London Town Revisited

I am heading back to London next week for the most silly visit possible. I’ll meet my friend Alan for lunch at Fergus Henderson’s restaurant, St. John Bread and Wine, while on an eight-hour layover. I fly from Boston on a red eye, arrive at 9:00 a.m., head into town for a quick bite, and head back to the airport for my late afternoon flight to Istanbul. Yes, a lot of travel for one lunch, but it will be so worth it; after visiting St. John last year, I have been plotting my return.


When you pass this restaurant, the smell of freshly baked bread envelopes you. Growing up, my grandfather (called Pépère in our French-Canadian family) owned Francoeur’s bakery, and was the local bread deliveryman. Even now, so many years later, just thinking of the smell of his rolls makes me drool.  Knowing my affinity for carbohydrates and starches, a friend had directed me to make a pilgrimage to this restaurant. Even though I had just had breakfast half a mile away, I mustered up the appetite to accommodate some fresh bread and a glass of wine, since not doing so was not an option.

In a spare, white room with dark wood accents, I sat with a fresh brioche, a pat of a local farm’s butter, and a glass of chenin blanc. It all seems a bit gratuitous to me now, that I eat meal after meal while discovering a new place, especially given that I’m about to travel here in order just to eat again. I will have rabbit confit, fois gras and duck liver toast, or veal and ham pie this time, we’ll see what I’m in the mood for when I arrive. This is how one learns about a new place though; to see how people cook and eat is to most quickly get to the heart of a place. There are certain things in life that I will always have time and money for, fresh bread and famous restaurants are among the top of the list.

Nose-to-tail dining at its finest

In addition to the bakery, St. John is known for its nose-to-tail mentality, something that I simultaneously respect and am terrified by. I get a bit squeamish when confronted by feet, noses and innards, but try to remain open-minded when at such an esteemed restaurant. A chef I worked with all year read Fergus Henderson’s books, The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating, and Beyond Nose to Tail: Omnivorous Adventures, like they were the gospel and he was repenting. When I visited last year I had known that I was at a famous restaurant, but I hadn’t realized that I was at that famous restaurant. I realized then that a return trip was absolutely necessary, for my first visit had not done the establishment full justice. That, and I want to make my chef friend jealous. You will get the full story in a few weeks, when I recover from my paté and cured meat hangover.

After my glass or two of wine , I left the Spitalfield’s area and headed toward the River Thames. Intent on crossing as many bridges as possible on this trip, I would tackle the Tower Bridge today. A bit tipsy however, I left the restaurant and walked clear off my pocket-sized map. This was not the first time I found myself off the map in another country, and goodness knows I’ll do it many times again in the future. I walked along, slowly realizing that I was headed away from the tall buildings of the city center. I made it to Brick Lane and found myself, through no help of a map. I know this name from a movie, you may too, and knew it to be a famous Bangladeshi neighborhood. I was suddenly glad to have walked off the map. I grabbed a samosa (because again, I cannot pass up a good food opportunity) and enjoyed the curry smells wafting from the storefronts. I reoriented myself by searching the skyline for the Gherkin, the torpedo shaped glass building I knew to be on the way to the river.

Tower of London, Gherkin in the background

Back on track, I veered left to cross the bridge. I pass the fortress, get herded in the crowds, am made to feel Lilliputian under the tower. I try to take it all in, knowing the history that surrounded me, wanting to know everything I saw. Had I known I’d one day write about the experience, there’d be more to say. All I can report is that the Thames sparkled, I spotted the Tate Modern Museum further up river, recognized the Millennium Footbridge, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the ever-visible London Eye ferris wheel. I made my way to Borough Market once I reached the other side, content to sip a cappuccino at Monmouth Coffee, watching Londoners relax and visit, feeling at home.

Millennium Footbridge and St. Paul's Cathedral

Delicious coffee to be had here

My Life in Pie: Or, a Year of Creative Learning

This article is about two things: the generosity of family and the growth of an individual. Clearly this is about me, and the good fortune I had this past year to be living with my older sister Courtney. While rarely mentioned in my writing, Courtney is actually the reason I am able to do it, and the reason I want to do it well.

