Articles in Travel
Sicily is famous for its distinctive wines and native grape varieties, particularly those that grow on volcanic soils. Nerello Mascalese, today’s most talked-about Sicilian red grape, only flourishes on the slopes of Mount Etna, Italy’s largest active volcano. The lesser-known Malvasia delle Lipari grows instead on the volcanic Aeolian Islands, where it’s made into a delicious and unique dessert wine that also goes wonderfully with cheese.
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Malvasia delle Lipari Passito DOC is made from sun-dried grapes in several versions, from very sweet to drier. It offers orange and floral notes, toasted nuts and rich apricots to the nose and, at its best, enough acidity in the mouth to balance the sweetness and keep it lively and long. The volcanic soils often confer exciting, salty minerality.
The Aeolians are the archipelago that sits between Italy’s “toe” in Calabria and Sicily’s northeastern corner. You reach them by ferry from Messina. The cluster of eight small islands, known as Isole Eolie in Italian, was named for Eolo, the god of wind in Greek mythology. No wonder: The Aeolians are subjected to winds from all sides. The islanders’ rudimentary lifestyle of fishing and agriculture was dramatically captured in “Stromboli,” Roberto Rossellini’s 1950 black-and-white film starring Ingrid Bergman. It was set on the island of Stromboli, another of Italy’s three active volcanoes.
Islands at a crossroads of culture
Contemporary vine-growing takes place mostly on two of the other islands, Lipari and Salina, but the archipelago has long been linked to wine, as professor Attilio Scienza, Italy’s foremost viticultural historian explains:
“These islands played an important role in the history of wine. As Phoenician and ancient Greek ships traveled the Mediterranean, they stopped off here to stock up on food and this allowed for important cultural exchanges.”
Scienza was speaking at Sicilia en Primeur, the itinerant Sicilian wine event that this year was held on the island of Vulcano.
“We know that grapes were grown and traded here: Grape seeds from 6,000 years ago have been found in archaelogical digs on Lipari. Later, in the 6th century, an unusual sweet wine became famous on the islands. It was made when very ripe, sun-dried grapes were heaped into a high mound whose weight naturally pressed the juice from the berries. This wine was known to keep — and therefore travel — well and its fame spread throughout the Mediterranean.”
The family of vines called Malvasia grows throughout the Mediterranean, but the Malvasia now found on the Aeolian islands has a DNA very close to that of the original Greek Malvasia. Despite facing extinction after the phylloxera attacks of the early 20th century, today Malvasia is being made in sweet and dry versions by a score of producers on the islands.
“Mediterranean peoples have a different, more cyclical, history than other Europeans,” Scienza says. “Life on these islands has hardly changed in 3,000 years. Today, this archaic, heroic viticulture can teach us a lot about how to make wine while maintaining the landscape sustainably.” Malvasia vines are often still grown as free-standing bushes, ad alberello, in steeply sloping vineyards. Their long roots reach deeply down; it rarely rains on these islands.
A much-favored vacation destination
The Aeolians offer some of the Mediterranean’s most sought-after holiday destinations, so if you want to explore their viticulture peacefully, it’s best to avoid the August crush. Winemakers have more time in spring and autumn to show their vineyards and organize tastings. Book your visit ahead, as these tiny estates are usually worked by the owners.
I recently visited seven top Malvasia producers, most of whom are situated on Salina. I made my base at Capofaro, the luxurious resort owned by the noble Tasca d’Almerita family whose historic estate, Regaleali, is located in central Sicily. The hotel is surrounded by vineyards, and you can enjoy their fine wines at Capofaro’s restaurant.
The name most often associated with Malvasia delle Lipari is Hauner‘s, who was the first to revive this traditional wine. Carlo Hauner makes fine Malvasia in sweet and dry versions.
Like Hauner, Fenech and Nino Caravaglio are artisanal Malvasia producers who supplement their incomes with the other plant that loves these arid conditions, the caper bush. Their tiny, salted capers — the plant’s flower buds — are famous throughout Italy. You can sample and buy these producers’ delicious wines and capers from their small cellars. Barone di Villagrande is another enterprising estate on Salina that also makes native reds on Etna.
If you go to Vulcano island, make an appointment with Paola Lantieri to visit her lovely house and vineyard. She makes her passito from grapes sun-dried on the vine and on cane racks. The latest addition to the Aelioan wineries is Castellaro, a large, ambitious project on Lipari. Their state-of-the-art cellar and expanding vineyards promise well for these ancient islands’ continuing viticulture.
Main photo: Malvasia vineyards and bougainvillea at the Capofaro estate on Salina. Credit: Carla Capalbo
There is one big problem with Swiss wines: There is not enough to go around. There are just 15,000 hectares (about 37,000 acres) of vineyards spread over the whole country, and the Swiss drink most of their wines themselves, so that barely 1 percent of the country’s entire production reaches the export market. This means that the only way to really enjoy Swiss wine is to go there — but that is no hardship, as it is a breathtakingly beautiful country.
