiration for their culinary approach, not to mention my desire to visit Joe Beef, was compounded.

Inside and out, it was refreshingly un-pretentious, casual but with obvious care taken in the cultivation of its design and appearance. And above all, a respect and borderline-obsessive love of good food.

With the help of Nick, the friendly local behind the bar, I tapped into my high school French classes and did my best to translate the blackboard menu. While the “double down,” a mini sandwich with fried foie gras acting as bread on either side of ham and cheese, was intriguing, I decided to reduce my risk of a mid-weekend coronary, and opted for a sampling form the raw bar instead.

A glass of briny Rueda a beautiful match for the bivalves.

Oysters: Marina Gold from British Columbia on the left, Little Islanders on top, and Beausoleil on the right.

Cute bread basket, but please—you think I’m going to take up valuable intestinal real estate with a slice of baguette? Pshhaw.

As I pondered my next course, I took a stroll to the back patio.

And through their beautiful, idyllic gardens. Again, my mere presence almost caused the verdant foliage to shrivel like the rose in Beauty and the Beast, but after I assured them I was only there to admire, they let me pass.

Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing one thing on the menu that contained lettuce…curious.

A detour to the ladies room, where I made the acquaintance of these fine fellows…

…think IKEA sells these?

This guy was right there in the corner of the loo, and I can safely say that I never again want my bare nether-regions to be in such close proximity to horns like that.

Back in my seat, I refocused on the task at hand. I decided to skip a full-on entrée, and sample a few small plates instead—small being a relative term, it turned out. Cornflake crusted eel nuggets and duck SPAM were tempting, but the lobster breakfast sandwich got my vote in the end.

An English muffin held sausage, fried egg, tomato, micro-sorel, and an obscene amount of fresh, luscious lobster meat.

Egg McMuffin, bow your head in shame.

Next, veal sweetbreads, fresh artichokes and radiatori (or, as the menu stated “radiators.” Apparently Italian translated into French is English…) in a silky sauce flecked with mint leaves. The bright, piney mint was an unexpected addition, but perfect with the rich veal and slightly bitter artichokes.

An earthy glass of Burgundy to complement.

And for dessert, something called the patate au four.

Patate au four basically means potato in the oven, or, baked potato, and, as you can see, that’s what it was supposed to look like. A baked potato sounds benign enough, but I am not exaggerating when I tell you that this thing tried to kill me—and nearly succeeded.

Two giant zeppelins of meringue, each roughly the size of the Goodyear blimp, were dusted with cocoa powder, sandwiched with ganache, and topped with ice cream and chocolate sauce. It took me the better part of 20 minutes and a whole glass of Fernet as backup to even make a dent in this thing, and since going about it demurely was not an option, I’m pretty sure I ruined my chances with the cute guy at the end of the bar. If there’s a successful way to flirt with a cocoa-dusted décolletage and a fudge-smeared face, I have yet to master it. Ah, the sacrifices I make for food—no wonder I’m single.

In the end, I made a decent showing, and Nick rewarded me (and himself, for his integral part in the undertaking) with shots of bourbon. A leisurely stroll back up to my hotel, and day one in Montreal came to a close. It may have been paranoia setting in, but as I drifted off to sleep in my plush surroundings, I couldn’t help but feel like I was taking up a bit more of that king bed than usual…

