How to Sell a Watch
A man walks into a Swiss watch store, looking fairly normal, and probably not old enough to buy a real Swiss watch anyway. An incredibly polished salesperson approaches him.
S: “Can I help you, sir?”
“Oh no, I’m just looking. I’m a student and can’t afford these watches anyway.”
S: “Not a problem, please let me know if there is anything I can do.”
(Salesman notices potential customer admiring a particular watch, valued at around $20,000)
S: “Would you care to try it on?”
“No no, I’m just looking.”
S: “It’s not a problem…please….allow me.”
(Salesperson takes the watch out, gracefully places it on man’s wrist. It’s gorgeous.)
S: “Lovely……………………………………………..isn’t it?”
S: “A man who invested in such a watch would certainly make a statement for future generations.”
I have to admit…he was good. Very good.
Misadventures in the Alps
Besides looking for a rigorous academic experience, one of my motivations for studying abroad was going somewhere I could ski basically at will. Growing up in Chicago there isn’t exactly a surplus of great ski-able terrain anywhere close by. Milan, however, is different. It is extremely close to a small mountain range called the Alps, which, turns out, happens to be pure evil. That’s right. The mountains are evil. Or at least out to get me.
My first, short trip was to Champoluc, a decent sized resort about two hours north of Milan. It was a bunch of full-time students at Bocconi and me…not really knowing any of them. We got off to a late start and hit the mountain late. In true Italian fashion, before the first lift was done, they were already talking about where and when to have lunch! No…I was there to ski. Eat later. Thankfully there were a few guys who shared my philosophy, so we broke out on our own. The rest of the day was pretty uneventful until I had to take the buses home. No direct bus exists (this happens more than once – it’s horrible) and at the station where we switch, not three minutes has gone by since the first bus left that I realize my brand new camera is on it. Begging the assistance of a fellow traveler, I call (or rather she calls) the bus company. I arrange for my friends back at Champoluc to meet the bus and talk to the driver…see if they can find my camera. All of the calling back and forth took well over an hour and a half…most of it was trying to explain to the bus company what we were actually asking of them.
Now, for those of you paying attention, you’ll realize I’m still in Italy. I am not getting this camera back. It’s going to disappear like charges against Berlusconi…
Yet somehow…somehow…it turns up. My friends pick it up, and I get it back. This served as a warning shot from Fate. I should have listened.
But I very rarely listen. So I sign up for the school ski trip to La Thuile. Three days of boarding, drinking, eating, and very little sleeping. To tempt fate even further I sign up to go heli-skiing on Sunday.
We arrive Friday, January 29th and ski for the afternoon. As the day ends a terrible storm rolls in and some of the worst white out conditions I’ve ever skied in move in around us. I was losing people less than 30 feet away from me. My group ended up trapped at a closed ski lift with no way out – they had to reopen the lift for us so we could ride it up and ski down properly. At the top, a kindly ski patrolman met us to make sure we didn’t get lost again…
Dinner Friday night began like this:
And ended like this:
After cursing every decision we made Friday night, we struggled to get up a bit Saturday. You may recall the storm from the preceding paragraph – which is obviously going to make for some great powder the day after. Cloud cover was extremely low Saturday morning, covering the base. No one wanted to go up but Agnese and I…and about halfway up the mountain the cloud breaks and we’re in brilliant sunshine. Do we call anyone? HELL NO. This is our powder. We suffered to get it, it’s ours.
And for about 8 glorious runs, it was. Powder up to your knees, unbroken, light and fluffy. At times the spray was so tall it was cascading over my head. There is almost nothing like that in the world. Just you, alone with the mountain, breaking fresh tracks.
After soundly thrashing the mountain for a few hours we stopped into a little hut to have vin brule…hot spiced wine…which is something the US ski resorts need to start importing immediately. It’s about 50x better than hot chocolate on a cold day on the slopes.
After lunch some fellow boarders (including an Army Ranger) wanted to go off-piste…said they had some good powder that no one had touched for at least weeks. We jumped in under the gondola and promptly sank up to our waists in fresh snow. They were right – no one had touched this stuff. Here’s a shot of Carlos stopped partway down:
Everything is all fine and dandy until the line starts to squeeze in on us. There’s really only one way left to go. We’re about ten minutes from the bottom of the slope and literally 30 feet away from an open meadow. We head through some trees until we reach the final squeeze…a tight cut between two trees. I’m third to go, catch an exposed root slightly, and land not especially hard or anything. Something twinges. When I come up, I hold up my left hand, ski over to Adam and announce “I think my finger’s broken, I have to go now.” Very matter of fact. Time to go. Carlos boards with me to the emergency station, where we confirm it is not broken but merely dislocated.
Pretty sure your finger doesn’t do that normally or naturally. So without pain killers the nurse yanks my finger back into place, at which point my body does something bizarre. From both elbows to the tips of my fingers, my arms go numb, and my hands twist and contort into a weird position. I can’t move either of my hands for at least 15-20 minutes. When I can finally get them back to normal they put this contraption on it that makes it look like a much more serious injury than I think it is at the time. ( I say that because about six weeks later it’s still swollen and I don’t have full range of motion back in it yet…)
Clearly I am thrilled at this point. Does this injury keep me from staying out until 4:00 a.m., dancing on tables and banging on the ceiling with the rest of the Bocconi students? Sure it does. Sure.
We will never be invited back to that resort.
Sunday of course was absolutely perfect weather, and so I wasn’t going to stay inside. Instead of boarding, I decided to help some newbies learn to snowboard – they only grabbed my right hand a few times during the day.
At this point I’m 0 – 2 on the slopes, Alps are winning. Juan, Kathy, Marco and I decide to head for a quick ski weekend nearby a little town called Bergamo. There’s a direct bus from Milano to Castione del Presolano, so this is going to be easy, no problem.
At 6:30 in the morning we struggle to get to the bus station only to find out….there’s no bus. This direct bus turned into a train to Bergamo, tram to Albino, bus to Clusone, a bus that went partway to Bratto then back to Clusone, another bus finally into Bratto. At this point I was convinced we were going to have to ride a donkey into town eventually… It was pouring rain and we were all thoroughly soaked upon arriving at our hotel. All’s well that ends well though, because we found a very nice relaxing spa to spend Friday night at.
Saturday was pretty awful to start. I’m riding the lift up with Marco who has never skied before. It’s white-out conditions, so bad we are losing the chair in front of us. Marco starts to get very nervous, and on the outside I’m trying to calm him down. Telling him this is normal, no big deal, tutto bene. On the inside, I’m convinced we’re all dead. No one is making it down from this little adventure. After about two hours we finally make it halfway down the mountain, to the restaurant where Marco more or less decides that’s it for the day. Can’t say I blame him. The sun eventually does come out and we get some nice views of the surrounding areas.