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The train ride from Geneva airport to Montreux sets the scene. The track follows the edge of Lake Geneva, and on the other side there are steep terraced vineyards, tiny plots with stone walls that form the myriad appellations of the Vaud (one of the Swiss cantons, or states). The whole area is protected as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
From Montreux, I ventured into the German-speaking part of Switzerland, with vineyards scattered all over the northeastern part of the country. They account for just 17 percent of the entire production of Switzerland. Visiting a small handful of wine growers, various themes become apparent. Not only is production tiny — the average wine grower can easily earn a living from 4 or 5 hectares (10 to 12 acres) — but it is also fragmented. Martin Donatsch, in the area of the Graubünden Herrschaft, is not unusual in making 14 different wines from 6 hectares (15 acres). While it is true that some of the wines are variations of the same grape variety, nonetheless the attention to detail is breathtaking.
Donatsch’s neighbor, Georg Fromm, in the village of Malans, follows the Burgundian pattern, making a village Pinot Noir that is a blend of grapes from different vineyards as well as four Pinot Noirs that draw from four distinct vineyards. And he has only 4.5 hectares. The differences were subtle but apparent, as there are slight variations in the soil as well as the vinification. (Fromm is also known for superlative Pinot Noir in New Zealand.)
Donatsch, whose father was the first to plant Chardonnay in the area and the first to age his Pinot Noir in barrels — he was given two Burgundian barrels by André Noblet of Domaine de la Romanée Conti — also follows the Burgundian pattern with the equivalent of a village, premier cru and grand cru wine. These indicate, in rising order, the quality of the terroir and thus the potential of the wine. In Donatsch’s case, the wines are called Tradition, Passion and Unique. Their style was understated, delicious and age-worthy.
With such tiny amounts, production costs are high — we were given a figure of 30,000 Swiss francs (about U.S. $31,000) per hectare, which could rise to as much as 50,000 francs (about $52,000) in particularly challenging hillside conditions, and so inevitably prices are high, but no higher than for a grand cru Burgundy. Donatsch’s wines range from about U.S. $21 for a bottle of Tradition to $57 for the Unique.
Although all the wine growers that we met grew a diverse range of local and international grapes, most agreed that Pinot Noir is the most successful grape variety of the region. For my taste buds, it really came into its own in the Graubünden Herrschaft, the four villages of which Malans in the center, where the warm prevailing wind, the föhn, helps ripen the grapes. The soil is mainly limestone, like Burgundy, and the grapes enjoy the large difference between day and nighttime temperatures, which makes for slower ripening and fresher flavors.
Local varietals at risk
In addition to the more international varieties, Switzerland is also home to a number of endangered varieties, which could be at risk of disappearing. Erich Meier at Uetikon, near Lake Zurich, is a keen exponent of Rauschling. There are 9 hectares (22 acres) of Rauschling in the area, 23 hectares (57 acres) altogether in the whole of Switzerland; Erich has just 40 ares (1 acre). He ferments half the grapes in oak and half in tank to make a rounded, fruity white wine with well-integrated oak and a lightly salty finish with good acidity.
Completer was another grape variety that I had never heard of, let alone tasted. This might be explained by the fact that 10 producers have just 3 hectares of it. Happily, the Donatsch family is planning to extend its vineyards of Completer so that its future can be more assured. Martin Donatsch explained how it has a very high acidity and that in the past it used to be aged for several years in wood to soften the acidity, thus making for a very oxidative style. He has opted for a fresher style, a late harvest wine, in which he leaves a little residual sugar. Again the föhn helps the ripening process, by shriveling the grapes, and for Donatsch it has everything that you want in a white wine, minerality, fruitiness, elegance and alcohol. I found it very intriguing, with dry honey and good acidity and again, well-integrated oak.
At lunchtime in the Donatsch family’s wine bar, Winzerstube zum Ochsen, we enjoyed the 2009 vintage of Completer from a magnum. It was simply delicious, and yet another example of the extraordinary diversity and originality of Switzerland.
Main photo: Martin Donatsch stirs the grapes at his family’s winery. Credit: Domaine Donatsch
A life-sized sculpture of a cow and a sign reading “Dine on our Swine” should have stopped me in my tracks, because I don’t eat beef or ham.
But one look at Industrial Eats’ menu, handwritten on large sheets of butcher paper hung from the walls, revealed I was in the right place.
Industrial Eats, a 1-year-old eatery in Buellton, Calif., has become a must-stop on my visits to the Santa Ynez wine region on California’s Central Coast. The cavernous restaurant furnished with family-style dining tables prides itself on its butchery skills. But for diners like me, there’s plenty of fish, fowl and local produce. The food is simple, straightforward and utterly delicious.
