Author: Mara L.

Are you just cleaning out your fridge to leave for several weeks? Off to board a plane to Italy? Of course! As you should. In my last contribution to Jens’ blog, I was somewhat cautious regarding the culinary virtues of some parts of the Mediterranean. And here’s more – more words of caution (and a recommendation for those who love ravioli). Now it is still time to rethink your route, in the eternal search for places that have not been entirely ruined by tourism. (You, of course, are not a tourist. You *live* in the various places you go to!)

But in case you are a little bit of a tourist anyway (perhaps some of my much valued and highly appreciated readers actually are Americans!), then here are my overdue warnings: Do not go to Venice, Florence, or Rome. This may sound shocking and entirely unwelcome. Are not these the places with all the great museums and the amazing atmosphere? Yes and no. If you find a week in the year that is neither high-season nor mid-season nor completely dead (with literally every café closed, like Venice in January, more on that in a minute), then you’re a genius and should be awarded a prize for mastering the high art of traveling. If not, then these are the places where you can be sure to be hated, deeply and efficiently. If you put yourself into the shoes of the actual inhabitants of these cities for just one minute, it will be obvious why hatred and masterful exploitation is the only possible response open to them.

The sad thing about this is that these cities, in theory, are amazingly beautiful. In fact, however, they are entirely spoilt. Let me record my latest attempt at outwitting this dilemma, a failure of the most miserable kind. I decided that, no matter how many tourists, Venice was still one of the loveliest places on earth. So I rented an apartment for all of January, thinking naively that it might be romantic to be there in the middle of winter. The apartment was actually quite beautiful. And I did like the little stores nearby. But the experience as a whole was a nightmare. It turned out that, by now, the city lives so much by tourism, that, in January (that is, after the brief spike of tourism for New Year’s Eve and prior to the Carnevale in February), basically everything was dead. With tourism subtracted, hardly anything was left! Countless stores geared up for Carnevale—with all the ridiculously stupid masks that tourists seem to buy no end. Cafés were closed for redecoration, so as to survive the next onslaught of the masses. You got an undisguised view of the industry which tourism is, and the ruins it leaves behind.

The one thing I loved, however, was a tiny store that sells fresh pasta in Via Garibaldi. It belongs to the Via Garibaldi market, but it’s in an actual house, to the right hand when you begin your stroll through the market (which has great fish, fruit, and vegetables – you don’t want to pay the prices at the Rialto markets!). I bought fresh ravioli there every other day, so much did I like it. However, you’ll have to give up on the New York idea that ravioli could be bought one day and eaten the next. Having gotten used to this American way of dealing with fresh pasta I made the grave mistake to ask them, on a Saturday, whether they had any kind that could be eaten on Sunday. No! (Was I a tourist after all, even though I spoke Italian and had happily bought intricate varieties of pasta in the last couple of weeks?) On Sundays you’ll have to eat gnocchi.

Coming up: Back In Mother’s Kitchen

It just occurs to me that, now that summer is nearly here, I should add a word of caution to my culinary musings about the virtues of Mediterranean cooking. I am just reminded that some of my friends here came back in shock from trips to Spain, and they came rather close to putting the blame on me: Why hadn’t I told them that any normal health-conscious Manhattanite is entirely lost there?

The story goes that fried food and red-meat-overeating are American preoccupations, but in fact, Spain is all frittata and jamon (that’s tortilla and, as people here would say, prosciutto from Serrano). Not to forget tons of mayonnaise. One of my classmates actually was Spanish and she used to eat whole jars of Mayonnaise, but let’s not even think about that. Paella all too often swims in heavy yellow olive oil. And so on. (It’s somewhat better at the key touristy seaside places, during high-season, but who wants to be there?)

So, it is best to travel to Spain via Italy, get a suitcase full of Grancereale (see my previous entry), and consider yourself on a diet of fruit and nut. That’s by the way also my strong recommendation for anyone from Manhattan traveling to more remote places in Greece.

However, I have a somewhat more appealing suggestion for those who don’t want to travel quite that far, and want to give Spanish food a try. There’s one thing that needs to be said in favor of it: If consumed with style, and that means, with fino—that’s how you refer to the dry sherry you drink in bars—bar food is a whole way of life. And such a charming one! And even better, if the tapas (that’s how the Spanish call the tiny dishes) are somewhat modernized. For that, I recommend venturing to Brooklyn’s tapas bar Zipi Zape. It’s an entirely fun, colorful place, where you can have a delicious bite of quail or a nicely lemonized shrimp in the middle of the afternoon, enjoy café con leche or a sip of fino, and feel like, this year, you almost don’t need this trip to Europe.

Coming up: Where Not To Go In Italy (Or: Who Hates Their Tourists Most…)

I have been incredibly busy in the last few days, and so I am slower than I like in writing my culinary notes for Jens’ blog. I have been busy for the obvious reason that, finally, the summer is near. This means, the heartwarming life in Italy is near! Not, of course, that departure would be easy. Leaving for more than a few weeks is like moving (including the psychological upheaval of ‘who am I?’, ‘where am I going in life?’, etc.). But more than that, panic is creeping up: I’m not sure that I want to leave. Isn’t Manhattan the only place on earth where one can be oneself? Thus, a time of conflict!

And therefore, a time to remind myself of a part of my life which will fall into place once I am back in Italy: Grancereale biscotti for breakfast. For those of you who don’t know them, these are cereal cookies, from the venerable company Mulino Bianco, part of the omnipresent Barilla Group. How can I live one day without Grancereale? In fact, I can’t! This is the best ‘healthy’ cookie you can possibly think of. Come to think of it, I don’t know how I am getting through all the meals at my desk without my dearly loved Grancereale cookies. (There are a few varieties, but I like to the one that came first, Grancereale Classico.)

If any proof were needed for the obvious truth that Italian cooking is the best in the western hemisphere, I think it could be this: Germans and Swiss have been eating ‘muesli’ for centuries. Italians have certainly never eaten anything like muesli. But with the wake of health-conscious eating, who invents the perfect muesli-cookie? The Italians.

If this blog reaches any bussiness-people out there, here’s an idea: Become the sole importer of Grancereale cookies. If I ever run out of ideas in architecture, this is my back-up plan. It would feel like a ‘good deed’, and I would finally get rich!

Coming up: Manhattan Summer Treats