Sunday was much better, having gotten a light dusting of snow the night before. Crystal clear skies greeted us, and the surrounding landscape looked even more amazing than the day before.
All is going well and good at this point. The day’s fantastic, weather is nice, skiing was good. AND lo and behold – a direct bus home does exist! No more ridiculous antics just to get somewhere! We can all sleep the two hours it will take to get back to Milano.
About halfway home, I wake up with a start, like you’d see in a movie, obviously realizing something important. I smack Juan and ask:
“Juan, Juan, do you have our passports? Did you take them from the hotel?”
“Um…..no.”
Our passports were still at the hotel, now an hour away in Bratto.
You know what that means – unintentional ski day in Italy!
That Tuesday we packed up, me, Juan, and Kathy (Marco was still curled in the fetal position from the weekend) and drove back to Bratto. Once again we encountered white-out conditions in the morning, with most of it clearing up by the end of day. So…when you can’t see anything…and are not worried about losing your dear friend Marco while skiing…the bottles of red wine look ever more appealing at the restaurant on the mountain.
After a verrrrrrrrry long lunch, the skies cleared a bit and we were greeted with this:
Now all the wine and beer at lunch was speaking to us this afternoon, and what is said was “Stop for grappa. That will be fun.” Thankfully it had snowed Monday so there was lots of powder to cushion any afternoon spills. And, being ridiculous Americans (ok Juan is Puerto Rican) we decided that our last run down was going to be shirtless. Just gloves and pants. Sometimes, when grappa speaks, it’s best to listen.
For my last and final appearance in the Alps, I was going to do it right. My dad was coming in, and for a long weekend we were going to ski the real deal. The broad consensus amongst my fellow students was: Zermatt, in Switzerland. So on Thursday, March 4th, we boarded our train. At our connection in Visp, the change in atmosphere was notable. The train from Visp to Zermatt was two cars, packed with skiers. Everyone had ski gear, people were drinking “Austrian herbal things” out of little shot bottles, and it was in general a boisterous affair. Dad promptly fell asleep. Something about how he hadn’t slept on the flight over, I don’t really know. No cars are allowed in Zermatt so our little electric taxi picked us up and took us to the Hotel Firefly where they greeted us with a welcome drink. I think everywhere you go should include a welcome drink but that’s just me.
Friday we walked out of our hotel to head to the resort and were promptly jumped by a bunch of Swiss guys who stole our wallets and taunted us in German. Well I suppose technically I just made that part up. It’s just the most expensive place I think I’ve ever been. It’s almost $20 for bread at dinner. Ridiculous.
Besides from the fact that the mountain hadn’t seen snow since December 1st, it was an amazing trip. It’s hard for it not to be when you’re skiing under the Matterhorn. For the most part I’ll let the pictures do the talking here -
A little serving of medicine
Chez Vrony
One shot of the spa at Hotel Firefly
Overall the trip was absolutely amazing. However, this being the Alps, and the Alps hating me, something had to go wrong. Let’s review shall we?
1 – Lost camera
2 – Dislocated finger
3 – Left-behind passport
4 – Massive case of food poisoning on Saturday night. Just massive. Ruined the next two days. Fantastic.
I can’t wait to go back to the Rockies…
Chocolate crawls, EATaly, and the end of Fashion Week
On February 26th, it was the end of Fashion Week, I had been out almost every night until 4:00 a.m., and this was to be no exception. My friend Andrea Pattarini was in town (you’ve met him before…) and so of course we had to hang out. And that’s how you find yourself dancing at 3:30 a.m. with people you’ve just met, ruing the fact that you have to wake up at 8:00 to make a bus to Turin.
But, wake up four hours later I did. Three quick shots of espresso and one brioche later, eyes burning from a week’s worth of a lack of sleep, I was ready to eat some Italian chocolate.
Except, in typical Italian fashion, they canceled an international chocolate festival the WEEK BEFORE for some weird combination of stupid reasons. It may or may not be rescheduled depending on….well depending on whether or not they feel like it essentially. Nevermind all the lost revenue and pissed off people who’ve booked hotels, flights, etc.
Our first stop in Turin (Torino in English, home of Fiat, 2006 Winter Olympics) was EATaly, a concept developed somewhat in conjunction with SlowFood. It’s essentially a giant supermarket specializing in small-batch producers and super premium foods at affordable prices. I will save the rant on how organics don’t actually cost more over time and how we mis-price all sorts of things when making food decisions until I return to Chicago…for now let’s just talk about how this is one of a select few Utopian food stores I’ve visited in my life. When you walk in, there’s a giant diagram of what food is in season during what months. You know, so you don’t eat asparagus in the dead of winter. Because IT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO GROW THEN! Sorry…I digress.
A section of the wine cellar – you could bring your own bottles and fill up right from the cask!
Fresh bread…
Stuffed pasta waiting to happen…just add ricotta, spinach, some herbs, bottle of red…
Eat your heart out, Dr. Atkins, you quack. I could kill you with a thought! Or a tray… A hamburger wrapped in bacon isn’t a meal. A hamburger wrapped in bacon served over a bed of pasta is. Or something like that…
Here’s a little sample of my meal that day – braised veal served alongside buttery mashed potatoes.
They also had a great kitchen gadget section where I found this amazing contraption:
Basically it’s a grill with four hot zones, and each one of those football shaped grills rotates away from the heat for more precise cooking. They also raise up and down to control heat exposure. Perfect for cooking competitions. Bring it on, Kyle and Alex….
After EATaly we toured Turin – looking for a selection of chocolate shops and antique cafes. This was more of the “cultural” aspect of study abroad as we’re doing it over here. Following a couple of Italians around, eating chocolate, drinking cafe, and finally drinking a half coffee half chocolate creation called a Bicerin, created in Torino. If Starbucks made good coffee drinks, this is what they would make.
And of course, in true Italian fashion, our group split up, was late for the bus, made the bus move to come pick us up (we were over an hour away from the pickup point at pickup time) and we finished with a mad dash through the outdoor farmer’s market before boarding the bus and sitting in traffic for a couple of hours.
Oh and because it was Saturday…I ended up going out again until about 2:00 (an early night) and then sleeping through almost the entire day on Sunday. Made myself an American breakfast and showered about 4:00 in the afternoon. Proper.
The Austro-Hungarian Empire
A few weekends back I traveled to three new countries in the continuing quest to see 100 countries and all 7 continents. My stops were Bratislava in Slovakia, Budapest in Hungary, and Vienna in Austria. People see the itinerary and ask “Why would you go to Bratislava?” Because it’s cheap to fly into, that’s why.
