Crumbs

After spending a few months in Spain, numerous weekends country hopping, and days exploring new and exciting cuisines, I am recognizing that my days in Madrid are dwindling. In an attempt to savor the semester I've begun gathering the crumbs of my lessons and experiences in the hopes of piecing together a morsel to nibble back in the States. 

I arrived with no knowledge of Spain, it’s culture or even who I would be living with for that matter. Going in blind didn’t bother me because I knew the experience would push me out of my comfort zone. Like any dive I’ve taken in my life, it was deep. (Actually, I still prefer the ladder method and just thinking of the high dive makes my hands clammy, so maybe that’s a poor analogy…)

The first lesson I learned here is that Spaniards are goofballs. They can be dramatic one moment, curious the next and are always passionate about the food on their plates.

I have adored their beautiful and sometimes stubborn appreciation for culinary traditions. Watching the manner in which they eat, relishing not only each bite but also the atmosphere and company surrounding them, has realigned my perspective of food.

Coming from a strong restaurant background, I have often been guilty of willing tables to hurry with dragging courses. It’s instinct for me to think more of the entrees dying in the pass rather than the leisurely pace of the diners. Spain has taught me the art of lingering. Such importance lies in the indulgence of a meal, and that cannot be fulfilled without the social aspect.

With my roommates I’ve shared about hundred dinners, and they’ve provided me with my second lesson this semester. Like true Spaniards, we’ve sat at our table long after dropping our forks each night. As our favorite form of procrastination and arguable the best part of the day, we’ve all grown so fond of our seats around the table. The thought of the last meal we will share is heart wrenching. 

Having to face the reality I leave in a week, the long litany of “lasts” has inevitably begun. Good-bye will be bittersweet, but I have one last lesson to comfort me.

In food there’s the power to reconnect. I know if I can take my nibble of Europe back then I can revisit the experiences, memories and people of the semester. It would be impossible to taste paella, a crepe or a sip of cold Hofbräu and not be whisked back to my home in Madrid, standing at the foot of the Eiffel Tower or sitting on the beer house benches at Oktoberfest.  

And even though it’s only a bite, I know I will bask in the flavor for a lifetime.  

All Trussed Up

This Thanksgiving I gained a whole new appreciation for the bird of the hour. While this was not my first Thanksgiving away from home, it was the only where I wasn’t cooking. Not preparing a single item left me feeling like a trussed turkey, hands helplessly tied.

Thanksgiving is MY holiday! Even when I was little, my Mom would let me skip school on Wednesday just so I could help her in the kitchen as she made her famous pecan pie, mountains of sides and gorgeous turkey. I adore Thanksgiving because you get to A) cook a feast using delicious autumn ingredients, B) share the meal with those you love most and finally C) it officially kicks off the Christmas season.

The 2011 Rippinger spread for Thanksgiving

And so I’ll admit, I was a little sulky coming home from class and seeing my Señora bustling about in the kitchen. I would have hopped right in with her, but the liability issues of the university prohibit students from cooking in the homes. Lord knows I could cause a lot of damage if put near a stove and given a knife…

Walking away from a huffing-and-puffing Señora, I had a change of heart. I can’t even imagine the pressure of cooking Thanksgiving for seven American girls. We all were looking for a slice of home, and that is a tremendously tall order to fill.

Sitting down for dinner, the spread didn’t look or smell like an American meal. There was no sage-laced stuffing, no bright bowl of cranberries and definitely no green bean casserole.

Our meal began with an eclectic array of tapas that included pate, two potato dishes (one with an aioli and the other with a tomato sauce), pickles and olives. I know mayonnaise and potatoes sounds more like the 4th of July , but the pickles actually hit the spot!

Then the turkey made its debut.

It definitely was not a Better Homes & Gardens moment. On our plates we had a turkey breast roulade with gravy and mashed sweet potatoes. Interesting is probably the best word I can use to describe the turkey, which was stuffed with some kind of meat and other “goodies.” Playing culinary detective, I definitely found figs and raisins but those didn’t compare to the bite that revealed a quail egg. Who knew, Thanksgiving could be an Easter egg hunt too?!

Not a great photo, but you get the idea. 

We ended the meal with a delicious chocolate torte, and all of us felt just as full as in America. Even though it was nowhere near the classic interpretation of the holiday, my Spanish Thanksgiving left me feeling very blessed. Sure it was a bit of a weird meal, but my Señora could have easily coped-out and done a paella. Instead she took on the challenge of turkey, and even though it was a unique rendition, it was filled with love (and eggs…)

Running with a Pilgrims, Indians and America theme, we decided to do some arts and crafts before dinner.