]]> http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/06/02/la-femme-faim-the-hungry-girl-in-montreal-part-un-2/feed/ 1 DSC_1746 seasonedandcured DSC_1625 DSC_1636 DSC_1637 DSC_1639 DSC_1640 DSC_1642 DSC_1647 DSC_1649 DSC_1648 DSC_1650 DSC_1678 DSC_1656 DSC_1658 DSC_1659 DSC_1672 DSC_1661 DSC_1662 DSC_1666 DSC_1665 DSC_1667 DSC_1670 DSC_1679 DSC_1669 DSC_1674 DSC_1676 DSC_1677 DSC_1675 DSC_1682 DSC_1683 DSC_1684 DSC_1688 DSC_1692 DSC_1696 DSC_1697 DSC_1699 DSC_1698 DSC_1715 DSC_1702 DSC_1700 DSC_1708 DSC_1714 DSC_1716 DSC_1717 DSC_1718 DSC_1719 DSC_1722 DSC_1721 DSC_1723 DSC_1724 DSC_1729 DSC_1731 DSC_1728 DSC_1732 DSC_1744 DSC_1736 DSC_1735 DSC_1734 DSC_1733 DSC_1738 DSC_1737 DSC_1747 DSC_1746 DSC_1745 DSC_1740 DSC_1739 DSC_1741 DSC_1743 DSC_1742 DSC_1748 DSC_1750 DSC_1756 DSC_1751 dessert http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/04/29/romance-and-wine-and-why-my-glass-is-half-full/ http://hungrilyeverafter.com/2012/04/29/romance-and-wine-and-why-my-glass-is-half-full/#comments Sun, 29 Apr 2012 23:30:39 +0000 Rebeccah http://hungrilyeverafter.com/?p=675 Read more]]> Dating is like wine. And no, I don’t mean because love is intoxicating. I’ve had the privilege of drinking some outstanding wines in my relatively short stint as a legal adult, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t yet tasted the most incredible wine of my life. Will I know when I do? Maybe, maybe not. Ditto with men. I’ve had my share of trysts, temptations, and full-on partnerships (less of the  latter), and had the pleasure of knowing some wonderful men. Sometimes I just…took a sip, sometimes I drank the whole damn bottle. But again, I haven’t found the one. What has come along with the infinite wisdom of my twenty-eight years is the knowledge that tasting wine is fun, and dating men can be fun, but I like really good wine, and if I can’t have that, often times I’d rather go without. Hopefully you can extrapolate that to the dating world, but let’s just say I’m comfortable being alone. The analogy goes further, however, and below are a few of the things I’ve ascertained, as much from drinking as from dating. Often times the two go hand in hand…

Good on paper doesn’t mean it works for you.

Ivy-league educated, good job, great family, big apartment—sounds perfect, right? Unless, of course, you are utterly incompatible. It’s all too easy to talk yourself into being with someone who looks good on paper, no matter what the reality of the situation is, because, let’s face it, these are all attractive qualities. Unfortunately, attraction is not dictated by such qualities. In fact, it is often in diametrical opposition to the careful logic we would like to employ when choosing a mate. In my case, I’m always tripped up by the “common interests.” Don’t get me wrong—it is important to share interests, but when I meet someone whose catalog of activities and hobbies reads like a carbon copy of mine, I get a bit carried away. It’s only months (okay, weeks) later, after having exhausted said  catalog that I pause and ask myself “am I attracted to this person?” As intelligent human beings, I think we’re too empirically driven to ignore the facts, too analytical not to look at the “on paper” stuff and predict how it will effect our future, but in the end, we just have to accept the frustratingly illogical nature of these things.

Wines, too, have an “on paper” identity that is hard to separate from our organoleptic experience. It’s a great vintage, it’s made with the same grapes as their premier cru bottlings—I have to like it! No, ya don’t. For me, Sauvignon Blanc is my good on paper guy. I’ve tried to make it work, I really have, but we just aren’t compatible. I love high-acid wines, and Sauvignon Blanc certainly fits the bill on that count. But somehow, it’s always too grassy, too startlingly acute in its expression of flavor, and simply too…un-subtle to be of interest to me. Facts are facts, but experience doesn’t lie.

A lot of things get better with age.

Men can be immature, irresponsible, commitment-phobes desperately clinging to their glory days as frat boys or highschool football stars; sometimes this is ameliorated by age, sometimes not. Old Burgundies can be magical, old vintage Champagne can be spine-tingling, and old Alsatian whites can surprise you with how little they resemble their former selves. Just remember, once wines have peaked, they go downhill—fast. There’s a reason you won’t find me knocking on Hugh Hefner’s door anytime soon, and it’s not just because I’d need a lobotomy and a boob job just to make it past the gate.