But let’s start there. Bratislava. Say it a few times. Let it pounce off your tongue like it’s going to attack someone. If I heard someone say “I am Ivan, am from country Slovakia, from city called Bratislava” in an obviously heavy and fake accent, I’d turn and run the other way. It’s a scary place, this former Soviet bloc country. Very dark and foreboding…everything is leftover from the Soviet occupation. I mean, when I left the airport I even drove past….
…an IKEA.
And a Nike store, and McDonalds, Marks & Spencer, and a host of other Western stores anyone would immediately recognize. My hostel didn’t have room numbers. It had cute pictures of animals. Mine was a ladybug. (Not an animal as we’d recognize it but still an insect and most people find them cute.) I’ve felt more scared walking to the Dunkin Donuts near my house at Clark and Division to buy coffee on a Sunday morning.
Now it should be noted that the movie “Hostel” does actually take place in Bratislava. Seeing as how I was staying there on my own, my exchange friends were worried I was going to get raped, murdered, or worse. I think it’s a pretty universal truth that there’s no raping or murdering going on when there are ladybugs adoring the walls. So I was safe.
The town itself was very pretty, if a bit cold. It was winter, after all. I wandered around through streets I didn’t know, saw buildings I didn’t recognize, past churches I didn’t go into, up to a castle I know nothing about. This is what happens when you are slightly unprepared for your trip. My pre-dinner walk ended in a cafe with some locals singing opera at the top of their lungs.
Dinner was good…kebab of meats and veggies…most of which were wrapped in bacon, which is the proper way to do anything. Washed it all down with some local beer, and headed to an early bed. A few pictures below…
Next up was Budapest. Budapest is in Hungary, famous for paprika, having the highest concentration of geniuses per capita, an inordinate number of Nobel Prize winners, and consistently losing wars to the Romans, Ottomans, Habsburgs….etc. It’s actually two separate towns that merged a while back. Buda, which means “where the castle is” and Pest, which means “where the rest of the city is.” I also think there’s some stuff about killing vampires in its history somewhere…but I’m currently too lazy to back that up. Overall it’s a very interesting mix of Austrian/German/Turkish/Soviet influence, blending both east and west cultures in a very different way than Istanbul.
One thing is exactly the same. That scam that happened to me in Istanbul? Apparently it’s very very common in Budapest. Didn’t let myself get suckered into paying 200 Euro for one drink this time, however.
The first day was spent wandering around the Pest side, starting with the street Vaci Utca and the market at the end of said street.
After the market I visited St. Stephen’s basilica, the Hungarian Parliament building, and wandered around the city center some more. I was starting to get a bit cold so I popped in to a little cafe to have some mulled wine, a specialty you can find just about everywhere in Budapest. Definitely one of my favorite parts. The best meal of my trip was this night, at a restaurant serving pretty traditional Hungarian foods called the Bagolyvár. It was the sister restaurant (and less expensive at that) to Gundel, which everyone was recommending. The meal started off with a plate of traditional cheese lightly grilled, served over a walnut and fruit ragout. I moved on to a traditional Hungarian soup, which, while pretty standard from a beef soup point of view in terms of ingredients, had an amazing paprika and cinnamon flavor to the broth that made it really stand out. My main course was a beautifully reddish veal stew, again flavored with a heavy dose of paprika. I rounded it off with a chocolate cake, and slowly rolled myself home through downtown Budapest.
Cheeses with walnut and fruit ragout
Veal stew
Dessert….
The following day, my last day in Budapest, it sleeted basically the entire day. I was able to see the castle, the history museum, and a few other things, but mostly I was concerned with catching an earlier train to Vienna.
I wasn’t sure what to expect with Vienna, but this was my favorite of the trip. First of all, you have the Habsburgs building all sorts of empire-like things (palaces, etc) here so that’s pretty cool. Add to that some delicious encased meats, great beers, and you’ve got the makings of a world class city.
When I arrived, I walked into what I thought was my hostel, but was actually a different branch of the Wombat hostel I was staying in. It looked very cool, there was music playing, I could hear the sounds of a bar somewhere in the vicinity, and it was all brightly colored. As I walked out to find the actual place I was staying, there was a giant sign on one of the doors that just said “SEX” in giant letters. Below that word it said “Please use other door.” Yeah…I’m gonna like Vienna.
I trudge through the snow a few more blocks and end up at my hostel. It’s almost 9:00 pm at this point and I’m pretty tired by this point. I head to my room where….everyone is already asleep. This was a common occurrence throughout this trip – people asleep at 9:00 at night and waking up at ungodly hours of the morning. I’m not talking 10:00 a.m. – I’m talking 5:00 a.m. Who does that? I guarantee you, no tourist sites are open at 5:00 a.m. This is Europe, after all.
Not being able to do anything in my room, I leave my bag in my locker and head down to the bar. At check-in, Wombat gives you a free beer. Not a bad deal. So I grab a meal and a couple of beers, ready to call it an early night. Two American girls sit down next to me, and we start talking. Turns out, they’re Univ of Michigan students, studying in Prague for the next few months. Of course they are. Wolverines are everywhere, because we’re awesome. (Or maybe because we have a large school and a huge alumni base, but I think it’s because we are awesome.) They’re rooming with some Scotts on vacation after graduating from law school, and before long the bartender starts handing out free shots. When I ask him what it is, he responds “It’s an Austrian herbal thing, don’t worry.” Right – that’s how you wake up in a prison in Bucharest, not wearing any shoes and smelling like you’ve been on a farm all day long.
Thankfully, we woke up in our hostel in Vienna, not in Romania on accident. The five of us headed out to see Vienna a bit, despite blistering cold. First up was the Schonbrunn Palace, the summer retreat of the Habsburg dynasty. Very cool, but photography is not allowed inside so…that’s why we have Google images.
Next up was the Naschmarkt, a local farmer’s market that has grown up to include restaurants, kebab stands, spice vendors, and a large number of now permanent buildings selling all sorts of edible wares.
On the urging of my dad, I stopped for a Turkish kebab – 3 Euro for a sandwich that will rival anything you find at Katz’s deli or Manny’s in Chicago. Huge, piping hot, stuffed with all sort of delicious condiment and vegetable…you have to sample if you’re here.
After a few more sites, a few stops for beers, wine, coffee, etc, I spotted something I’d been looking forward to finding in Vienna.
In Chicago, there is a cafe called Julius Meinl and it is the first of its kind in the US. JM is a Viennese coffee company selling some of the finest coffees you can obtain in commercial form. Obviously picking and roasting the beans yourself would be better, but if you’re doing that you probably have no time to read my blog, so please don’t start picking your own beans. The furniture inside is imported from Vienna and the cafe itself exudes a legitimate European atmosphere.