I couldn’t possibly feel sorry for myself when I have so many things to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. I have my loving family, supportive friends and the ample opportunities that have come to fruition in this incredible year. I don’t know if I will ever spend another Thanksgiving in Madrid, but the experience is one I will remember forever.

An Old Soul

A few summers ago a close family friend called me an “old soul.” At the time I thought she was just calling me out for my mature habits (eating oatmeal for breakfast, a love for early rounds of golf in the summer and an appreciation for a smooth single malt scotch…okay, maybe I am an old fart!). Regardless, I wasn’t really sure what to make of the comment.

While backpacking through Northern Italy with friends this weekend the “old soul” reference echoed in my head, but I think I finally found a sufficient interpretation. I’m not an old man, but rather, a Tuscan.

Besides rolling off the tongue much better, this term encapsulates all the things I loved about the food I experienced, beginning with a beautiful pesto in the coastal city of Genoa.

Ducking into a restaurant to find shelter from hounding winds and spitting rain, we were relieved to indulge in our first bite of Italy. I ordered the pasta alla Genovese, having learned on the flight from Rick Steves' guidebook that Genoa was in fact the birthplace of pesto.

Dear old Rick could not have made a better suggestion.

The el dente linguini twirled into a tight coil on my fork with flecks of verdant basil clinging to each strand. There was certainly nothing flashy about the dish, but that's what made it so extraordinary - just a few well-respected ingredients together in a classic combination.  

Oh, delicious pesto! 

Besides being known for pesto, Genoa is also famous for focaccia - a flat-oven Italian bread that's a perfect canvas to highlight olive oil from the region. Focaccia alla Genovese is uncomplicated, but the end result is a soft bread well seasoned with salt, dried basil and a healthy drizzle of olive oil.

By far the favorite afternoon snack of the trip.

After a quick stop in Pisa for a photo op with the Leaning Tower, we made it to Florence in time to visit a gelateria before it closed for the night. After much debating and a few samples, walnut and caramel were the final cuts for my cone and neither disappointed. The first scoop had all the depth I love from toasted walnuts and was complemented by the decadence of the caramel. Licking away while sitting in front of the illuminated Duomo was a phenomenal welcome to Florence.

Gorgeous gelato

Besides delicious gelato, Florence also provided an incredible breakfast and lunch. In the morning we started our day off at the Mercato Centrale, where amongst the vendors we found a man serving up tripe sandwiches. Okay, so I know not everyone gets excited about eating a cow’s stomach lining for breakfast, but I swear if you were blindfolded you'd think it was the most succulent shaved rib-eye! It was moist, tender and topped with a spicy pepper sauce that provided a vibrant pop of flavor.

The newest breakfast of champions, tripe. 

Lunch was a little less bizarre, but equally satisfying. Numerous of our friends told us that we couldn’t leave Florence without a trip to Gusta’s for their wood-oven pizza.

Pizza de Napoli

I love a good pizza so I feel obligated to admit that this wasn’t the best pie of my life (that still goes to Regina Pizzeria in Boston or Good Pie in STL), but I have certainly never eaten a more aesthetically pleasing lunch. Leaning on the wall overlooking the Arno River, we picnicked with our pizza and a bottle of wine. No dining room in Florence could have matched the beautiful scene laid out before us.

The most perfect picnic.

So there you have it, I’m an old soul who adores simplicity, authenticity and balance. If those characteristics are good enough to be the foundation of the Tuscan cuisine I tasted, they’re a good enough description for me. 

No**algia In Paris

For two years the chefs at The Culinary Institute of America harped at me the importance of knowing the classic French foundations. This meant that words like “mise en place”, “au sec”, and “chiffonade” were all vital parts of my everyday vernacular. At the time, it sometimes seemed silly to use such particular and old-fashioned language, yet the school insisted upon following in the ways of the traditional French chefs.

I graduated almost two years ago, but this past weekend I finally fully appreciated the French foundations of my alma mater.

In Paris every corner I turned displayed of the techniques and terms I spent so long learning. Confits, gastriques, and braises were found chalked on every menu board I passed, reminding me of the long hours spent in the kitchens of Roth Hall. It was the paradise that a true gourmand could appreciate knowing the rich history and culture that surrounded the food.

In between seeing the breathtaking sights of Paris I had some incredible food, which included the most decadent hot chocolate of my life, a perfect crepe, and a surprising Caribbean lunch at a Sunday market.