Pizzas are topped with such ingredients as smoked salmon, burrata, mascarpone, Calabrian chile, kabocha and chestnut. The Not Pizza section of the menu contains items such as wild mushrooms; black kale and black truffles; fall veggies with dates and brown sugar; Swiss chard and spinach in Vadouvan curry; and other poetically named dishes.
Simple cooking yields delicious meals at Industrial Eats
Everything at Industrial Eats gets cooked in the igloo-style wood-burning pizza ovens, and local wines as well as sandwiches and an array of cheeses are also served.
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“Cooking is way too fussy and food is too over-handled in most restaurants,” said chef/owner Jeff Olsson.
He describes his cooking style simply: “Ingredients go in a sauté pan with olive oil and spices, in the wood-burning oven and on the plate. It’s honest taste infused in our food.”
But is it really as simple as that?
It could be if we did all our cooking in wood-burning ovens. At Industrial Eats, that’s the mantra. You won’t find gas burners or pricey induction ranges here. Instead, ingredients are placed in an iron skillet that goes inside the pizza oven. Cooked in this simple, traditional style, the food tastes divine.
Olsson and his wife, Janet, met in New York 22 years ago. “I was washing dishes,” said Jeff, who moved up the ladder and worked as a chef in Washington, D.C., restaurants such as Red Sage and Nora, where Janet served as a manager.
Fifteen years ago, the Olssons opened New West catering, which they continue to operate in Buellton along with Industrial Eats.
A two-hour drive north of Los Angeles, Buellton is just off U.S. Highway101 near Solvang. The small town is best known for its ostrich farm, a string of auto dealers and Pea Soup Andersen’s Inn. The local barbecue hangout The Hitching Post II became a tourist haven after it was spotlighted in the award-winning 2004 film “Sideways.”
Although the film pumped up wine tourism in the region, Buellton remained a pass-through town for visitors. It lacked the wine-country charm of neighboring hamlets such as Los Olivos or Santa Ynez.
But not for long.
“Buellton has become gentrified in the last 15 years,” Olsson said. Prohibitive real estate prices and saturation in Los Olivos and Solvang drove people — including the Olssons — to rediscover Buellton. In the past few years, industrial spaces have morphed into cafes, eateries and wine-tasting centers. A distillery is soon to open near Industrial Eats, and the noted Alma Rosa Winery’s tasting room is also nearby.
Industrial Eats, though, is known for its butchery. “We do whole animals from Central Coast and Santa Ynez Valley,” said Jeff, who also offers hog-butchering classes at the restaurant. Fresh preserves, patès and handmade bacon are some of the specialties.
“I stay local as much as I can,” he said, noting, though, that meats such as wild boar and antelope are sourced from Broken Arrow Ranch in southwest Texas.
Next time you’re driving Highway 101, stop in downtown Buellton to savor the local flavors at my all-time favorite spot. Meanwhile, you can re-create these wintry Industrial Eats recipes at home during the holiday season.
Crispy Confit of Duck With du Puy Lentils
Prep time: 15 minutes, plus overnight for marinating
Cook time: 5 1/2 hours
Total time: About 6 hours, plus marinating time for the duck.
Yield: 6 servings
For the confit of duck:
6 duck legs (you can, in a pinch, use chicken as well)
2 cloves garlic, peeled and sliced
4 shallots, peeled and sliced
2 sticks Mexican canella
4 ounces dried cherries, roughly chopped
4 sprigs sage
Zest of one orange
Kosher salt to taste
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
2 pounds duck fat (available at fine grocers or Hudson Valley Foie Gras)
For the lentils:
1 shallot, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 carrot, diced small
1 bulb fennel, diced small
1 knob butter
2 cups duck stock
2 cups du Puy lentils
For the confit of duck:
1. Place the duck legs into a large ziplock bag with garlic, shallot, canella, cherries, sage, zest, salt and pepper. Let marinate overnight in the refrigerator.
2. The next day, preheat the oven to 225 F. In a large pot or Dutch oven, melt the duck fat over medium heat.
3. Carefully empty contents of ziplock bag into that fat, ensuring the duck legs are fully submerged.
4. Cook in the oven for 3 to 5 hours, until meat is tender and falling from the bone.
5. Remove from oven and allow to cool slightly.
6. Carefully remove duck legs from fat and allow to drain.
7. Preheat 8-inch skillet over medium heat. Place duck legs, two at a time, in the skillet and fry until crisp and brown, about 4 minutes per side.
For the lentils:
1. Sauté the shallot, garlic, carrot and fennel in butter till slightly caramelized.
2. Add the stock and lentils and bring to a boil.
3. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook until lentils are tender, about 30 minutes
Note: Serve the duck legs atop the lentils.