When I saw the giant letters spelling out Julius Meinl at the end of a square, I had to stop in. I figured I would end up paying roughly $18 for a cappuccino but I didn’t care. I needed to go to the source.
As the picture shows above, with your cappuccino you receive a trio of sugars, a small glass of water, and a small bit of silky dark chocolate. And it didn’t cost an arm and a leg. Much more than a cafe, however, the store itself is a complete gourmet food store. Much like Peck in Milan or EATaly in Torino, it had a high-end restaurant on the top floor, a large wine section, and more chocolate than even the most committed chocoholic can stand.
Satiated from kebabs, chocolates, coffee, spiced wine, we wandered back to our hostel in time for happy hour at the bar. Which, you know where this is going by now, lasted at least 4 or 5 hours.
The next day was mine to see Vienna for a few hours before heading back to Milan…and the beginning of Fashion Week. It’s a rough life over here…
It’s a small world…
Quick post – few updates on things happening over here in this magical “internet land.”
This blog is currently being read on four continents, which I’m pretty happy about. So – to my one reader in Australia – please keep it up! And pass along to friends! To my two readers in Asia – also please keep it up! I promise to come back sooner if you do.
To my Italian teacher who today in class announced she had read my blog – grazie! That was not in any way expected and totally caught me off guard. E veramente un piccolo mondo… So Loredana – please feel free to pass on to your friends!
So that makes N. America, Europe, Asia & Australia. I have a few S American friends who are currently in Milan. Just FYI you’re on the hook when you return. I would appreciate that fifth continent.
A site in Aspen wants me to do some restaurant reviews for their database. A small step but a step none-the-less.
So – I will keep trying to entertain, and you keep posting on Facebook, emailing to your friends, and spreading the word. A big thanks to everyone who’s read so far, it means a lot.
After a quick ski day tomorrow I will be back with a post about Vienna, Budapest and Bratislava. Okay mostly Vienna and Budapest…
Spaghetti Carbonara, or how to host a proper lunch.
Taking a cue from my sister’s blog here, with a personal note:
Spaghetti Carbonara is my favorite pasta dish and most likely holds the #2 spot in my all-time list of favorite dishes. Like, ever. At first I thought I liked it because of it’s inherent simplicity, humble beginnings, and surprising harmony. In general, I like things to be simple, and rely on the freshness and quality of their ingredients. And the surprising bit – I like it when dishes and flavors surprise, or the combination turns out much better than you’d expect. Perhaps the best example of this is the Wasabi Caesar salad at Elevation in Aspen, CO. When you say it, you’d think that wasabi and Caesar would be a no go. But then you take note of the fact that a proper Caeser is supposed to have a healthy dose of pepper and be slightly spicy. And if a subtle amount of wasabi helps in that endeavor then it just might work.
As for humble beginnings – spaghetti carbonara was, according to the most popular legend, created for charcoal workers in the area around Rome. It is a Roman dish, even though a restaurant in Rimini has claimed it. It doesn’t show up until post-WWII. Another popular iteration states that the charcoal workers created it themselves, and the original recipe doesn’t have pepper. Instead flecks of charcoal actually made its way into the pasta, and when the recipe was introduced elsewhere they added pepper to maintain the same look. And then, for you secret society freaks out there (myself included), there did exist a mostly harmless Italian society called the Carbonari…
Come to think of it, I’m going to start calling anyone who likes Carbonara the new Carbonari.
But then it hit me – why I like this recipe so much. It’s basically bacon and eggs tossed over spaghetti. It’s a no brainer.
Ingredients:- Pancetta – not bacon unless you really have to. Guanciale is the original I think but pancetta is more accessible to most people.
- Eggs
- Spaghetti
- Parmigiano-reggiano – both finely grated and cut into thin strips
- Fresh cracked black pepper
Preparation:
Saute up the pancetta until it’s nice and crispy, set the pan aside.
In a small bowl, crack a couple of eggs and finely grate some p-r cheese.
Cook the spaghetti, enough for four people.
Mix it up. All of it. It’s good. Top with fresh cracked pepper, salt, and thin shavings of p-r cheese.
Most recipes will be more precise than this one, but you need to adjust the amount of eggs, bacon, etc to suit your own personal tastes here.
You should probably drink this with a bottle of red wine. I know it doesn’t totally seem like red’s the obvious choice, but it’s a serious meal, and serious meals deserve to be had with red wine. Osso bucco? Red wine. Chicken cutlets? White wine. Need I go on. Again, serious wines for serious meals.
And please, no onions, peas (seriously America, peas?), broccoli, or anything else ridiculous like that. Keep it simple here people. If you’re doing it well, it should look like this:
That’s if you’re doing it well. If you want to do it right, you’ll go to Mantova. You may remember this little town as the place Romeo was banished to. It was also the seat of the Gonzaga family, who ruled large chunks of northern Italy for many years. And last but not least, it is the home of Andrea Pattarini, a friend of mine who studied at Bocconi last year and did his exchange in Chicago. He tempted me by telling me his mom made the best Carbonara. Well….this I had to see.
At the end of the Foodyssey Jenni and I traveled to Mantova to visit Andrea and his welcoming parents. Carbonara was to be lunch on Sunday so we had some time to kill Saturday night. Andrea took us around and showed us the town, and we actually went out to a sushi place that had recently opened in town.
Sunday morning started with an aperitivo of prosecco and Crodino and some delicious little snacks at the local bar. The closest thing to our bloody Mary brunches they’ve got over here. When we walked into the kitchen at home, this is what awaited us:
Yes, that is a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino on a table covered with fine China and a white tablecloth. They were not messing around here. This was going to be the real deal. You’ve been given instructions above for how to cook – now sit back and watch the magic unfold.
Cooking the pasta…
How about a little more bacon?
Mix it up. It’s good.
When I die, I won’t see a white light. I will see this.
I’ve made Carbonara a bunch myself, and it’s different every time. I think that’s how it is when it’s your favorite dish and you have exacting standards for yourself. It never quite comes out right. But her Carbonara was perfect. Perfectly al dente, just the right amount of saltiness from the pork, slightly creamy consistency from the eggs. I’m pretty sure I ate close to 8 pounds of pasta that day. It was the quintessential comfort food experience. And then it got even better.
Apparently everything you’ve heard about Italian hospitality isn’t quite accurate. It goes beyond. After our bottle of Brunello we opened a 2005 Amarone di Valpolicella. Mrs Pattarini doesn’t enjoy red wine so much so she opens a bottle of champagne. After the wine is done, Mr Pattarini decides it’s time for Armagnac. A 1970, unopened bottle of Armagnac to be precise.
