The Runaway Cook

http://lakehouse-garden.blogspot.com/

Note to all travelers staying in hostels. It is no longer the flirtatious smile and innocent giggle that can save you money at your next point of rest. Rather it is bringing lost travelers to your host who end up staying where you were that please him enough to take 23 Euro off your bill. That's right folks. I happened to meet four young travelers on the train from Verona to Venice in the wee hours of the morning and told them about the superb location and bathrooms of my hostel. They needed a place to stay and I brought them back with me. After a short conversation with the owner he decided to knock off a night from my bill. YES!

So what have we learned my friend. That even at 4am it is vital to talk to the traveler next to you, they just might get you where you need to go or save you a few bucks!

I stare at the fountain in it's grey granger simplistic beauty of providing a steady stream of water. Why is it that Italians are so obsessed with fountains I wonder. CRRRUNCH! I pause, slurp, wipe the sticky-sweet juice off my chin, and chew my apple as I ponder this question. Hmmmmm, maybe italians constantly fine themselves parched and decided to remedy this problem with a fountain round every corner instead of a starbucks or dunkin dounuts . . . Nope! There are cafes in every piazza. Ok, how about for the beauty of it? Italians love beautiful architecture don't they? I mean Rome is full of big beautiful fountains, but then again Venice is full of ugly little water squirting fountains that will never be photographed by a tourist.

I have just tussled and twisted my locks on top of my head in a combination of curls and braids with the few bobby pins I have left and a couple rubber bands. My cheeks are dusted with rosy blush and my lips look wet from the multiple layers of gloss. I think I am abut ready. All that's left now is to gently pack my red satin pumps and red dress into my giant purse and take off for the train station.

Why am I all gussied up and about stuff a gorgeous outfit in my purse? I'm off to see the Opera in Verona. I'm so excited. I've bought my tickets about three months ago and I've been anticipating watching my first opera in the city of Romeo and Juliet seated in a stone arena that's hundreds of years old.

I am here! The train ride was smooth and I think I was smiling the whole time. I probably freaked out the guy next to me, hehe. Oh well.  I have just gone into a fast food joint equivalent to a Pappa John's, found the bathroom and transformed myself into a classy-looking lady rather than a khakhi-wearing tourist. I'm pretty sure I got a double take from the people working there who were certain nobody in a red dress entered their establishment, but was now leaving.

Before I see this fantastic Puccini-written Opera, I have got to spoil myself with my last dinner in Italy. It's bittersweet to be heading to Germany tomorrow, and I have to make the most of these last few hours here.

I walk the cobblestone streets in my five in heels passing one fancy restaurant after another. The Verona Arena is surrounded by large piazza bordered by restaurant after restaurant. The menus here are pretty pricy, but I settle on a fancy al fresco seat just outside the pizza. The tables look nice, the plates of food look better and the menu has some items that sound to-die-for.

I received a pretty smooth invitation from a handsome waiter and well that was the figurative light to the sign telling me "EAT (blink) HERE (blink)." He hands me the menu and says hello. As he delicately pours me a glass of water, he asks, "So, what are you doing out all by yourself is such a beautiful dress?"


I ask or gnocci with porchini mushrooms.  What arrived to my table was beyond my expectations. the gnoccies were perfectly shaped and glisten with the sauce that just couldn't let go of them. The mushrooms are meaty and definitely fresh.  The herbs and mushrooms are so aromatic that part of me wants to just bend my head toward the bowl and breathe in deeply. Out of the fear that doing this may cause strange looks from my hot waiter, I restrain myself.


My first bite is pure heaven. This is the best gnocci I've ever had. The starch pillow resists my bite and yet slowly melts on my tongue. The buttery potato taste is distinct and not covered up by the rich earthy sauce but enhanced. The mushrooms are nutty and have a fleshy texture that is far to luscious for me to keep my eyes open while eating them.

Sadly, my bowl is now empty, and I'm wishing for just another delectable bite. As my handsome man, grabs my plates, he looks and me with a grin and sighs. "I wish I did no't have to work tonight."

"Oh? Why?" What a strange thing to confess to me right now. I am a little confused

"Well If I was not working, I could take you to the opera tonight." He looks away and smiles. I am silent, and smile as well. I'm not sure what to say to this charmer. He's probably just another Italian man who feels like the ultimate man since he is from Verona, Italy.  Yet, this is a nice compliment. I mean he could have just said nothing since he knew there was no way to go with me . . . then again, he could have thought I'd just give him more than the required gratuity if he flattered me. Either way, I have blushing cheeks and a smile that's hurting from overuse and I'm pleased to be having been complimented and even bamboozled.

The walk up the exceptionally steep steps of the Arena is a bit much for my 4 inch heels but I make it. Seating is by section here so one can sit anywhere that there's an empty slab of stone. The sun begins to set just as the performance begins. A tradition here in Verona is to light small candles and hold them once twilight hits making the curved stone structure twinkle as the orchestra begins to play.