Fall Veggies With Dates and Ginger
Prep time: 15 minutes
Cook time: 20 minutes
Total time: 35 minutes
Yield: 6 servings
2 parsnips, peeled and cut into bite-size pieces
2 celery roots, peeled and cut into bite-size pieces
1 butternut squash, peeled, seeded and cut into bite-size pieces
1 kabocha squash, not peeled, but seeded and cut into 1/2-inch wedges
1 pound baby Japanese sweet potatoes, not peeled, cut into bite-size pieces
4 shallots, julienned
1 clove garlic, sliced
1/4 cup olive oil
Salt to taste
1 cup Medjool dates
1 piece of ginger, peeled and julienned as finely as you can
1. Preheat oven to 450 F.
2. In a large bowl, toss the vegetables with the olive oil and season with salt to taste.
3. Spread the vegetables in a single layer on a cookie sheet and place in the preheated oven for about 15 minutes or until soft and golden brown.
4. Remove from oven and toss with dates and ginger.
5. Place back in oven for 5 more minutes.
Note: This can be served as a side dish with Crispy Confit of Duck With du Puy Lentils.
Main photo: Crispy Confit of Duck With du Puy Lentils from Industrial Eats. Credit: Mira Honeycutt
Chenin Blanc is like the name of a woman you met at a club a couple of years ago: It rings a bell, but you can’t remember much else. That’s been a problem for wine producers around the world for most of the past century. The white grape delivers a big crop but usually makes for a pretty average wine, be it from California’s Central Valley or South Africa.
Chenin Blanc is native to France’s Loire Valley, where vintners in Anjou and Touraine still regard it with the glowing eye of a proud parent, probably because they understand its heart of gold and true potential. When you raise it in the disciplinary schist and limestone soils of the Loire, you get a respectable wine, something with breeding and class. It can even age extraordinarily well.
What’s more, Chenin Blanc is a remarkably flexible grape that knows how to party. It becomes a great dry or off-dry white in Vouvray, a long-lived dry white in the tough schist soils of Savennières and a dessert wine in Coteaux du Layon. Pick it early, as they do in Saumur as well as Vouvray, and it can make a great sparkling wine, especially when blended with some Cabernet Franc or Chardonnay. Look, for instance, to the superb Domaine Langlois-Château (owned by Champagne house Bollinger) or Bouvet Ladubay, both in Saumur, or Château Montcontour in Vouvray. Priced between $10 and $20 per bottle, Crémant de Loire is an affordable alternative to Champagne for holiday get-togethers.
Langlois-Château’s wines aren’t the cheapest from this region, but the estate controls the production process from beginning to end. The grapes are crushed at the winery and the pressed juice separated to be vinified and later blended, just as is done in Champagne. Frankly, the quality as compared to that of other Loire bubbly is evident. “It is slightly higher priced, but in the end we propose something different. We try to intend quality from the beginning,” general manager François Regis de Fougeroux said.
Bouvet Ladubay makes some terrific sparkling Chenin Blanc from vineyards situated on top of vast, old limestone quarries. This central part of the Loire Valley is popular with cyclists, and Bouvet offers a 2.5-kilometer (about a mile) bicycle tour of its wine caves. “Chenin Blanc has a very good expression here for sparkling wine,” deputy managing director Juliette Monmousseau said. “It is very minerally and has good acidity, which encapsulates what we need to make good sparkling wine.”
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“Historically, the Loire was the highway to transport goods in a fast way from the center of the country to the Atlantic Ocean,” she said. “We really have no major industries other than tourism, wine, cheese and great food.” If you’re looking for some evidence of that great food, you’ll want to check out Juliette’s sister’s restaurant, La Route du Sel in Thoureil, a tiny town overlooking the river. You can’t beat the waterside tables for an outstanding outdoor lunch of local cuisine with wine.
A bikeable distance to the east is Vouvray, where estates such as Château Montcontour make sparkling and still whites from Chenin Blanc. “In France, when people think of Vouvray, they think of sparkling wine,” export manager Thibaud Poisson said. “In the U.S., they think of off-dry wines. But now dry, still white wines from Vouvray are becoming more popular.”
To the west of Saumur is Anjou, where Chenin Blanc remains the lead white grape. Here, however, the soils change to a rocky mix of granite schist and quartz, which naturally limits the productivity of the vines to net concentrated, very minerally and, in some cases, long-lived wines with exotic tropical fruit and citrus flavors.
Anjou/Savennières winemaker Patrick Baudoin said that while the Loire Valley east of Saumur features white, limestone-based soils, the parts to the west are known for “Anjou noir” soils, named for their darker schist makeup. That soil difference resonates in the character of the wines. Baudoin’s are more concentrated and taut than those grown in limestone soils, with profound stone-fruit, pear, lemongrass and green-tea notes. And they’re built to last, with vibrant acidity, good body and just enough white grape-skin tannin to give them some longevity.