I spent this past year living with her and her now husband, Bob, in their Boston loft apartment. That’s right, my sister spent her year of being engaged with her younger sister in relatively constant earshot. It was surprisingly seamless. While we grew up in the same house, it had been 16 years since we lived under the same roof. As children we were at odds, simultaneously loving and torturing one another (mostly I loved her, and she showed her love by pinning me to the ground, pretending to spit on me). Alas, she went to college and I stayed home. When I finally left for California years later, she had settled in Boston, securing more than a decade apart with only annual visits.

So when the time came for me to move home, she stepped up and offered her home to be considered as my own. I heard the voice of warning in my ear—this may not be the best idea—but ignored it. We would forge ahead with a new adult relationship. I have not regretted a moment of it. Sporadically throughout the year, Courtney and I would look at one another and ask, “Should I be moving out?” “Have I stayed too long?” and more importantly, “Does Bob want me out?” … “Do you want to leave?” she would ask. We kept deciding, together, that we weren’t done yet, that we still loved coming home to one another.

What does this have to do with travel? Artisans? Everything. They did not charge me rent, and because of that leeway of luxury, I was able to truly become an artisan of sorts, and could afford to become a true traveler. In exchange for my free house and home, they made it no secret that they wanted me to feed them. Having been a cook for so long, a farmer and a waitress, my life had been food, and they were not shy in hoping that I’d bring this part of me to Boston. Without much coercion, it exploded out of me. In this one year, I had the opportunity to explore every part of my creative self, thanks to their generosity and support.

 

It started with pies. Peach pies, chicken pot pies, strawberry pies, sweet potato pies… and moved on to jams. From there the pies loosened up into galettes: sweet potato with blue cheese, Brussels sprouts, roasted grapes and kale; quiche with leeks, mushrooms, fennel, grilled radicchio and herbs. I moved on to paella, abandoning my beloved crusts: seafood, chorizo, chicken…I made my own spice rubs and sofrito, homemade aioli and herb oils. The seafood got me itching for a Provencal style soup; I made the lightest herbed, saffron fish stock, dropped in my fish and shellfish at the last minute, topped it with rouille and crouton, and my sister and I ate half of it standing over the stovetop. This soup, inspired by my friend and boss, Nico Monday, of The Market Restaurant on Lobster Cove, was so good that when I took my first taste I said, “Nico Monday, eat your heart out.”

The year in food progressed. I cooked with a vengeance and drive that I had never had before. In California, you see, I lived with the best chef I’d ever known, and under him, my kitchen confidence waned. Independent of his ever-present skill however, the years spent watching him and learning his techniques proved to have been the best culinary school I could have attended. With his lessons in mind, I tackled chocolate, candies, cheesemaking, meringues, meats and every order of sauce I could imagine. Courtney and Bob did not object to my enthusiasm. Only once did they decide that there would be a dessert strike (out of respect for their waistlines), and I was not to make any more of those for a while.

But beyond what this year of communal family living did for me culinarily, it did much more for me professionally. I helped open and run The Market Restaurant for two summer seasons, present and proud when it was awarded Best New Restaurant this summer. I spent the winter learning inestimable amounts about cheese and wine at Esprit du Vin in Milton, MA. I took a position as the pastry chef at Central Kitchen, a restaurant in Cambridge. This was a job that would inspire my creativity, put pressure on my kitchen skills, and was, in effect, my chance to teach myself to run an entire portion of a restaurant’s menu. This opportunity initially kept me awake at night, dreaming of menus and jotting down notes at 4:00 a.m. out of anxiety.

 

 

I took over a public school’s garden too. With large, totally abandoned garden plots at Boston’s Blackstone School, I successfully rejuvenated the landscape and produced pounds and pounds of fresh produce for myself and the school children. I taught the kids about soil, bugs, flowers, nutrition, and plants. The students in my friend’s class, preschool special education, all responded to the sound of dried seed pods, the scent of herbs, and the taste of cucumbers. The garden is now part of a campaign to integrate the food produced into the school lunches and the care of the plants into science classes.