I'm definitely in the nosebleed section here, but I can still hear the music as if I were on the floor. The violin section must be huge, but it sounds ad if only one is playing. Amazingly, I can see all five harps from up here. They looks so small next to what must be a stage the size of my town hall.  On top of that the stage is filled with fantastic costumed singers with flowing fabric as lovely as their strong voices.

Although I barely speak the necessities of Italian, I am able to follow the story quite well. A geisha falls in love with a military man. However, thier love is challenged and . . . I'll leave out the ending so I don't spoil it for you.

I do wish that I could have known the words the lovers sang back and forth to each other. It must have been beautiful. by the end of the night, I was all mushy inside. I guess love is a language that need not be restricted by words. . . .Now I'm getting sappy.

On more every-day type side note, I have just realized that I have gum all over the back of my dress. Apparently, someone placed a bit of gum on the stones directly behind me just before I sat down. Now from my leaning forward and back it has been smudged into a gum-tastrophy encompassing my entire back. How this is possible, I have no idea. I guess that's why people in the cheap seats don't dress up like people on the ground floor. . .another tidbit that would have been good to know before this evening. Ugg, thank goodness I have other clothing in my purse fro the ride home.


I'm so happy I did this, dinner was perfect, and well my life wouldn't be mine if some strange something hadn't have been part of tonight. We will see what the rest of this evening brings. It's only 11-something and my train isn't until 4:30am so this should be an interesting evening.

photo by: http://sassandveracity.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452fd3369e20111685bb074970c-500wi

Wandering on my own today has brought me to some interesting places. Today, I'd have to say was one for the books. Believe it or not I found a small wine shop that sells wine by the liter or half-liter from a large bottle with a hose in it. All the wine is from a local mainland winery and they don't just sell to tourists, the local venetians fill up their bottles here. It's like pumping gas in a way. Just come with your vessel and the guy will bill you for whatever it holds. HA! And if you don't have something to put the wine in, they'll put it in one of their many plastic bottles.

I hot half a liter of pinot grigio and half a liter of a red blend. Two very easy drinking wines. but worth the 4 Euros I they cost me.

Tonight is Peter's last night in Venice and Italy for that matter. He is headed to Austria. We have yet to find a place that has given us a meal worth slobbering over the story that we tell our loved ones and we are bound and determined to find just that. After asking many locals and getting a bit lost, we have found the Trattoria Storica after talking with a man behind the front desk of a very small and beautiful hotel. He Claimed that this was one of the best places for pasta and fish.

He was right. I ordered a pasta dish with garlic, tomatoes, herbs and scampi that was luscious! The perfectly al dente pasta was coated in a rich film of peppery olive oil. Garlic hung in the air above my plate and clung to each bite I twirled around my fork. The scampi was tender and naturally sweet and rich in minerality which was complimented by the sweet and acidic cherry tomatoes. It was simple but enough to make the sound of happiness vibrate my vocal cords: MMMMMMM!

I couldn't have been more pleased with my dish. However, I could have done away with the mosquitoes that kept catching me off guard. After a few slaps our waiter brought over a bottle of bug spray and left it at the table with kind not of his head. We spared everything but the food and it seemed to help some.

We each ordered a filet of fish as well as our pasta dished. We were both excited when out waiter push a gueridon to our table and deboned the grilled creatures in front of us. Mine was gilled a little longer than my liking but was still good.

I would suggest this restaurant to you all. Venice is a beautiful Italian city, but finding a place with delicious pasta took three attempts. If only finding delicious and authentic cuisine was as easy as it is to admire the architecture.

I would have never imagined getting to a restaurant that had obnoxiously wonderful reviews on the NY Times website would be so difficult. Tonight all began when Peter and I decided that as culinarians, we wanted to splurge on some splendid Venetian fare for our dinner. I had done some research prior to leaving the states on places to go and we used my base to find what we imagined would be the perfect place. I called and made a reservation at this on-the-water experience and wrote down the address and marked it on the map. However, after a long walk and going back a forth between the only to restaurants in the area, we realized that this restaurant was so perfect, that we and no one we asked could find it.

The morning is still young, my swim suit is on, map in my hand, Norwegian at my side and get with my backpack on his back. We are headed to the beach today, but not until we have picked up our breakfast and lunch at a market that is said to have exceptionally fresh fish and produce.

Just inside a large brick building with wide open walls, is a sea without water. My eyes can't stop staring at the glossy creatures laid out shaved ice. So many suction cups and so many scales! From prawns and shrimp to giant fish and octopus, there's so much of everything, even bins full of snails.  It's hard not to just buy a fish with the sound of the Grand Canal swishing next to us.

Our goal is to make a picnic today so we must press on to the produce. Every stone fruit you could imagine is here. Cherries, nectarines, round peaches, flat peaches, purple plums, and even these amazing little oblong yellow plums. All these Italian grown stone fruits are spectacularly delicious and my absolute weakness, even more than gelato and pasta. The hazy skin of a plum and the bright red of a nectarine beckon my euros and leave my fingers wet and sticky from their sweet juice. Needless to day my breakfast today was a peach.