There are some great examples from California, such as Dry Creek Vineyard’s Dry Chenin Blanc, which displays a certain amount of class. But it’s not the ideal place to raise the grape. If you’re looking for more terroir-driven wines and greater variety, look to the Loire Valley.
Main photo: The beauty of the Loire Valley landscape. Credit: Tim Teichgraeber
As a visitor, I’ve always been alternatively intrigued and frustrated by Japan’s food culture.
Intrigued because I know that behind almost every shoji door or noren divider there is probably a mouth-watering surprise of some sort.
Frustrated because my inability to speak or read the language — despite several years of college courses and patient tutors– leaves me unable to know exactly what I am walking into. I peek through what appear to be restaurant doorways and wonder: Can I afford what’s producing these stomach-rumbling aromas, and exactly what will I get?
So when a retired businessman offered to take me to his favorite spot for lunch during a recent visit to Japan’s northern island of Hokkaido, I was thrilled. There is nothing better than sharing a local’s “everyday” fare.
I was not disappointed.
East meets West in Otaru, Japan
Otaru, a picturesque port town a half-hour train ride from Sapporo, the island’s capital, was built on the fortunes of fishermen and traders. Wrapped around Ishikari Bay, the city features a “Venice of the Far East” canal lined with old warehouses.
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A short walk away is Sakaimichi Street, a historic shopping area whose 19th-century western-style buildings, once home for banks and trading companies, are now filled with trendy shops selling Hokkaido glassware and seaweed candy.
Otaru’s civic leaders are passionate about preserving history, and within a few blocks of the port there are museums devoted to the city’s history, the railway system, the Bank of Japan, Venetian art, music boxes and even literature.
Tsukushi is tucked away on a side street and just around the corner from the Literary Museum, where you can learn more about novelist Sei Ito, who was one of Otaru’s most famous residents. If a filmmaker was trying to cast an authentic Japanese seafood experience, this tiny restaurant looks the part.
Behind its sliding doors, Tsukushi boasts a three-sided bar built around a stone robata-yaki grill. Dried salmon and flatfish dangle from hooks on the ceiling and ceramic shochu jars line the bar. Five hundred yen ($4.25 U.S., according to a recent exchange rate) will buy a shot of the shochu, a potent Japanese liquor. Fluttering paper banners advertise the daily fare in bold brush strokes: seafood, seafood and more seafood.
We arrived shortly after the restaurant opened at 11:30 a.m., and the 11 stools filled rapidly with salarymen and women, utility workers and young female tourists. Linger too long and you’ll be asked to leave — politely of course. This is Japan, after all.
It was nearly a decade ago that Katsuhiko Kawanishi decided to go out on his own after cooking for more than a decade at other people’s hot stoves. The Hokkaido native named his restaurant Tsukushi after the horsetail plants whose green shoots mark the end of Hokkaido’s long winter.
Kawanishi starts his day early, meeting with one of the three or four main fish brokers who serve Otaru or visiting one of the local markets where fishermen bring in their daily catch. During my visit in early fall, the hakkaku, or sail-fin poacher, was in season. This unusual fish, whose large dorsal fin gives it the appearance of an eight-sided prehistoric monster, is a Hokkaido specialty and is eaten grilled or raw.
Unfortunately, there was no hakkaku on the menu the day I dropped in. But I still had more than a dozen different versions of donburi to pick from. Donburi, which means rice bowl, is a form of Japanese comfort food.
At Tsukushi, the donburi was covered with different types of sashimi, or raw fish, topped in turn with a sprinkle of salty dried seaweed called nori. For 500 yen ($4.25 U.S.), I was served a bowl of noodle soup, salty pickled vegetables and a bowl of steaming hot rice covered with thin slices of maguro tuna, squid and tobiko, delicate flying fish eggs. I chose the cheapest offering, but there were 15 kinds of donburi topped with everything from scallop and salmon eggs or crab, squid and salmon to sea urchin.
I returned the next day at lunch to try Tsukushi’s teishoku meal set, which included a piece of grilled fish accompanied by a bowl of rice, noodle soup, sashimi and pickled vegetables. For 630 yen ($5.35 U.S.), you could try one of seven varieties of grilled fish, including hokke (atka mackerel), sanma (saury pike) grilled with salt, or salmon collar.
In the evenings, Tsukushi becomes a robata-yaki restaurant, serving all kinds of grilled meats and seafood with beer and sake. Arrive before 6:30 p.m. and you can get a special meal set for 1,300 yen ($11.04 U.S.) that includes two drinks (beer or sake), sashimi, yakitori and pickles. And don’t tip the chef or waiter. That custom has still not caught on in Japan.