Lastly, I was able to take this job, the one that occupies my mind the most. I write weekly, this article will be my thirtieth (read the others here), and spend much of my time thinking about the next. I will always have to have other jobs while writing, for the work and the pay will never support my eating habits, and that I accept. Writing professionally has changed my life entirely though; much to Courtney’s delight, this position (and my dedication to it) has opened the door to the most supportable job she could ever see me do. Finally, she thinks, Lauren has a goal.

Without all the other jobs I completed this year, I wouldn’t have known that to write would be the best fit. None of the jobs I performed this year were full-time, none paid all that well (if they paid at all), and none offered benefits. But combined, I lived happily and healthily while enriching my life experience. I was also able to eliminate other career paths, all the while cooking and writing to my heart’s (and my sister’s) content.

 

This year, when asked what I did for a living, I explained that I had given myself a year of learning creatively. Without realizing it beforehand, that’s exactly what I had done; I took one year of my sister’s generosity and explored all my options. I learned incredible amounts about topics I love, I gained practice and experience that otherwise never could have, and got to carve a relationship of stone with my sister. The thing about Courtney is that she expects a lot from me, and expects that I should work hard for it. In many ways it troubles her to see me jumping from job to job, doing things for the sake of learning instead of for the financial stability. This year has made her more understanding of my creative mind, my seemingly unquenchable desire to learn more (maybe it’s just because I couldn’t actually decide what to focus on…but that’s one for the therapist), and my desire to do what I want, instead of what I should do. She’s been limitlessly patient, but I think that’s because her belly has been full.

 

The biggest gifts though are yet to come. I’ve promised to move out, just as soon as I get home from a long journey to the Eastern Mediterranean I have planned. This trip, of course, is only possible because I haven’t been paying rent, so again, the benefits I’ve received are innumerable. She is proud of my courage when traveling; she spent her wedding night telling all of her friends and new family about my plans. I still have hopes she’ll meet me in Europe, for we’ve already successfully tackled Germany, Prague and Amsterdam together. This year has created a whole new me and a new relationship with my sister. This writer will be her personal chef and travel partner whenever called upon, forever.

The Venice Biennale enriches an already rich experience

On a whim, two years ago, I took a friend up on an offer to visit her in Venice, Italy over the summer. She was studying for a Masters in Art, a program through New York University, and rented an apartment in Dorsoduro. The Venice Biennale was happening during this summer, making the trip rich in contemporary international art as well as the centuries-old Renaissance and Venetian art for which the region is famed.  The Biennale, so named because it occurs every two years in Venice, is a world famous, international art show. I loved the idea of seeing this show, one I’d always wanted to attend but probably wouldn’t have booked a ticket to Venice solely based on it occurrence. Having my friend living there was all the additional enticement I needed, and I’d have my very own Master of Art guide to the exhibitions.

On the very first night I arrived, we went to Bikini Bar, where the Icelandic artists exhibiting in the Biennale were playing a gig. I found out later that they are relative pop stars in their home country and I was doubly impressed that they were twice talented. All well dressed and hip, they played songs of their own making, the one that stands out in my memory was about being afraid of teenagers. I remember laughing a lot and realizing how surreal this experience was. I was attending an Icelandic pop group’s private concert (there were about twelve of us there) that they decided to play while in town for the exhibition of their art. This bar, like many in Venice, I’d come to learn, was a stone building hundreds of years old, on a canal, long with small, interconnected rooms, that opened to a central courtyard in the rear. There were gardens and fountains, tables and the art elite stationed there. We ordered an Aperol spritz and settled in. Not a bad first day at the Venice Biennale.