When it comes to wines, some are meant to be drunk young. If your bottle’s got a screw cap, that’s a pretty sure sign that it falls into this category. How do you know what wines will age well? High tannin, high acid, high alcohol, and high sugar content are all preservatives, and often indicators of a wine you can sit on for at least a few years. Think about Barolo (tannin) and Reisling (acid, and sometimes sugar), or, one of my personal favorites, Sauternes. Drinking old Sauternes is a rite of passage for every serious wine lover, and is, under the best of circumstances, an unforgettable experience. They can go for decades—this 1990 was a baby, but still incredibly complex. When a balance is struck between bracing acid and dulcet, honeyed fruit, this wine has the power to send my taste buds into a rhapsodic, toe-curling frenzy. Who needs a man now?

A foreign accent never hurts.

We’ve all been there: at first glance, he’s nothing special, but then he pulls out a ‘Ciao, bella’ or ‘Ahoy, mate’ and there’s no turning back. Beyond the accent, there’s a certain old-school charm that European men have; sometimes this manifests itself as a subtle, refreshing attitude wherein women are unfailingly respected, checks are picked up without question, and style means more than turning a baseball cap around. Other times, it means he’s a greasy, sexist mama’s boy who spends more time on his hair than I do and still doesn’t look that great. Obviously, the former is preferable. I’m an unabashed old-world girl when it comes to wine. I’ll try an obscure varietal only found on a square meter of near-vertical cliffside in Croatia without batting an eyelash, but the day I pay for an oaky California Chardonnay is the day I sign up for that lobotomy. Or maybe the day after.

Take this Sardinian wine, for example. The island of Sardinia brings to mind sweeping Mediterranean coastlines, rocky, sun-baked cliffs—an exotic, titillating locale, to be sure. And Cannonau? It sounds like a duly exotic and intriguing grape to inhabit such a land, no? Well, it’s Grenache. It’s also delicious; this one had olive, earth, and crushed flowers with the sour cherry and mellow tannins characteristic of the thin-skinned grape. I liked it. Was I swayed by its foreign roots? Perhaps, but what’s in a name? At the end of the day, it’s still a Grenache, and Giuseppe’s still an accountant, he just has more gel in his hair.

Don’t covet someone else’s cellar.

Alanis Morissette bewailed the hardship of “meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife.” She called it ironic, I’d say it just plain sucks. And for every “there’s plenty of fish in the sea” you can throw at me, I’ve got a “why are all the good ones taken?” to counter. It can be discouraging, but while I’m no fatalist, I have to believe that if you’re meant to be with someone, you’ll make it happen—that’s very different from saying it will happen, mind you. It also sucks to watch the diners at the next table sip a wine you can’t afford, or realize that all the bottles of a certain vintage have already been sold. But being deprived of what you think you want can often lead to pleasant surprises. Plus, people…resell things (read: divorce, breakups) all the time—our tastes change as we grow, and wines change as they sit in the cellar. Nothing is forever.

Money isn’t everything.

Marrying an incredibly wealthy man would make life easier—that goes without saying. I like having my dinner paid for, I like the finer things in life, and I’m not ashamed to say that I might even want a big rock on my finger someday (although at this point in my life, I’d settle for not having to choose between gas and toilet paper). These things do not, however, make me shallow or a gold-digger. In a perfect world I’d also have 20-20 vision and be naturally hairless from the neck down, but you won’t see me taking any drastic measures to those ends, or even shaving every day, for that matter. I’ve dated poor men, unemployed men, and even homeless men (not like living-in-a-cardboard-box homeless—I’ve yet to get that desperate), and the fervor of my emotions has never been directly proportional to their financial standings.

Similarly, the quality of a wine is not dictated by its price tag. There are some amazing wines out there for less money than you’d think, and, believe it or not, there are some very pricey, highly sought–after wines that are not all that impressive. Sometimes they’re riding on the laurels of a well-known producer or the favorable opinion of a particularly high-profile reviewer, sometimes they’re just not your taste, but either way, don’t buy into the myth that money makes better wines. Yes, the best wines in the world have price tags that dwarf my monthly salary, and they’re worth it. But it’s no surprise when an expensive wine is good; it’s much more satisfying to find a diamond (for-the-price-of-a-cubic-zirconia) in the rough.