Unfortunately, I ran out of time long before I reached the end of the menu. But a couple visits to Tsukushi convinced me it is possible to eat very well on a budget in Japan with the right introduction. If you go, tell Kawanishi-san I sent you.
Main image: Lunch from Tsukushi in Otaru, Japan. Credit: Evelyn Iritani
Pumpkins are a fixture at autumn farmers markets in Turkey, where they grow so large that they’re often cut with saws and sold in halves or by the slice. Like Americans, Turks love their pumpkin both savory — in soups, stews and as stuffed vegetables — and sweet.
Perhaps the most prized Turkish dessert is kabak tatlisi (literally, “pumpkin sweet”), wedges of pumpkin simmered in a syrup made by using sugar to leach the gourd of its natural juices. Because the recipe doubles or triples easily and the result keeps well for a day or two in the refrigerator, it’s a perfect dessert for holidays that demand do-ahead short-cuts, like Thanksgiving.
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A sweet dessert tamed by nutty toppings
I’ve been a pumpkin lover all my life, yet until recently, kabak tatlisi, which is often served on its own or with kaymak (Turkish clotted cream), left me cold. Then I sampled it in Hatay province in southeast Turkey, where the pumpkin is served drizzled with tahini (that is a Turkish pantry staple) and sprinkled with crushed walnuts. The tahini’s slight bitterness tames the cloying sweetness of the pumpkin and crunchy walnuts complement the pudding-soft texture of the vegetable. The tahini’s oil content lends a rich, satisfying mouth feel, but since it’s made up mostly of vegetable, kabak tatlisi settles lightly in the stomach.
Though Turkish cooks usually make kabak tatlisi in a covered pan on top of the stove, I’ve found that the dish cooks wonderfully — and with less bother — in the oven. It emerges a lovely burnt orange, tinged with brownish bits from the caramelization.
Do not fear the sugar
Be prepared. This recipe calls for what will seem like a lot of sugar. Resist the temptation to cut back. The sugar is there to pull liquid out of the pumpkin. Yes, the result is super-sweet, but kabak tatlisi isn’t meant to be eaten in American pumpkin-pie-sized wedges. Just a few cubes per diner — three or four little bites of caramel-y, tahini-nutty sweetness to end a meal — will do.
Resist also any urge to reduce cooking time by cutting the pumpkin into smaller pieces than this recipe indicates, or it will turn to mush before it caramelizes and the syrup has reduced. Be sure to use unadulterated tahini, without peanuts or peanut butter. Its bitter edge is essential to the success of this dish.
Plan ahead: the pumpkin must “soak” in the sugar for 8 hours (or overnight) before baking.
Caramelized Pumpkin with Tahini and Walnuts (Firinda Kabak Tatlisi)
Note: This recipe can easily be doubled, halved, cut into thirds. The rule of thumb is one part sugar to two parts pumpkin. Do not serve kabak tatlisi hot out of the oven. Room temperature or slightly chilled is best. Make sure your tahini is at room temperature when you serve.
Prep time: Up to 1/2 hour to prep the pumpkin; 8 hours to “soak” the pumpkin
Cook time: 45 minutes
Yield: Serves 8
1 1/2 pounds peeled pumpkin
3/4 pound (1 1/2 cups white sugar)
12 tablespoons pure tahini, at room temperature and whisked to remove any lumps
3/4 cup chopped walnuts
Prepping the pumpkin:
1. Cut the pumpkin into wide (3-inch) wedges and/or large (4-by-4-inch) chunks.
2. Arrange the pumpkin pieces in a baking dish or tray just large enough to hold them closely, but without crowding.
3. Sprinkle the sugar over the pumpkin and cover the dish with plastic wrap.
4. Leave the pumpkin at room temperature for 8 hours or overnight. Turn the pumpkin pieces occasionally – once every few hours, or once before bed and once after you get up — to expose all sides to the sugar.
Baking the pumpkin:
1. Preheat the oven to 350 F.
2. Before baking, turn the pumpkin pieces one last time in what has likely become a mixture of syrup and lumps of wet granulated sugar.
3. Place the baking dish on the middle rack of the oven and bake for 40 minutes, gently turning the pumpkin pieces and basting with the sugar syrup once or twice.
4. Check the pumpkin for doneness by piercing a piece with a sharp knife. There should be no resistance.
5. Baste the pumpkin once more, then raise the heat to 400 F and continue to bake until it shows bits of caramel brown in some spots and the syrup bubbles, about 10 to 15 minutes.
6. Cool the pumpkin in its baking dish.
7. To serve, cut the pumpkin into small cubes or wedges and carefully transfer to bowls or plates. Spoon a bit of syrup over it, if you like, or leave it in the dish. Drizzle 1 1/2 tablespoons of tahini over each serving of pumpkin and sprinkle with walnuts.