And then an unopened bottle of Ron Zacapa XO.
And then a Moscato grappa.
I’m pretty sure those are all my glasses.
This is what we drank for lunch that day – Ron Zacapa, Armagnac, Grappa, Valpolicella, Brunello, and Champagne.
Thankfully, we were taking the train back. These all went down straight, in gigantic bourbon glasses.
As the warmth engulfed my entire body, I couldn’t tell if it was from the Carbonara, the hospitality, the wine, grappa, armagnac, or rum.
I did know, however, that when people speak of La Dolce Vita, and they speak of good food and great peoplw….
This is exactly what they have in mind.
The Foodyssey.
It is almost impossible to begin this post because the events that transpired cannot adequately be put into words. No amount of language, hyperbole, or linguistic trick can describe how you feel as you sample delicacies prepared in restaurants older than your country. To taste gourmets foods in the lands of their origin. And so I will attempt, with the help of my muse, to describe the bounty one encounters on a trip through Emilia-Romagna.
Our travelers start the journey in Parma, home to parmigiano-reggiano and prosciutto. Almost immediately upon exiting the train station you can smell a salumeria. You have to love a city that smells of cured meats. On your way into the city center, you will encounter two gastronomias that resemble dueling vendors trying to outdo one another with the beauty and deliciousness of their wares.
Here is Gastronomia Garibaldi. Note the legs of prosciutto hung lovingly on the walls, better alone than any Christmas stocking could ever hope to be. This is what pigs in the USA long to be.
Across the street we have Salumi & Formaggi (meat and cheese). What a great name. Those are in fact gigantic wheels of parmigiano-reggiano. You know in Duck Tales how Scrooge McDuck dives into piles of money? If I could I would dive into piles of cheese and cured meats.
After finding our hotel, we ventured out in search of the perfect dinner. We got sidetracked, as you do here, by the cutest wine and cheese bar I’ve ever seen. It was about a foot wider than the bar itself, so we shuffled past and upstairs, where they kept books about wine making and terroir and how to properly butcher pigs and meats and…you get the idea.
Do you see that cheese on the plate? Take a good look because you can’t get it anywhere else. They make it somewhere (I suspect it’s a secret, magic cave of deliciosity) nearby and it tastes almost like a brie. With honey. Don’t let me forget that. See, I adore honey and so now I’ve got cheese and meat and honey and red wine and my tastebuds feel like Odysseys strapped to the ship’s mast as he passes the Sirens…wanting just a little more of the temptation…just a little bit more.
So do we indulge in this temptation? In Italy, the correct answer is and always has been yes.
Trattoria del Tribunale.
Why not start with cheese? Because if you call this just cheese you deserved to be shackled to a donkey and mocked. This is somewhere between cheese and ambrosia. By itself it is a meal, and the perfect blend of saltiness and nuttiness in the cheeses in Parma is unrivaled. It’s change your life, walk out in traffic because it can’t get any better than this good.
And we hadn’t even had dinner yet! So I’m skipping on the picture of risotto because I can’t figure out how to take a picture that doesn’t look like oatmeal. You know, just porcini mushroom risotto with fresh grated…what do you think we grated on it? Right then. As you do.
This beautiful creation was a braised beef stew that fell apart before you ever touched it with your fork. I think there was polenta but frankly I’m not sure.
The next day we did some…stuff? And then ate again. There’s a few churches and whatnot. But come on, we’re here to eat. So we did.
It’s a good thing Italy wasn’t on the way back from Troy, or Odysseys never would have made it home. Homemade torteloni stuffed with fresh herbs and ricotta cheese in a sage butter sauce. Jenni had to restrain me at this point.
I’ve been around the world eating delicious food. I’ve eaten at Alinea, twice. Il Mulino, twice. Been to restaurants owned by Batali, Emeril, Wolfgang (the good ones, not the crap ones), lived in Rome for six months, had duck at an incredible restaurant in Paris, eaten amazing pastas all over southern Italy and had breakfast so good I almost cried at Thomas Keller’s Bouchon. I know what good food is.
And then.
And then I went to Bologna.
Bologna, the capital of Emilia Romagna, therefore the food capital of Italy, and therefore you probably won’t find a city more responsible for such an incredible array of excellent food products in the world. Dinner was in the student district where a very surly hostess tried to sit us right next to two people in an EMPTY restaurant. She literally pulled the other half of their table away and wanted us to sit next to them. In an empty room. When we asked to move it was like we punched her cat or something. It was all okay when these dishes arrived:
Tagliatelle con ragu on top, and rigatoni al forno on the bottom. The tagliatelle was excellent, but just a warm up to the rigatoni. Mushrooms, sausage, and a slightly sweet, acidic cream sauce that blended so smoothly with the spice in the dish. Of course, fresh grated Parm cheese on top.
THAT dinner proved to be nothing but a teaser for tomorrow’s lunch.
Osteria dei Poeti. An old wine cellar beneath a palazzo serving pasta “fatto a mano” – made by hand. This tagliatelle con ragu…it’s not an exaggeration to say it changed my life. The meat has actually been braising since the late 1600′s. The pasta itself is delicate and at the same time perfectly hearty. But it’s the sauce that works its magic on you as soon as you smell it. On a cold day, when you’re freezing, it warms you all over with the power of a fire, warm blanket, hot chocolate, chicken noodle soup AND pasta all in one. Then it tucks you in, serves you warm milk and cookies, and reads you a bedtime story.
The picture doesn’t do it justice and neither do my words. I have found my last meal. That’s all there is too it.
For dinner we tried a more modern restaurant in Bologna. (In Italy modern is like 1700 and beyond but this was really modern) Expecting to be disappointed somewhat we were just wowed again. Jenni ordered stuffed pasta with pumpkin and bacon, smothered in a balsamic reduction that had hints of chocolate. I ordered papardelle “fatto a mano” with porcini mushrooms and bacon (of course).
Our traveler’s last stop was Modena, home to Ferrari and aceto-balsamico, commonly called balsamic vinegar in the US. Like Champagne, it can ONLY come from Modena or it’s not real aceto-balsamico. The goal: find real balsamic and bring back spoils for the uninitiated to try. The result: lunch like you’ve never eaten.
My friend Francesca Amadei recommended this restaurant to us which, for security purposes, shall remain nameless. She told me it was “familiar” and that Ada the owner/chef/waitress/everything would tell stories and poke fun at us and whatnot. What actually occurred was beyond all expectation.