Three words for you: ten dollar Garnacha. A few more words: blackberry, pomegranate, sandalwood, mandarin oranges, fresh raspberries and strawberries…and again, ten dollars.

Don’t be fooled by appearances—some of the best things come in very…odd packages.

I have a friend who is the perfect partner for going out and picking up guys, the reason being our completely antipodal tastes in men.  She loves a pastel oxford—collar popped, of course—and Croakies, whereas for me, few things are more repellent than khakis on a man, but if he’s got a full sleeve of tats and a shaved head, I’m all over it. That being said, I haven’t a clue what manner of gentleman will finally steal my heart. He might very well be a topsider-wearing, polo-clad preppy with golden retriver in tow—there’s no accounting for attraction, and I’m keeping an open mind.

What this means when it comes to wine is that labels can be deceiving. Sometimes they look good but are in fact not, sometimes it’s the opposite. Some people are marketing geniuses, and know just how to package and sell their juice; marketing geniuses are not always vinicultural geniuses and vice versa. Case in point:

This label tells me that this wine is cheap crap. I hate the colors, I hate the font; it just looks pedestrian and mass produced. On the contrary, what’s inside is a playful new-world blend of Italian varietals like Tocai Friulano and Arneis with Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Blanc, and Chenin. It’s pretty cheap, but far from crap.

This wine I probably would’ve bought no matter what it was. Fortunately, I love Austrian reds, and it was a particularly tasty one, but I was influenced by the label. I mean, girls love butterflies.

Don’t be swayed by popular opinion.

Obviously, you care what your friends think, but at the end of the day, it’s your (love) life. There’s been times when I’ve sat opposite someone and found myself wondering “what will we look like together?”, “will he fit in with the gang?” (apparently my inner voice sounds like Joanie Cunningham), and “is he impressive enough to introduce to my family?”. I really shot myself in the foot on this last, since my first serious relationship was with a stellar, stand-up guy (there’s Joanie again…) who my parents adored (I think they tried to get him in the breakup), but they’ve made their choices, and so will I make mine. Sure, take your friends’ opinions into account, but if you like him and they don’t, fuck ‘em—they don’t have to date him. The wine lesson here is simple: drink what you like. If it happens to be White Zin (in which case you’re probably met with ridicule and derision every time you raise a glass, and let’s be honest, rightly so) then sip it proudly; different strokes, and god bless ya for finding what makes you happy.

Know your venue.

There are exceptions to everything, but odds are you won’t meet your next long-term partner during happy hour at Lucky’s. Similarly, if you’re eating at the Olive Garden (I don’t know why you would be, but it’s illustrative, so work with me), don’t go looking for Barolo. Just eat your breadsticks and shut up. Having given up on cruising bars for worthy suitors, I bound and gagged my pride and joined the online dating world. Being largely broke, I went with the free website, which is akin to shopping the bargain bins at Marshall’s: you have to sift through a lot of crap, and for every ten pairs of jeggings with painted-on pockets or blouses with sequined epaulets, there’s a Calvin Klein dress in your size that makes your ass look amazing. I’ve gone on a lot of first dates through this website; I’ve not gone on a lot of second ones, but it’s still a lot better than I’ve ever done in a bar. That being said, no matter the venue, I’m always on the lookout. When it comes to wine, the Olive Garden is an extreme example, but you get the idea. The other side of the coin is that there are some spectacular venues, with wines that you won’t find elsewhere.

I had never heard of Radikon before I tasted it at this very special restaurant with a very unique wine list, and it blew my mind. It’s made in Northern Italy from a not-particularly-notable grape (Ribolla Gialla), but it’s aged on the skins, like red wines usually are, which gives it a golden hue and a depth and nuance of flavor that I seldom encounter in white wines. I’ve never seen it on a list since.