Main photo: This prized Turkish dessert, kabak tatlisi, features pumpkin wedges simmered in a sweet sugar-based syrup and topped with tahini and walnuts. Credit: David Hagerman
La Vie en Rose: Île Saint-Louis, one of two small islands floating in the middle of the River Seine and hyped in travel literature as “a peaceful oasis of calm” in the heart of busy Paris, is anything but. A tourist mecca, bien sûr (of course), filled with snazzy shops and restaurants — and home to the legendary Berthillon ice cream — the scene is more Coney Island fun park than Parisian island oasis.
La Vie en Rose
One in a series of graphic explorations of French language, food and culture
Our Café French lesson today takes us to the island’s trendiest cafe, Café Saint-Régis on Rue Jean du Bellay. Just across — via the Pont Saint-Louis bridge — from Paris’ other natural island, Île de la Cité, where Notre Dame resides in all its gloomy Gothic glamor. The Café Saint-Régis is what I would call faux belle, refurbished to evoke the gaudy Art Nouveau atmosphere of Belle Epoque Paris, with gaudy prices to match. It can be, like the island itself, cloying.
Living in a Parisian broom closet
Whatever joie de vivre Parisian cafes provide their devotees — like me — I’m just not buying it today at the Saint-Régis. Lest we forget, cafes have their dark side: Revolutions and assassinations have been plotted, even launched in Parisian cafes throughout history, and the despair-laden philosophy, Existentialism, was hatched in Jean-Paul Sartre’s favorite cafes after World War II.
My dark mood today is more ennui – that perfect French word for melancholy — than despair. I’ve been staying in a very small apartment on the island — much smaller than the rental agency photos indicated. So I vegetate (call it work) in the island’s cafes to escape domestic claustrophobia, something apartment-dwelling Parisians have been doing for centuries.
The only joie of note at the Saint-Régis today is triggered by my waiter waltzing (literally) around the cafe with his broom — a push broom, a smaller version of the broom type we use in the U.S. for exterior cleanups. I could write a whole treatise on France’s bizarre broom methodology: In short, the French push, they don’t sweep!
A broom ballet on Rue Jean du Bellay
Googling broom history and etymology — in both French and English — I come across our lesson’s homophones, le ballet (the dance) and le balai (broom), identically pronounced — bal-ai.
Aha! My waiter, dressed in formal cafe black and white, is executing un ballet de balai – a broom ballet. Ennui morphs into bonheur (happiness).
But back at the apartment, my mood darkens again. The sight of the kitchen push broom leaning against the wall triggers gloom, not cafe joie. Maybe this is just a case of generic Island Fever (la fièvre de l’île), or the oppressive weight of French history that floats over the island like a giant bejeweled crown.
A whole lot-a Louis going on
Everywhere you go on Île Saint-Louis there are references to King Louis IX, the island’s beloved Saint Louis. Bridges, streets, hotels, churches and cafes carry the name or variants. Even the word régis in Café Saint-Régis, means “of the king.” My corner cafe/brasserie where I go for my morning petit déjeuner is Le Louis IX. It was Louis XIII in the 17th century, dubbed “the Just,” who developed the island’s urban plan — it had been a cow pasture — and named it in honor of Saint Louis.
À propos royal sobriquets, several of the 18 Frenchmen who have served as King Louis have earned less-flattering nicknames. In the ninth century there was “the Stammerer” (Louis II), in the 10th “the Lazy” (Louis V) and in the 12th, “the Fat” (Louis VI). You could say that the French have had a love/hate relationship with their mostly House of Bourbon Louises.
Honestly, I’m surprised there was never a “Shrimp Louis.” The likely candidate would be King Louis XVII, son of guillotined King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Never attaining the throne after the revolution, the Dauphin died in prison at age 10. He didn’t live long enough to earn a snappy moniker.
Speaking of salads
If I thought my one-bedroom apartment was small, I was corrected at a dinner in the chambre de bonne (maid’s quarters) of Paris guidebook author Annabel Simms, an English expat. Her book, “An Hour From Paris,” is a perennial seller in Paris and is designed to take tourists out of crowded Paris for memorable day trips.
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The fifth floor studio walk-up on the island’s main drag, Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Île (of course), is equipped with a tiny wall-mounted kitchenette — two burners, under counter fridge and sink. “And,” Simms boasts, “no microwave!” Simms, who is currently working on a cookbook geared to simple French apartment cooking, serves me her version of Elizabeth David‘s “Salade Parisienne,” from “French Provincial Cooking” (1962), composed of fresh vegetables, hard-boiled egg and slices of room-temperature roast beef, dressed with a vibrant vinaigrette. Simple, delicious and perfect for a warm summer night.