Such decadent hot chocolate at Angelina's 

A nutella crepe at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, what more could you ask for?

While these were all wonderful, the true epicurean delight of the trip was the opportunity to utilize those French techniques of The Culinary by actually cooking.

After an afternoon espresso with my roommate, (which was a Parisian experience in itself) we shopped in the neighborhood around our hostel for our dinner. First stop was the boulangerie where we picked up two baguettes. Next we crossed the street to get some fresh produce at a grocer before grabbing some cheese, chicken, and foie gras on the corner. Lastly, we picked up a few bottles of Bordeaux and Beaujolais to enjoy with our meal.

Granted, it was a hostel kitchen which meant wrestling to dice a sweet potato with a butter knife, but it felt great to cook nonetheless. The meal had a quick salad topped with fruit (grapes and orangas), toasted walnuts, seared foie gras and a balsamic vinaigrette. There was also sauteed chicken, a side of fresh vegetables, and torn off hunks of chewy baguette with fromage.

Nostalgia filled me as I shared this meal with my roommates because I remembered learning all of the different techniques I used for the dinner at The Culinary. Somehow, I appreciated knowing the proper way to sear foie gras or to emulsify a vinaigrette even more in Paris. Perhaps it was the culinary capital sweeping me up in it’s magic, but every aspect of cooking that meal (even cursing the crummy sauté pan for being bent and uneven) felt pure.

I’ve always been a proud graduate of The Culinary Institute of America, but now thanks to Paris I truly understand the importance of the French culinary education I received.

Bad Has Never Tasted Better

Illegal pastries.

Get your minds out of the gutter! I wasn’t in Amsterdam this weekend, I was just eating delicious bakery treats that happened to be criminal on the streets of Lisbon!

I place complete blame on our tour guide, Bruno of “We Hate Tourism Tours”, for inspiring 6 girls to break the law in the name of sugar. It all began as he whipped us around the steep streets of his hometown in a convertible Jeep. Besides giving us a truly local perspective of the city, Bruno also gave us the inside foodie scoop for the weekend.

Bruno!

His first “must eat” took us to the neighborhood of Belém (literally, he drove us there after the typical end of the tour because he was just that nice!) Here, Bruno dropped us off at the best spot for pastéis de Belém, the bakery treat we just couldn’t leave Lisbon without tasting. Taking our little cream pies to go, we sat down in the adjoining park to see what all the fuss was about in Belém.

¡Joder! The Portuguese know their pastries! Perfectly sweet, slightly warm custard cupped in a phyllo dough like shell that delicately flaked with each bite.

Pasteis de Belem

The wild success of Bruno’s first suggestion prompted a group decision to follow his advice for the rest of the weekend. After kebobs and plenty of delicious seafood, we were hunting a pastry that’s deemed “illegal” because of an ordinance prohibiting bakeries from operating past midnight in Lisbon.

Seafood lunch on the waterfront 

The gist of Bruno’s directions were to go to a street he pointed out on the tour, bar hop our way up, and at about 2 a.m sniff the air for the smell that could only come from fresh treats being pulled from an oven. He warned though that if the police were around the window would be closed, so some patience could be needed.

We tried the first night and failed, never being able to stumble upon the shop. Totally bummed, we saw Bruno the next day at the market and got better instructions. Determined, we hit the street again and found the unmarked window of the bakery open for business.

Money passed, brown bags were handed out, and we quickly found a spot to eat these incredibly worked up pastries.

Being bad has never been so sweet. We sat there passing gorgeous and delectable pastries back and forth, completely satisfied.

The bakery shop pumping out pastries 

One of the "illegal pastries"

Lisbon, you are beautiful, unpretentious, and delicious. Thanks for the great weekend, I’m heading to the gym now…

München

Born a Georgia peach and raised a Midwestern gal, I like to think I know a thing or two about hospitality and charm. After visiting Oktoberfest this weekend I’ve decided that the Germans take the cake when it comes to amenability, and they also have one of the best festivals for any foodie to drool over.

Inside the tents you’re forced to squeeze onto a bench next to complete strangers. A waitress (wearing the super cliché outfit and called a “beer wench”) comes over with twelve steins, six in each hand, and drops them on your table. After clinking glasses and bellowing “prost!” the strangers quickly become like your oldest friends.

Bier! 