In summation…

I will keep drinking wine, despite my budget, no matter my venue, and regardless of popular opinion. I will also keep dating, no matter how discouraging it can be and no matter how many dives into the bargain bin leave me empty handed. In the meantime, thank god I enjoy my own company, because I’m certainly not wasting more than one night on Mr. Obviously-wrong just so I don’t have to be alone. Similarly, I’m not going to drink two-buck Chuck every night just so I don’t go thirsty—I’d rather have a beer. But when that Grand Cru Burgundy from a good vintage finally comes knocking at my door, you can bet I’m going to get good and drunk.

On the upside, the weather was far more suited to standing around outside for hours than it had been the day before; unfortunately, a multitudinous crowd had gathered to do the same.

Even more unfortunate was the fact that I hadn’t gotten the memo about bringing coolers full of beer to the event. While unequivocal tourists peppered the crowd, the bulk of the line seemed to be comprised of Franklin veterans; Austin residents and transplants who had experienced the magic of the meat, deemed it worth the wait, and come back for more. Most people stood in clusters, talking and sipping cans of beer, while others had camp chairs pitched, coffees in hand, and papers unfurled. My timely arrival gave me a good view of the lengthening queue, and I looked on with no small feeling of superiority from my privileged position. While I hunkered down,  distractedly scanning the pages of my Cormac McCarthy novel, my appetite grew almost as fast as the line.

Finally in the door…

…we wound around the store, giddy with shared expectancy….

…until a glimpse of the man himself heralded the forthcoming meat. Aaron Franklin, who began slinging ‘cue from a food truck years before, still manages to chat with each customer, taking their order as he inquires about their day and general well-being.

I choose my meats, requesting my brisket fatty, and await the plate.

It’s a beautiful thing.

A masterpiece, really.

And with one bite, all is forgotten; the line, the wait, the crowd, yesterday’s frustration, it all melts away as your brain is taken over by pure sensation. The balance of smoke, sweet, fat, bark, and succulent, tender meat causes a visceral reaction; you have to restrain yourself as instinctive satiety is overpowered by taste buds, and each bite just makes you want the next one that much more. Brisket, spare ribs, pulled pork…I didn’t finish it all, but it was hard, and my mouth was angry at my stomach for the limitations it inflicted.

The slaw and obligatory white sandwich bread would only have taken up valuable space, so were duly ignored, and while adding sauce was gilding the lily, there were some seriously tasty condiments on offer. Notably, a mildly-spicy coffee barbecue sauce with bitter molasses notes and a blazingly hot, vinegary concoction.

As I took my leave, the hopeful and hungry still bided their time, hanging on to the chance of making it across the threshold before they scraped the bottom of the smoker.

Nothing makes your body crave wholesomeness and activity like a couple pounds of animal fat, and Austin happens to have resources for both.

Mecca, aka, the flagship Whole Foods. I wandered around inside, agape at all I laid eyes on, from a smoothie-making station to a veritable cornucopia of cheese. Best of all, a walk-through beer cooler about twice the size of my bedroom. I grabbed some fruit and a coconut water to rehydrate my sodium-addled insides, and tore myself away. If I’d had more time in Austin, I might have looked into purchasing some real estate and pitching a tent in the store, perhaps a nice aisle six-adjacent plot, with ready access to the bulk bins and a five to ten seconds trek to the wine-tasting station.

I walked across the bridge and into Zilker Park, where joggers lapped me as I  made my way along the perimeter of Town Lake until I reached the canoe rentals.

I handed over my driver’s license and signed a waiver (a process only marginally easier than my gun rental the previous day) before dragging my little yellow kayak into the water and shoving off.

It took me a few strokes to catch on to the maneuvering of the thing…

…and a little longer to realize that my ass was in the completely wrong part of the boat, causing every oar stroke to shower more water over my legs, but the weather was perfect, the view amazing, and the feeling of propelling myself smoothly over the water absolutely invigorating.

It was warm enough for a tank top, and the sun on my shoulders felt glorious—in February, no less! Why do I live in Boston?

One last shot for posterity, and I started the trek back downtown, slightly encumbered by the newly added weight of my soaking wet jeans.

A sight along the way. (No Barbies were harmed in the making of this car, but they were really, really humiliated.)