It really is this woman’s house, and there are maybe 15 spots. If you’re late, get out. Vegetarian? Sorry, get out. Don’t eat pork? Um, you’re in Emilia Romagna. GET OUT! Lunch was 4 primi piatti, 1 secondo, 2 dolci, caffe, vino, and three or four sides, I can’t remember. All through lunch Ada herself was serving, clearing, cooking, and regaling us with stories of her lewd past. She is truly a one-woman show in and of herself, and is more than reason to go. If you can find it. I’m not telling where it is.
1.1 Orecchiette con pomodori – the roasted tomatoes bursted with a sweetness that could make Willy Wonka himself blush.
1.2 Sage and Rosemary Tortoloni stuffed with ricotta. The pasta was dark green and tasted of sage and rosemary. The best pasta itself I’ve ever had.
1.3 Lasagna Bolognese
1.4 Tortellini in brodo
2 Braised pork shank with roasted vegetables – do I really have to explain again that braising is the best way to cook anything, and pork is the best thing to cook, so when you braise pork…well…if Michelangelo sculpted food he would have sculpted braised pork, that’s for sure.
At the end….
At the end of the meal she asked us and one other table where we were from. Chicago and Boston. The entire restaurant erupts – everyone had family, friends, or worked or lived in one of those two cities. Instantly we were all friends. As you bask in the warmth of the kitchen, the warmth of the food, and the warmth of new friends, you realize you’re living la dolce vita, just like they say you should.
As you stumble back out onto the street, eyes adjusting to the light because it took you three hours to eat lunch, you can’t help but want to stay, to throw everything else out the window and just LIVE, here, now, delicious, full, amazing life the way it was intended to be.
As Homer had two stories so too will we – our next trip goes to Mantova for a home cooked meal that redefines lunch yet again.
A dopo tutti…
Cafe con Giorgio Armani
When visiting Milan one must stop at least once by the Armani megalopolis that is his flagship store, cafe, restaurant, another restaurant, club, hotel, spa, theme park, water park, movie theater, farm, nuclear research facility, space shuttle launching pad, race track, football stadium, symposium, palace and petting zoo. (The truth in that sentence stopped somewhere around “hotel”)
So Jenni and I did, and had coffee and cocktails at his new cafe that just opened. All sorts of beautiful people walked in and even dressed somewhat nicely I felt like I had been cleaning horse stables all day or something. Quite a few old guys with small dogs and fur coats. Then in walks a man in black velvet with perfectly combed, bleach white hair. I whisper to Jenni “I think that’s Giorgio Armani himself” She refused to believe me but he was walking around and as he was, every employee was jumping. Finally this 6’3″ blonde used-t0-be-model gets up and says “Buona sera Sr. Armani.”
Damn – we were having coffee with Giorgio Armani. I could have reached out and touched his exquisite velvet…whatever you call what he was wearing. But I did not. Story doesn’t end there.
I go upstairs in the bathroom, and as I’m washing my hands, guess who comes out of the bathroom and washes his hands next to me?
Emilio Estevez! The Mighty Ducks man himself!
No, really, it was Giorgio Armani. So I said good evening and ran out before he could force me into a modeling contract or something absurd.
Jenni was there, she’ll tell you. She was the one who called the fashionista’s name. She was like “Giorgioooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
True story.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh….Milano!
My passport is almost a full ten years old, and needs to be renewed in 2011. About 8 years ago, I also washed it. Yeah, I know I know. But that doesn’t change the fact that I washed it. So it’s a bit frayed and, as I discovered in Istanbul, the part near the picture is actually starting to come apart. The kindly border patrol agent (Round ‘em up, as fast as you can, with one truck, or this country’s gonna be way too big!) at the airport wouldn’t let me pass for about 15 minutes because he didn’t trust it. Several supervisors were called over, all of whom looked at him like he was an idiot because my passport’s only been stamped about 15 times in the past few weeks.
My favorite part was when he asked me – “Where are you from in the States?”
Me – “Chicago”
Him – “But you’re going to Milan. Why are you going to Milan?”
You’re right buddy, because everyone leaving Istanbul should be going immediately home. Ya’ jerk.
Then, on the plane, I get up to use the bathroom, and one of the two lavatories has been marked “occupied” for almost 20 minutes. There was a very long line to use the facilities so I counted. I knocked on the door to no answer, so I start thinking there’s a terrorist on board putting together some sort of bomb! After several attempts to ask the stewardesses what was going on, one finally spoke enough English to tell me the bathroom was out of order.
Needless to say, after being taken for a ride several times, I was so happy to land in Milan. Almost immediately I started smiling again and felt better. There’s just something in the air over here…
I found my apartment very easily, got settled in, and met my roommate Abby when she showed up. Per Facebook, I immediately bought several bottles of wine and started enjoying the fruits of the land.
Despite the dollar being worth about 1 Euro cent, wine is still super cheap over here. So too are Belgian Ales. My favorite beer, Chimay Blue, costs about $9 in the US. It costs 1 Euro 50 cents over here. Fantastic.
Apertivo
Milan so far has been cold and rainy, so I haven’t gotten too many shots of things outdoors. Which means I’ve spent my time indoors, usually in bars or restaurants. And usually at apertivo, one of the greatest things ever invented.
Basically you pay for your drinks and get an unlimited amount of buffet style food from about 6 to about 9. The more crowded the place, the earlier it tends to end for some reason. The buffet isn’t going to have the best pastas, but the pizzas and contorni (sides, veggies, etc) are always good. You won’t find meats either. But you will get incredibly full for the price of a few beers, which is nice. Apertivo has been about a four to five times weekly occurrence.
Tall Italians
Quick side note here – there is an unusual species of people here, one I am not used to. This idea of the “tall Italian.” We’re talking ladies about 5’11, 6 feet and guys 6’2″, 6’3″. Very interesting – at Easter mass in Tropea in 2003 I was the tallest person in the building by at least a foot. Tropea is in the very south of Italy, FYI. Up here it’s different – I don’t stand out at all.
The Food
I mean come on, that’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it? This is supposed to be a food blog and I’m in ITALY for Pete’s sake! We practically invented food!
Speaking of the invention of food, let’s dispel with a little food myth right off the bat. The Chinese did not teach the Italians how to make pasta. Please. Let’s take a look at this from several angles shall we?
1 – The myth says Marco Polo went to China and brought back recipes for making noodles. However Italian cookbooks predating his visit to China contain recipes that call for pasta. So chronologically that’s a big fail.
2 – Let’s look at noodle construction. While certain similarities do exist for the most part Chinese noodles look and taste nothing like Italian pastas. I like Chinese food and noodles, but they’re not the same. So on texture, appearance, and taste large differences exist.