Icelandic pop stars welcome me to Venice

La Biennale

The show takes place in two different locations in Venice: the Giardini, the gardens where the permanent structures for the Biennale are located, and the Arsenale, where the famous Venetian ships were once built, now a network of spaces for the art displays. I enter the Giardini first, welcomed by a giant, metal Earth surrounded by metal chairs of all designs. I realize quickly that these buildings have designated country names on them, to the right, Venezuela marks the door of a building, to the left, Spain. I begin to understand. Each Biennale, an artist representative exhibits at their country’s space. I begin to wander.

Chair collection surrounds a giant globe in the Giardini entrance

Venezuelan house

The Denmark house stands out in my mind; a mid-century Danish designed bachelor pad, complete with beautiful Scandinavian furniture and a surprisingly erotic art collection is there for viewers (voyeurs?) to wander through. This home is half James Bond, half Dwell magazine (and a bit of Hustler magazine too) and there was a floating man’s body in the pool out front. Face down. I won’t feign to be able to analyze most of the art I saw, because not only am I unqualified, there was so much that I could barely absorb it all. I toured through the Danish house twice, needing more time to truly see every aspect of the display.

The Danish House 

The Egyptian and Serbian exhibits stand out in hindsight too. The Egyptian room had incredibly high ceilings, the use of which was employed by twenty-foot high rattan woven figures looming over the public as it walked through. These giant figures were congregating as if in conversation, elsewhere they bent over balconies, fed feral cats, sold items at market, rode bicycles with goods on their heads. The effect made you feel small, like a fly on the wall of a world much bigger than you, a place you cannot touch. The figures were beautiful, but the scale made you bow down to them.

The beautiful and eerie Egyptian exhibit

The Serbian exhibit is the one that really rocked me though. In a darkly lit space, tiny video screens played loops of barbershops, man after man filing through the seats to have their hair trimmed. Piles of felt blankets filled the room, wide and stacked tall, made of the hair collected in those shops. The hair of 240,000 people made 1,200 square meters of human hair felt. I cannot really tell you why this hit home, except to say that I worked in a salon for a very long time, watching the resource we all grow on our heads just get tossed in the trash. And yes, I realize it’s kind of creepy to talk like this.

Serbian haircutting exhibit

Felt blankets made of hair clippings

At the Arsenale, two exhibits made my day. First, inside the long, shipbuilding building, was a small round room into which you peeked to see endless number of lights. There was a buzzing, a whir, and lots of humming. On the outer wall, the artist’s statement described that there were toasters, televisions and other household appliances that have constant running lights. I found this especially funny because my sister and I ransack every hotel room we’ve ever been in to cover up all those lights. Those little lights keep me up all night long.

Lastly, my girl Miranda July, who I love in every way possible, had an exhibit on the grassy grounds between the Arsenale buildings. Following a pathway over little hills and surrounded by trees, July made white, clay tablets, podiums, and seats on which messages were scratched in a young handwriting. I took photos of the three progressively larger seats: The Guilty One, The Guiltier One, The Guiltiest One, written on the front of each (I have two older sisters). One for one sister: This is not the first hole my finger has been in, nor will it be the last, written on a tall, thin tablet with a hole in the center. One for my other sister: This is my little girl. She is brave and clever and funny…Her heart will never be broken… and on. This exhibit was such a surprise, for I am a great fan of July’s books and movies, and to see her work there was like having a friend appear before me.

Miranda July's outdoor exhibit 

I spent only three days wandering these exhibits, but could have spent weeks. It’s happening again right now, through the 27^th of November, and you should go if you’re nearby. It’s the perfect excuse to see Venice and to eat all the gelato you can.

Arsenale interior

Knotted maze for us to climb through

Bird seed chandelier

Octopus coming out of the wall

Windows in the Arsenale

I can't explain this.

It's me.

A Love Affair Begins With a Peach

I love a good farmers market. I love turning a city corner and seeing tables and tents set up, piled high with produce, breads, pastas, fruits, and meat. I can spend hours looking through the offerings, making rounds before purchasing, always leaving with a new artisanal cheese, a chicken, or a basket of vegetables. Often, I just leave with the ingredients I’ll need for dinner.