After changing into some dry duds, I headed towards my pre-dinner cocktail destination; luckily, it was only a few blocks away.

The Driskill Hotel is something of an Austin institution, and quite impressive from inside and out.

It’s a bit too stodgy and “old money”—not quite my taste, but very Texas.

And they make a good, solid gin martini.

My dinner plans took me across town, so I grabbed a cab and rode to Uchiko. Advertised as “Japanese farmhouse dining,” Uchiko is the sister restaurant to Tyson Cole’s Uchi. Cole and recent Top Chef winner Paul Qui helm the kitchen, and having devoured Qui’s street-food creations a few days before (see day 2), I was eager to experience his offerings in the fine-dining sector.

I was seated at the sushi bar, as requested, and began with a glass of Lucien Albrecht “Cuvée Balthazar” Pinot Blanc from Alsace. The menu was intriguing; I wanted to try each and every item, and, as usual, my compulsion not to miss out on anything led to a painful period of irresolution.

I couldn’t try it all, but I would do my best, and much to my bemused pleasure, the couple sitting to my right would play an integral role in this endeavor. Their overtly stereotypical Texan nature—she was blonde with cowboy boots, he was the scout for the Dallas Cowboys, together they went through 4 bottles of Duckhorn Merlot…’nuff said—was off-putting at first, and while I didn’t see us becoming bosom buddies, they also epitomized southern hospitality by insisting that I taste every dish they were served. Based on their wine consumption, you can get an idea of exactly how many dishes that was. Needless to say, I ate my way through a decent chunk of the menu. My personal selections follow.

Yokai berry; raw atlantic salmon, crispy dinosaur kale, fried red quinoa, Asian pear, and blueberries. A skeptic of overly-sensational  culinary combinations (often at the expense of logic), I was wary of this dish, but it was much simpler than its description suggests. A beautiful balance of earthy and sweet, briny and fruity, with the distinctly exotic yet familiar flavor of yuzu present throughout.

Crispy Brussels sprouts with lemon and chili. Very simple and yet so complex….these things are like cruciferous crack.

A small sampling of sashimi (with a side of alliteration, apparently).

From the left, madai (Japanese sea bream, shiso, meyer lemon zest, olive oil), sake toro (Atlantic salmon belly, ginger, tamari), and  hamachi (Japanese yellowtail, pickled green apple, jalapeño).

Some nigori sake to go with the fish.

The next dish I ordered was something I had read about in Food & Wine as one of Dana Cowen’s top 10 restaurant dishes of 2011, and it was called jar jar duck.

The jar is placed in front of you and popped open, releasing the rosemary smoke contained within (which, according to my new blonde pal, smelled just like a Catholic church). When the smoke clears, a trifecta of duck (seared breast, smoked confit, and crispy skin) waits beneath. You mix it all up with your chopsticks, letting the succulent meat mingle with pickled endive, candied kumquat confit, and bourbon-maple jus.

Decadent, whimsical…I’m not familiar with the olfactory qualities of the Catholic church, but this was damn near a religious experience.

A glass of 2009 Artazuri Garnacha from Navarra paired well with the heady dish.

I was enjoying the show, and I certainly didn’t want to stop eating, so I ordered up a few more pieces of sashimi…

…hotate (raw diver scallop, spicy sauce, avocado), and…

…gyutan (grilled beef tongue, yuzu kosho).

Is it a cubist’s 3D rendering of Big Bird laying an egg? Nope, it’s my dessert. Sweet corn sorbet, polenta custard, lemon gel, corn “soil,” and popcorn salt. Bizarre, but the flavors were stellar; it tasted as impressive as it looked, maybe more.

And a glass of late harvest Royal Tokaji was the perfect complement.

Aside from the company, it was a decidedly un-Texan note to end my trip on. As with the rest of my stay in the state’s capital, it was eclectic, exciting, surprising, and delicious; I guess what they say is true—it’s not Texas, it’s Austin.

My first stop was Progress Coffee to fuel up. Very chill, slightly edgy, vibe, lots of studiers with laptops and spandex-clad joggers stopping in before their pre-marathon practice runs (little had I known when I booked my trip that the Austin marathon was that Sunday—so much for avoiding the masses).