3 – Rice noodles. Both cultures use rice extensively and yet the Chinese make rice noodles and the Italians make…not rice noodles. Why didn’t this technique transfer over? I don’t know. Probably because the Italians already had their system figured out.
Points 2 and 3 are more or less observational but point 1 can be fact-checked, so if you disagree go do that…
Now. Where were we?
Ah yes, we were making a poor man’s Bolognese sauce and sneaking sips from that big magnum of wine you see in the background.
Instead of taking the full three or so hours I caramelized some onions, browned some ground beef and pork, and simmered with some tomato sauce for about 30-45 minutes. Then topped with some fresh ground pepper and freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano and served over bucatini pasta.
Here’s my fellow Booth student and newly acquired sous-chef Toshi working some cheese magic over a beautiful spread:
When all was said and done, we laid it down like this:
I mean, picture kinda says it all. That’s about how we’ll be doing it from here on out. Much more of that to come. Spaghetti Carbonara is on deck – Toshi wants to learn how to cook a bunch of different Italian foods so we’ll be working our way through some traditional dishes here.
After my Italy for the gourmet traveler book showed up, I had a list of places to check out in Milan. By far my favorite so far (and, will probably remain for the time I’m here) is Gastronomia Peck. It’s a specialty food store selling all different kinds of cheese, meats, steaks, seafoods, chocolate, tea, oils, coffee and on and on. They won’t let you take pictures, but at the cafe upstairs there are no such rules. So here you go:
Prosciutto e Mozzarella
Lasagna Bolognese
Due cappuccini.
Peck is an absolute must-go and will be re-featured here. I will give a much more descriptive run-down of the food after one or two more visits.
In the interest of time I’m going to stop here for now. In the meantime since these events have taken place, I went snowboarding in the Alps, ran into Giorgio Armani himself, made spaghetti carbonara, gone inside the Duomo, and may have set up an interview with an MD from one of the Italian banks. So that’s what we’ve got to look forward to.
But now I’m heading off to Modena, Parma, Bologna, and Mantua. Back in a week!
Ciao tutti!
$138.00 for a beer in Istanbul?!?!?!
We’ll get to that little traveler’s mishap in a moment, but before I do let’s talk Turk for a few minutes. After being stared at wherever I went for two and a half weeks straight, it was somewhat refreshing to be mistaken for one of the locals again. From the flight into Istanbul people approached me in Turkish more than in English, only to be somewhat shocked I didn’t speak Turkish and wasn’t from there. Not a bad start. Got into my hotel around 2:30 in the morning and passed out – I had 48 hours in Istanbul and wanted to make the most of it. Next morning, up at 8:00 and greeted by – downpour. Sheets of rain. After a rather long sigh, I got dressed and went to the 7th floor where my hotel served a delicious breakfast buffet. Now, I’m a huge fan of pho, and enjoyed the soups in Hong Kong for breakfast, but sometimes you just want coffee and a pastry. Or in my case, coffee and about 25 pastries, olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, yogurt, honey, and feta cheese sprinkled with paprika and chili pepper. So I enjoyed the cold breakfast and gazed out at the city and the sea as the rain gradually lifted. It was still overcast but at least I could walk around and do the touristy thing. Quick endorsement here: I usually abhor looking like a tourist and when in Italy refuse to carry a guidebook or large map. I’d rather wander around than admit I’m not supposed to be there. However with such a short time frame and so much to see in Istanbul, I picked up Rick Steeve’s guide and was blown away. It’s got much more on art and history and less on where to sleep and eat. The mosques and museums were what I expected, but his tour of the Grand Bazaar was amazing – and so as much as it kills me I’d have to recommend his book if you’d like a more in-depth tour of whatever city you’re visiting. Now that a part of me has died, let’s continue. First stop : The Blue Mosque. Never been in a mosque before so that was interesting. I have been in a large number of religious houses of worship and as ridiculous as this sounds, it takes a lot now for me to be really impressed. Did get a decent shot of the outside, despite the rain, from a back street -
Afterward I wandered around some more on my way to the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts. Saw a few smaller mosques, including one that claimed to have a piece of the tablet upon which Abraham had written down instructions from God. Three pieces, actually. Played with some features on the Canon S90, which I can’t say enough good things about. Here are a few random street shots for you visual people out there – 
Next up was the art museum, which had lots of pieces from the Ottoman Empire, Islamic history, and Turkish history. Full of furniture for some reason. One of my favorites was this piece: 
The inscription reads: “You are only at the beginning of your journey.” So…I got that going for me.
Lunch was a quick kabob of a mix of lamb and beef accompanied by some lentil “meat”balls. My food pics from Istanbul are lackluster – my apologies. And by lackluster I mostly mean just lacking.
On to Hagia Sophia. Revisiting my previous statement about churches, my jaw literally dropped when I stepped inside. I didn’t take any pictures because you should go see it for yourself. It’s pretty amazing.
Perhaps my favorite part is the mosaic of Empress Zoe and two other guys. One of the other guys is Jesus, so that’s pretty standard. The other is her husband. However if you look closer, you see the inscriptions above the head of her husband looks like it’s been erased. Story goes she had one husband, couldn’t produce a male heir, he “dies”, she marries again, guy croaks again, she marries yet a third time. So instead of changing this massive mosaic she just erases dude’s name and keeps re-doing it! You may not agree with it, but you gotta respect it. Keep it real Empress Zoe. Keep it real.
Now it was time to relax and do a bit of shopping. I knew that heading to Milan was going to be disastrous for my bank account. A funny thing was happening as I traveled around the world. In Vietnam it was 18,000 VND to the dollar. Then in Hong Kong it was $7HK to $1USD. Now in Istanbul it was about $1.50 TL to the dollar. Upon arriving in Milan it would be about 0.69 Euro per $USD. I was getting poorer as I traveled around the globe. So I had to take advantage of some purchasing power, right? And it turns out my favorite jeans company is a Turkish company. Jeans that sell for $100 in the US were selling for $50 in Turkey. And they have a huge flagship store on Istiklal street. Istiklal street is the main street in the New District, where people are just milling about, shopping, eating, and drinking. And that is how I ended up in an Irish pub in Istanbul speaking Italian.