Hofbräuhaus beer tent

Although we met people from all across Europe, the Germans were some of my favorite people to sit next to in the tents. Their pride for their culture was contagious, and always they were there to answer any questions we had about the different traditions of Oktoberfest. Curious about why the men wear lederhosen? I learned it was what the working class wore until the 19^th century when it became more of a costume representative of Bavarian culture.

See Mom and Dad, it was educational!

Not Germans, but great friends nonetheless! 

My new German friends also were quick to recommend some of the gastronomical specialties of Oktoberfest. Bratwursts, Wiener schnitzel, and strudels were amongst the favorites of the locales and all of them were delicious. The bratwurst was smeared with mustard, topped with sauerkraut, and had the natural casing that snapped perfectly with each bite. Dare I say it was better than those in Wisconsin? (sorry!) 

While the traditional foods were tremendous, my personal choice was not necessarily German. Rather, the best thing I ate at Oktoberfest was a whole roasted Mackerel that caught eyes of our group as we walked past to a beer tent. Immediately, we made plans to go back for lunch, a decision we definitely didn’t regret!

Salt, charcoal, and the sweetness of the sea were the only seasonings. It was some of the most pure seafood I’ve ever enjoyed and from an environment I would have never guessed.

the fish lined up over the charcoals

delicious!

I loved every moment I spent in Germany and would highly recommend experiencing Oktoberfest once in your lifetime. The Germans will welcome you with a cold stein of world-famous bier in one hand and a pillowy pretzel bigger than your head in the other! 

Oh Valencia!

If you were really craving a classic cheese steak, where would you go? How about deep dish pizza, or maybe authentic sourdough bread? Any American could easily rattle off Philly, Chicago, and San Francisco. Ask a Spaniard where to go for paella and instantly they’ll tell you to do yourself a favor and make the trip to Valencia.

Valencia y Espana

On the southeastern coast of Spain you’ll find sprawling beaches, gorgeous architectural feats, and a restaurant on every corner that offers the famous Spanish rice dish paella. Needless to say, my roommates and I took the advice of our señora and made the trip this weekend.

Top to bottom: The City Hall,  L'Hemisferic IMAX, and The Cathedral of Valencia

I got a tan, ate some terrific seafood, and saw some really spectacular things in the city. My only complaint was the paella. Maybe we hit a touristy place that just didn’t do the dish justice, but I think it’s because we had the bar set incredibly high by our host dad, Juan. A native Valencian, Juan was taught by his close chef friend how to properly cook the dish decades ago and is now a master himself.

Knowing a lesson in paella from a Valencian doesn’t happen everyday, I asked Juan if I could watch him in the kitchen. Being the sweetheart he is, he let me perch on a chair as he carefully prepared the paella.

So I settled into my Culinary Institute of America student ready pose (small notebook for notes in hand, iPhone ready for photos, and rehearsed Spanish questions ready for the asking) while Juan quite literally pulled out the heavy machinery to get the cooking underway. His paella (the term is also used for cooking pan) looks about as big as a large pizza, so maybe 20” in circumference. It wouldn’t fit on the stovetop so he actually had a separate paella burner to ensure even cooking. As he began heating the pan, Juan explained that his friend prefers to cook his paella over a wood fire, but that his would still be delicious because he’s “super, super good.”

The giant paella set up

Pouring a healthy amount of olive oil onto the paella, Juan then sprinkled salt around the edge to ensure the rice wouldn’t burn. He then seared off chicken legs and thighs to a perfect golden brown. Moving those to the outer rim, he quickly sautéed garlic, onion, sugar snap peas, and tomato. At this point he seasoned the pan with a generous amount of rosemary and pimentón, (a Spanish paprika that comes sweet, bittersweet, and hot) before adding a kilo of Bomba, the short-grained rice famous for authentic paella. The rice’s particularly high starch content is perfect for paella because it absorbs liquid without becoming oversaturated and mushy, just like arborrio rice for an Italian risotto.

Sautéing 

Once everything was seasoned and sautéed, Juan poured a saffron broth he had simmered all day with roasted chicken bones into the paella. The golden hues from the saffron and pimentón looked beautiful and smelled amazing as everything softly bubbled in the pan. Juan then covered the paella and we had to wait about 40 minutes until the rice was cooked and the prized crust along the bottom of the pan was formed.

Juan, breaking health code violations left and right, but making an unbelievable paella!

Patience was definitely a virtue, but it was completely worth the wait to feast on the paella that night. Watching Juan work in the kitchen was a culinary experience I’ll never forget, along with the taste of his perfect paella.  

So sorry Valencia, you were a beautiful vacation spot, but you’re paella had nothing on Juan’s!