A soy latte and an apple, and I was off and running. Okay,  fast walking—after all, I was no marathoner.

I knew I would be remiss in my Texan explorations if I didn’t eat some barbecue, and I knew from multiple sources that the best ‘cue to be had in Austin proper was at Franklin. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one in on this information: folks start lining up at Franklin around 9:30 am, and the place opens at 11:30. Don’t make it to the door before they run out of fatty brisket and succulent pulled pork? Too bad. All you can do is look on as happy customers file past, stuffed like ticks, wiping grease from their chins, and carrying home pounds of the stuff to enjoy later. That’s right, there’s no limit—once you get over the threshold, it’s first come first serve, and if you can pay for it and carry it, it’s yours.

Like the thorough and frugal tourist that I am, I google mapped my destination, jotted down a route, and set off for a three mile trek along a very un-picturesque stretch of I-35. Long story short, when I arrived at the given address, I found a deserted building, an empty parking lot, and a lone food truck out back. I approached the the truck and inquired, to which the hipster behind the window responded that Franklin had indeed inhabited the lot before moving to a brick-and-mortar joint elsewhere. Where? He wasn’t sure, but was I interested in some vegan Indian food? Not nearly as keen as I was to gnaw on a pork rib, but I was hungry.

I happily accepted a free sample of lentil-flour fritters with smoked tomato raita while he looked up the new location on his iPhone. Two miles back in the direction I had just come from, apparently. Thanks, google; your employees ride around on Segways and have designated nap rooms, but you can’t update a damn map every couple months?

Knowing that I’d never make it before the line reached astronomical proportions, I resolved to postpone the meat fest until the next day. It was Saturday, and I had another option up my sleeve—a successful traveler must be adaptable, after all.

An about face put me in range of El Milagro tortilla factory, the warm, clean, distinctively-corny aroma of which was so intense you could practically see it.

After retracing my steps along the muddy highway shoulder, I made my way downtown, with a detour around the capitol building.

There’s a farmer’s market every Saturday on the corner of 4th and Guadalupe; this was my plan B.

It was small, but very eclectic and bustling. College students who were either getting an early start on today’s partying, or still coming down off of last night’s, a handful of tourists, young, hippie couples with reusable shopping bags full of kale and tie-dyed baby slings full of pudgy toddler, and an abundance of sporty dog owners with their canine counterparts.

I browsed, tasted, bought some hickory-smoked Texas pecans from a man who looked like an old-timey prospector from Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, and after browsing some more, decided it was time for a proper breakfast/brunch/post-highway-walking snack…who needs labels—I was hungry.

In my research, I had heard of this place called Dai Due. They have a supper club, which, sadly, had no events while I was in town, a butcher shop, and (you see where I’m going with this?) a stand at the farmer’s market. As evidenced by the signs slapped on the blackboard, it’s a popular stop at the market, but I was after a breakfast taco, and they weren’t sold out of those.

A simple egg and bacon taco, dressed up with scallions and fresh herbs and served on none other than El Milagro tortillas. Beautiful and delicious.

To go with my taco, a Cafe a la Olla: boiled Mexican coffee with sorghum syrup, brown sugar, anise seed, and cinnamon. A bracingly bitter, slightly sweet, and utterly unique take on a cup of joe.

After wandering around a bit more, I was ready for round two…

A chicken mole tamale and some fresh ginger kombucha straight from the tap.

A steaming, husk-wrapped parcel of tender, sweet, masa dough filled with juicy, deeply-spiced shredded chicken. A fiery sauce to top it off, and I was replete.