I’m halfway through the 5th season of Lost, the greatest and most confusing show ever written in the history of TV. In this season they are presented with an opportunity to go back in time and kill the bad guy in the show, thereby erasing most of what has caused them misery over the previous four seasons. However, as far as I am in the season now – they cannot. They have to save his life. They are unable to remove the demons that put them where they are now. As I sat in the Irish bar in Istanbul listening to people speak Italian (not only am I worldly, I am alliterative as well) I couldn’t help but think of the parallels. When certain things happen and you can’t see the good at the time, you never know where you’ll end up six months, a year later. I sat there with a huge dumb grin on my face. Life will do its worst and somehow manage to bring out the best. As I left the bar it was pouring rain, just pouring. Everyone was running home. I walked, the two miles to my hotel. Over the Galata Bridge, where only fishermen were out, hoping to secure the last little bit of food before they went in for the night. So I stayed and watched them do their thing for a bit – knowing I was the only tourist dumb enough to stand in the rain and watch fisherman reel in empty rods. I laughed again, thinking about the possibility of going back in time and removing some of the negatives I’ve encountered, and how doing that would not put me here, now in this incredible circumstance. Everything bad that had happened was a lesson or an opportunity.
Unfortunately it was a lesson I apparently had to learn again, the following night.
After touring Topkapi Palace and the infamous Harem, and the Grand Bazaar, and the Spice Market, I needed a quick nap. I was so tired from two straight weeks of travel that I almost fell down in the Spice Market. After my nap I decided I was going to grab a quick dinner and then call it a very early night. On my way out of the hotel I almost bumped into two Turkish guys who, once again, assumed I was Turkish too. After discovering I wasn’t, one suggested we go for a beer. I said, what the hell, I’m traveling, may not be here again, let’s do this. One beer, under the bridge where about 20 or so seafood restaurants are. After this one beer I informed them I needed food cause I was getting very hungry. The ringleader of this two-man clan suggests we go to Taksim square where we can get street food, which I what I wanted. At this point something started going off in my mind, but I decided I was just being overly cautious and somewhat prejudiced, so I pushed it away and tried to convince myself it was fine. But they were slightly too friendly too quickly.
After a less-than-satisfying kabob sandwich we start looking for this bar that plays Turkish music for “one beer, then we go.” Yeah, right. They say it’s right around the square, but then all of a sudden they announce we need to take a cab. Warning sign number 3, if you include the fact that they tried to pay for my food. Beer is one thing. But food is just weird.
I get in this cab, and the cab ride turns into something way too long to have walked, or to be considered “close” to the square at all. Warning sign number 4. But convincing myself I was being stupid, and it was fine, I go in this busted-looking place called “Bar Club.” Um….yeah. I know, I know. At this point this looks like my fault.
When we walk downstairs yet another warning sign hits – the bar is empty save for what can only be walruses that escaped from the local zoo dancing onstage. Upon closer inspection they were actually females so it was both reassuring and frightening at the same time. I lost whatever remaining sense of humor I had right then and there. Not only was I all hooker’ed-out by this point, but you don’t say “hey let’s go listen to music” and by “music” you really mean “to a brothel.” Not cool guys, not cool. I can’t say enough negative things about the bar itself or the inhabitants of said bar. It looked like it was straight out of a 70′s adult flick and smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was opened.
Sure enough, after we order a beer, two girls come over. There are three of us, so I sort of wonder why only two come over. Then I realize. Couches have a weight limit. Three wouldn’t have fit. The girl who sits between me and one of the other guys introduces herself and asks if she can have a drink. I point to the other guy and say “He’s buying, ask him.” She tries to chit-chat and I am about as rude as can be. The Candy Bar in Cambodia wasn’t exactly my thing, but even Brandy can attest to this – the girls there were at least funny. Also cute, but cute or not I’m not really into professionals. And the girls in Istanbul could have eaten the girls in Cambodia for appetizers and still been hungry. Anyway I digress. She she asks me where I am from, I say the US (mistake on my part – we’re all rich, right?) and she tells me where she’s from. I can’t make this up.
Khazakstan.
I almost spit my beer out. She asks “You know this place? Not many people do?” I said “anyone who’s seen Borat knows this place! Let me guess, you are sixth best prostitute in Khazakstan?” She didn’t get it. So, despite what happens next, I met a real-life prostitute from Khazakstan.
Halfway through my beer I turn to idiot #1 and say I’m out after this beer. They can stay but I’m getting my coat and going. They’re chain smoking cigarettes like they think global warming is a good thing and I’m just super annoyed at this point. Then the bill comes.
He turns to me and says, we can split this, yes? I’m thinking 40, 50 bucks? 3 beers and 4 glasses of wine. My beers twice that size the night before were about $3 a pop.
No.
670 YTL and at about a 1.4 exchange rate that’s $479.00. For 3 beers and 4 glasses of wine.
I almost completely lost my mind. I start yelling at the two guys and that’s when things got ugly. Immediately five gigantic Turkish guys in black suits, black shirts, and black ties come over. One puts his hand on my shoulder and asks what the problem is.
“What’s the problem? These guys are a*holes, that’s what the problem is. I had one beer and you want me to pay almost $200?”
“Well it needs to be paid.”
“I’m a STUDENT, do you know what that means??? It means I don’t have this kind of money, I don’t care what you think about Americans!”
The two guys talk amongst themselves in Turkish (never a good sign) and one turns to me. “I pay 470 and you pay 200?”
“200? I had ONE BEER!”
“Yes but your girl…”
“MY GIRL? SHE WAS NOT MY GIRL!!!!”
At this point the “bouncers” make it clear that I’m upsetting them and that I need to calm down.
Deciding that tonight is not, in fact, a good night to die, I acquiesce and hand him my credit card. “We don’t accept cards.” Of course not you back-water degenerate meathead. Why would you? (that was purely an internal monologue).
One of the bouncers escorts me to the nearest ATM, I take out 200 YTL and slap it down when I get back inside. They count it, I said “we’re good?” and the head meathead says “We’re good.” I run upstairs faster than I ever ran in high school and bolted for a cab. The two guys I came with are running after me, trying to get me to stop. Knowing full well I will attack them if I slow down, I keep going toward my cab. As I get in, I do turn around and yell out a string of profanity that would make Clark Griswald mighty proud, then immediately tell the cab to get the heck out of there.
I checked my bank account later, and it amounted to $138.00. $138.00 in extortion, to get away with my life. Those two guys were obviously connected to the bar, and knew as soon as I said I was American that they were gonna take me to this brothel type place. Tell you what guys, you wanna make some real money, get some real girls! I wouldn’t have paid but other suckers will.
So incredibly mad at the time, looking back it is a pretty good story. I was genuinely scared when those bouncers/mob guys whatever they were came over and put their hand on my shoulder. That crossed some comfort lines. I can say with absolutely certainty I have never paid more for one beer.
At the end of it all, it’s just one more successful interaction between Muslims and Christians, I guess…
Now, please excuse me, as I’m safely in Milan and there is much vino to be had, pastas to be sampled, and pizzas to savor.
A domani…