Men behind the tables yell in multiple languages convincing locals and tourists alike that their food is the best. Remember no touching! Just tell the person behind the table "for today" or "for later" and they will give you what you need. But if you are eyeing what seems to be the perfect peach out in front they'll let you grab it.

Today I'm doing all the talking. Peter and I pick out fruits and I dig through out pooled euros and get what we need. Then the precious bags get slipped into the backpack and we move to the next table.  Everything is going pretty smoothly and then I see them, grape tomatoes on the vine. More red than a tub of grandma's lipstick these little orbs look fantastic. I ask to see them and am offered a taste. The skin taught skin popped from the pressure of my teeth. Sweet and sour juice explodes over my taste buds and I buy two bunches. More than I need but I just can't help myself. Indulging in tomatoes isn't really an indulgence is it?

Next we step into a cheese shop, Casa Del Parmigiano . Here cheese is practically a food group on its own. Hanging in the doorway are long plastic garlands to perhaps ward off pigeons. Two small graying men stand behind two conservative-looking, clear cases of cases filled with rows of cheese. Four bookshelves hold rounds of hard cheeses accompanied by a couple of prosciutto legs hanging from the ceiling. Today Camembert, Asiago, and salami are the winners. Sweet smiles come from behind the counter and accented laughs give way to a ciao as we step out the door.


Our pack is getting full but we have got to get some bread. I'm thinking focaccia or something with a crust that crackles. Just a few steps away is a little bakery with exactly what I want. Peter and I pick out bread perfectly crisp baguettes.


The backpack is full and now it's time for the beach. Until next time my friends! Now where are those tomatoes?

The skinny streets of Venice

After a brief check-in with the strangest hostel-own I've met to date, Peter and I are off to see as many sights as we can that are listed in his revered travel book.  We also have a map with special locations highlighted. Peter's philosophy is to cross reference with his guide and forget about all the sights that aren't in his book. "It must not be important" he reasons. I giggle and go along with it since there are too many X's on the map to get to in one afternoon.

"How about you take the map and I'll read the book!" he says with that strong Norwegian, decisiveness. I agree and find that navigating these itsy-bitsy streets is pretty fun. With all the tiny roads and landmarks that amount to small fountains in widening parts of the street, it's little exciting to feel like I know where we are going.

Peter seems to be blindly following me so that too feels pretty good. I did get a little confused a couple times but with some gentle arguing we figured out where things were. I'm not sure how many bridges we crossed during the trek, somewhere close to 50 I think.

Our stops included chapels, shops, piazza, sainted squares, and famous bridges. The paintings in these chapels seem darker, in color and theme, than those of other cities. The very small church, San Rocco, had large dark paintings lining the walls and thick red drapes in the windows. What I remember most are the hanging lamps and wooden crucifix that seemed haunting. Perhaps it was a combination of the sun setting and the drapes keeping out the light or maybe just the strikingly gaunt look of the body, but I just can't seem to get that sculpture out of my head.  

Venice is gorgeous from above. The turquoise water is a pleasing contrast to sienna-colored roofs and gray stone streets. I can see San Giorgio Maggiore and the dome of the Santa Maria della Salute church. To top that off the sky is as perfectly blue as the water and there's just enough breeze to make me not want to go back down that elevator.  Eventually Peter tore me away from the view and we walked on.

To the left are the steps of the station and that bridge is the one we crossed to get to the hostel

Walk to far from the steps of the strain station and you fall right in. Shimmering and sloshing in its winding path, the Grand Canal more than grand. It's magnificent and surreal. Walking over these bridges every few feet and skipping along the seams of water and stones, I feel like I'm merely floating on the pearly green water.

My hostel happens to be just across from the train station, which means crossing a very tall bridge over the canal. I'm perfectly fine with a small hike up and down, but at this point my feet are half-dead, torn, and worn out more than my shoes. That, and the fact that this very large suitcase of gifts and belongings is as heavy as a middle schooler are going to mean trouble for me.

Luckily I am meeting my new friend from Norway who goes by "Peter" (an easier version of the norwegian counterpart)  has been patiently waiting for my train to arrive. I think I was more happy to see him standing there with is silly hat and dark shades than I was to eat my dinner that evening. I admit that one of my dreams is to have someone actually waiting for me at an airport or train station. Believe it or not, with all this traveling and even flying back and forth to school I rarely see someone waiting at the edge of the steps. So this occaision was more than a relief. To top that, this strapping man took my load of stuff and carried it over the Grand Canal and up the stairs to our hostel. What a peach!

At this point, I have officially entered heaven as he continues to tell me his "plan" for us. He explains he has scouted out Venice and the attractions a bit and states, "Tonight, we see the city and tomorrow we go to the beach."

I am floored at how prepared my buddy is. All signs of exhaustion have left me as well as my plan of a long shower and early bedtime. I mean who wouldn't want to take a late afternoon walk on the water?


Photos from other sources: http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1308/917931481_56bc104728.jpg
thewalkerhomeplace.com