If I told you that I’d gone to Texas with fantasies of shooting a gun, you’d probably accuse me of having an unfairly stereotypical vision of the Lone Star state. But if I told you how easy it was for me to fulfill that dream, you’d probably shut up. Along with one of my new mates from my first night in Austin, I set out for Red’s Indoor Range. A multitude of others with similar aspirations milled around the firearm-filled room, and watched through a plexiglass window as shooters, both young and old, male and female, pro and naïf, popped off rounds. When our turn came up, we needed only turn over a driver’s license (not both of ours mind you, just one) and check a couple boxes confirming that we were not felons before being handed a 9mm Beretta and a couple boxes of ammo. After donning earmuffs and safety goggles (which made me feel less like a badass and more like I was in 8th grade chemistry class), we took possession of our lane, learned how to load the gun (much like filling a Pez dispenser…a very deadly Pez dispenser), and began to shoot. It would be an understatement to tell you that I enjoyed it.

And it wasn’t in a psychopathic, closeted serial-killer, picturing-someone’s-face-on-the-target sort of way, it just felt powerful, substantial, adrenaline-pumping, and, yes, badass. It also felt like I was going to go deaf if I spent much more time in there, so after every last bullet had been loaded and shot, we handed over the gun and took our leave, ears ringing.

Not too shabby for a couple of beginners, ay?

After driving back into the city, I had plans to meet up for a drink at the very hip, boutiquey Hotel San Jose. Sadly, their bar does not open until five. A bit discriminatory if you ask me—what’s wrong with an afternoon cocktail, anyway?

I wandered through the courtyards anyway, thinking how lovely it must be when the sun is shining.

With cocktail plans dashed, I settled for the next best thing…

Home Slice, an Austin pizza fixture, was right across the street, and since I was living dangerously, I threw lactose-intolerant caution to the wind and ordered a slice.

Spinach, ricotta, and parmesan. Crackly crust, overall serviceable pizza, but extremely satisfying in the moment.

And since the potential damage had already been done, I stopped at Amy’s.

Thirsty Goat, an ice cream flavored with a local beer from Thirsty Planet Brewing Company. I made the SoCo rounds again, picturing my life in one of the little craftsman-style houses lining the side streets, walking my dog to Jo’s every morning for a soy latte. I shopped the boutiques, buying an adorable blouse that totally brings out my eyes, and yet another hoodie I don’t need (they’re so comfy!), before meandering back across the bridge (getting thoroughly soaked by a passing truck) and back to my hotel to refresh.

My first stop was Haddington’s, a gastropub-style joint that I had come across in my research and was intrigued by, but not enamored enough to devote a meal to.

A duck-fat sazerac earned them serious props; a good riff on a classic, with the unctuous, almost peanut-buttery flavors infused into the rye, cut by the herbal Absinthe and bitters.

On to Contigo, where I was meeting another new friend for some bites.

And some sips, of course: The Texecutioner, a mix of smokey mezcal, licoricey, honeyed, D’Aristi Xtabentun, Cocchi Americano, and grapefruit.

A new use for antlers; love these beer taps.

An ox-tongue slider to begin, with arugula, pickled green tomato, and Dijon.

A luscious little morsel of chicken thigh with soy glaze, crispy skin, and a simple slaw.

Porchetta di testa; a fatty, unsmoked cured meat made from the pig’s face and served with more pickled green tomatoes.

For the veggie portion of the meal, baby beets and potatoes with arugula, parmesan, caraway, and dill.

Perhaps a bit more animal fat? Pork liver pâté with eggplant fritters and honey.

And since everyone knows dessert wouldn’t be dessert without a pork product of its own, s’mores with house made graham crackers, chocolate ganache, and sweetened whipped lardo in place of the marshmallow. So wrong, yet so hard to resist. A few bites were definitely sufficient; it was a study in indulgence—playful and innocent, yet artery clogging…

Hunger slaked and then some, we moved on to the musical portion of the evening. We checked out The White Horse for some  Austin flare, honky-tonk style, and sipped 509 beers from Iron Horse Brewery while watching a band play in the corner and some local characters two-step around the floor.

Later, on to The Elephant Room, a dimly-lit basement bar with live jazz. I was rapt; watching the horn player bend and lean with each note, long and short, the taught strings of the base plucked by fingers that might have been rubber, and the piano man as he bent over, inches from the keys, and played with such delicacy and soul. We stayed until closing, and it was another late night, but such is the price of exhaustive explorations—a pretty fair price, I might add.