Having spent so many years living in the Bay Area, where farmers markets are as ubiquitous as coffee shops, I grew accustomed to doing my weekly shopping there. They occurred each day of the week on random, closed-down streets throughout town, making it easy to stop by on your way home. In my neighborhood, it was Thursday afternoons or Saturday mornings where you’d see your friends, get a coffee from the cart, have a freshly baked tart, and plan your week’s meals by what the farmers were offering. I have even purchased knitting wool alongside tomatoes and kale from Northern California’s Full Belly Farm.

Sheep at Full Belly Farm

The convenience of having a market in your neighborhood not only increased the likelihood of you eating season-appropriate foods, but foods grown nearby (your “foodshed”), and grown by your neighbors, therefore invigorating your local economy. The same can be said for those creating art, crafts, and selling wares; this is a micro economy where your money has an especially high value.

Dairy Cows in Sonoma County

This is not a new idea; farmers have been selling their bounty at markets for as long as abundance spurred trade. But since we’ve designed our food system to make the supermarket seem like the ideal place to buy all that you need, farmers markets fell out of favor, therefore making farming a less likely pursuit. This reinforced the grocery chain system, assuring that only the biggest farms with the greatest output would survive. But there’s a better option. By supporting farmers markets, we take back a small-scale food system, specific to our region.

Freshly Picked Tomatoes from Baia Nicchia Farm in Sunol, CA

It is only within the last few decades that farmers markets have experienced a resurgence in number. The USDA reports that the number of markets in the US has more than tripled since 1994 (http://www.celsias.com/article/data-shows-explosive-recent-growth-us-farmers-mark/). The increase can only mean that young people are starting to take up farming as a career and are making the most of reaching their customers at such markets, and that the public is desirous of having such access to the people who grow their food. [See The Greenhorns documentary to fully appreciate this newest generation of farmers.]

Persimmons begging for harvesting

I support farmers markets for the economic benefit of cutting out shipping, fuel, and middlemen costs, choosing instead to give full price directly to the farmer. I also support them because it creates community and dialogue between producers and consumers, something that is lost when food travels from far away to reach your grocery store. But mostly I support farmers markets for their romantic quality.

Artichokes seeking attention

I know this sounds funny. Buying produce is not romantic in a loving, relationship kind of way, but it does introduce a new level of connection to your food. When you smell a peach from Frog Hollow Farm or Russell Orchards, in the height of peach season, it is the sweetest and most mouthwatering aroma one could experience. I choose each fruit for their perfect coloring, smell, size, and degree of ripeness. This is the epitome of a peach. It was picked hours earlier and handled with the utmost care. There were no big machines involved, no sprays, pesticides or fertilizers, no big-rig trucks and no fluorescent lights above my head in a nameless grocery chain (where the fruit sold is often picked unripe, weeks before sale). This peach, picked oftentimes by the person standing in front of me, stayed on the tree until the last minute, storing as much sweetness and nutritive value as possible. The riper the fruit from the tree, the better the fruit will be. [Now if that’s not a T-shirt in the making, I don’t know what is.]

The ripest peaches make the best jam

When you learn to appreciate the value of knowing your farmers, of eating food that’s in season, and of the freshness of a food that hasn’t traveled, you don’t want to accept anything else. The pleasure you get from knowing your bread man, your coffee girl, the tomato, apple, and lettuce farmers, changes your shopping and eating experience. You become connected, playing a much more active role in not only your own eating habits, but the community you have chosen as your home. The grocery store’s supposed convenience suddenly doesn’t seem so worthwhile anymore. You can also get everything you need from these markets: milk, cheese, vegetables, fruit, meat and eggs. And the hour you’ll spend collecting the fish you’ll eat for dinner (that has never been frozen and is from local waters) and the tomatoes that practically leapt off the vine with readiness and flavor, will be the hour your savor most.

I'm excited to find a market in Croatia