The conversation drifts toward my host’s mixed reviews of her island oasis lifestyle. She’s been living frugally and productively on the pricey Île Saint-Louis for more than 20 years and avoids the expensive touristy spots like Café Saint-Régis. “I love their baby Spanish sardines served in the tin with the lid rolled up,” she admits, “but I’d rather go to the cheaper Café Lutèce next door with its terrace facing north towards the Seine and the quieter right bank.”
The next day, back for a farewell crème at Café Saint-Régis before heading back to the States, I ponder Simms’ somewhat cloistered life on Île Saint-Louis. It’s telling that over the course of decades on the island, Simms has built her career as a writer in Paris based on a book that encourages tourists to get out of Paris. After only three weeks here, I’m ready to get out, too. Or is that just my Île Saint-Louis ennui speaking?
Main illustration: “Broom Ballet.” Credit: L. John Harris
You may find yourself far from home on Thanksgiving, even out of the country, as your work calls you away or alluring travel opportunities arise. Since this holiday is distinctly American and celebrated with family and friends, being away can bring on loneliness, but these feelings can be overcome, especially if you throw yourself into cooking a Thanksgiving meal.
Even before getting into the kitchen, I love this holiday because it is just about food and people. I don’t have to run around stores in search of gifts or listen to “Jingle Bells” and other tiresome seasonal tunes being played over and over wherever I happen to be. Religious services related to specific creeds are not part of the tradition either. That is important because the holiday is deeply American and includes diverse citizens who may have on their menus lasagna or egg drop soup in addition to the usual turkey and trimmings that have come to symbolize the feast.
Suggestions to ward off Thanksgiving melancholy
When far from home, especially outside the country, Thanksgiving takes on even more meaning just because it is so essentially American and has little relevance elsewhere. Here are suggestions for heading off forlorn feelings on this special day, with food inevitably playing a central role.
If you are cooking, be sure to invite friends and neighbors who are most likely to appreciate your efforts. American acquaintances far from home will be thrilled to be invited and so will locals who may be curious about the holiday and eager to participate in it.
How to adapt to a Thanksgiving meal abroad
When planning the traditional meal, be flexible about your ingredients, as you think through what is available. Do not expect to find a huge and reasonably-priced turkey outside the U.S. An American friend living in northern France shelled out a fortune on turkeys one year because she was entertaining other displaced Americans and wanted to serve familiar dishes. My thought would be to avoid huge expenses by dolling up what you have at hand. Get local chickens or ducks, but serve them with the holiday stuffing you love. As far as I know, sweet potatoes will be available in markets around the world, so this mandatory side dish can be pulled off, though possibly without the marshmallows, if that is your custom.
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The traditional cranberries may be difficult to find. They are native to New England where Thanksgiving had its origins. It is no accident that Ocean Spray, producers of all things cranberry, is located in southern Massachusetts not far from Cape Cod. If you can’t find cranberries abroad, you may have to make a sauce or relish with other tart berries — gooseberries in England, lingonberries in Scandinavia, currants in many other places, figure it out. No need to be literal-minded in preparing the meal, and you might even want to be thought of as ingenious. Your reality is that you are in a foreign country while preparing a quintessential American meal. Dig deeper into the meaning of the holiday by remembering that it celebrates the harvest, and by using available local produce you can bring out the symbolism as well as the spirit of Thanksgiving.
To some, attending a high school football game Thanksgiving morning is part of the tradition, but you are unlikely to find that outside of the U.S. Check out the availability of a local sporting match. A soccer game might be fun, or better yet, if you really want to include a traditional Thanksgiving Day ritual, call up the Macy’s parade on YouTube. A full three hours of the previous year’s parade slicked up and beautifully produced by NBC is at your fingertips, complete with gargantuan floats, massive cartoon balloons and Broadway hoofers. It is uniquely American.
Navigating family tradition
Not to be forgotten is that Thanksgiving is a family event, and family relationships are generally loaded. In my case, whenever I got together with an older brother, no matter how old we were, we would revert to being 8 and 13 years old again. It took me years to realize his customary teasing was his peculiar way of expressing love. Importing a special relative to join your Thanksgiving away from home is a sure-fire way to transplant a key part of your tradition.
Short of that, create dishes that will remind you of certain relatives. I had an aunt, now gone, who every year would bring a bowl of creamed onions nobody liked. I sometimes work up a small batch in her honor, and still nobody likes them, but that’s what tradition is all about.
Finally, video calls now allow us to hook up with the voices and images of family and friends no matter where we are. While this way of exchanging excited Thanksgiving Day greetings brings comfort and happiness to some, others may find that the sight of unavailable loved ones just brings on sadness. To offset this, have in view an array of Thanksgiving Day pies, for I have never known a thick apple pie bursting with fruit and juice that failed to bring cheer.
Main photo: Cranberries can be especially difficult to find for a Thanksgiving away from home. Credit: Barbara Haber