Paris

For years I've been dreaming of visiting this glorious, romantic, mysterious and beautiful city. The fantasy of sitting at a cafe, sipping a café au lait and littering the table with shards of croissant left me breathless. Tearing off the end of a baguette so fresh that I can hear it. Bread so enticing that I have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk so I can concentrate on that crusty piece of baguette and ingrain the flavor forever in my memory.



And those little fantasies did happen.

We sat at a cafe right under the Sacré Cœur somewhere in Montmartre. We sipped wine in the early afternoon, underneath a shady row of trees, smearing cheese onto baguette slices. We must have spent more than an hour there; it felt so good to feel the soft breeze and the first signs of summer in the air.



Another day, on a grassy patch by the Sèvres-Babylone metro, we peeled off our sweaters to substitute for a picnic blanket and laid out our goods: croissants and chocolatines.


On a chilly rainy day we made a trip to Maison du Chocolat on Rue Sèvres. Outside, we ripped open our box of treasures and ate squares of roasted coconut and hazelnuts enrobed in dark chocolate ganache. I could feel the cold wind seep away from my bones, replaced with the warm truffle melting in my mouth.


We were mesmerized by the enormous chocolate sculptures in the Patrick Roger boutique on Boulevard Saint-Germain and left with 34 euros of chocolate (sadly, not for us). Upon exit, the kind cashier offered samples. I picked up a green marbled orb, took a little bite, and my eyes widened as luscious caramel sauce oozed out. There was a kick of citrus in the truffle--I only wish I wasn't so caring, since I gave the rest away to Milos.


Guided by David's trusty recommendations, we made it a mission to have gelato and/or ice cream everyday. First off was Amorino, with locations scattered all around the city, most of which we judiciously visited. Unfortunately, Amorino's foreign customer service needs serious improvement. While we were greeted with impatient rudeness each time we went, our friend -a local - flirtatiously chatted with the servers and got a custom, tulip-shaped, gelato for his efforts. If I had been born a handsome French male, I would have turned up the charm as well, but as it was the interactions between server and customer were perilous during our stay in Paris*.

Strolling through Le Marais, we found Pozzetto. It's small shop compared to Amorino, so small that anyone could easily miss it (but we didn't thanks to our sensitive gelato radar). We gingerly carried our towering cups of pistachio and hazelnut gelato to a nearby bench and sat in hungry silence.



But the award for Best Ice Cream in Paris goes to Berthillon. We made a trip to the Île Saint-Louis in the middle of the Seine, where the first Parisians are said to have inhabited. The streets are small here, the sidewalks narrow and an even tinier shop on Rue St. Louis sells ice cream (Berthillon is also sold in cafes everywhere in Paris--how convenient!). Berthillon opened its first store in 1954 and prides itself for not adding preservatives, artificial sweeteners or stabilizers to its ice creams.


There's a menu posted outside the shop with a diverse selection of flavors. We ordered two scoops for each of us, paid about 9 euros (the most I've ever paid for ice cream), and walked along the cobblestone streets. I licked my praliné aux amandes crème glacée and then something happened.

Fireworks went off, jingles rattled, gold nuggets fell from the sky, Cirque de Soleil acrobats did flips in the air—really. No joke. I couldn't walk. I couldn't focus on any other motor movements aside from my ice cream. It was wonderful. Floral notes sang outloud, mixed with the aroma of roasted nuts, it was sooo yum.

I tried Milos's raspberry gelato, which was just as bewitching. It was like the genius minds of Berthillon hand-picked ruby red raspberries from their own garden, dumped them into a mixer, added a handful of sugar, a dash of love and called it a day. It tasted fresh and summery. Even that tartness so characteristic of raspberries remained. My neurotransmitters finally found their synapses and I continued walking, savoring every bit of my praliné aux amandes.


But Paris is more than just a place with for gluttons. Everyday Milos and I stumbled on something new and gorgeous. We found grand churches, lush trees lined up in the enormous and oh so magnificent Jardin des Tuileries.




We walked along the Seine flowing languidly in the heart of the city. We people-watched for hours in cafes despite being suffocated by the ubiquitous chain smokers.


We discovered adorable postcard shops in Les Halles and picked up a few souvenirs. We roamed aimlessly at night, along streets illuminated by the soft glow of lampposts, and past the Seine disturbed only by quiet ripples.


Paris was my favorite city of our Euro trip. There's so much to see, so much to do, I need go back and eat more Berthillon. So if you're heading to Paris and looking for an ice cream guide, do send a plane ticket my way, because declining your offer would just be plain rude.



*That last paragraph was written by Milos who thought it was best to intervene in matters of handsome men and ice cream (and he's a terrific writer).

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Prague

The most memorable moment of Prague was not getting nauseous from two shots of plum brandy and a tall glass of dark beer on an empty stomach hours within arrival, nor was it the lovely view of the rooftop houses against the azure sky that temporarily numbed my back pain from excessive walking. No, the most memorable and bizarre moment was sitting in a stranger’s house in the suburbs of Prague after hours of bar hopping, talking ever so casually about relationships and looking up infatuation in the Oxford dictionary. We left promptly, feigning sickness--too wierd (Oh Prague, how you blind me with your beauty).

I’ve heard so much about how pretty Prague is, that my expectations were sky high. It's definitely gorgeous in its own ways: the rippling waves on the Vltava, the really good jazz music on the Charles Bridge and at this rad jazz club, the romantic sunsets and delicious dark Kozel beer.



Yet somehow my breath wasn’t taken away. When we climbed down from the top of the hill, back onto street level, we couldn't escape the ubiquitous graffiti (though there was some good artists out there), there wasn't a lot of greenery in the new town and the winding streets threw me off. I swear, it took Milos and I four days to find the same bus stop just to take us home every night. I knew my bearings in Paris, but I had such a hard time deciphering Czech that I blatantly gave up on our second day.


To be honest, the food didn’t win me over either. I didn't like the heavy meat dishes, potato and bread dumplings, or the sauerkraut (the sheer thought of cabbage gives me the chills since my one horrid experience where I laid in bed doubled over from pain for days. Sour cabbage, if you're listening: I hate you). The food for the most part was mediocre. We were probably so spoiled with French delicacies (chocolate, baguettes and butter, and more chocolate) that Czech food just didn't satisfy.


Though I will give the Prague credit for a few things. The best dish for instance was when I was recovering from my wretched dinner of alcohol and pretzel sticks. Milos’s cousin Alexander took us to a pub (whose name doesn’t stay with me) three stories high, crammed with people, a thick cloud of cigarette smoke hovered in the air. When we were seated, Alexander rattled a few menu items to the waiter and within minutes, dishes magically appeared before our eyes: pork sausage links and mashed potatoes topped with fried onion, thick fries with cheese, and tortillas with spicy salsa. Oh mi oh my, the mashed potatoes were a hit. My eyes widened with each bite, the crispy onions was such a surprise contrast to the silky starch I just couldn’t put my fork down.

There was also Trdelnik. A yeasted roll of dough dusted in cinnamon sugar and baked on hot cylinders. We found another shop that sold these but cracked it up a notch by slathering the insides with nutella or caramel. I hear that these treats were a traditional Christmas food, until it became so popular people decided to sell it all the time—which I concur.



Prague also offered plenty of interesting occurrences. One warm day we were strolling along the Vltava, on the new side of Prague when the sun was setting. It was that part of the day when the sunlight isn’t too strong and illuminates everything in its path with a golden glow.


Once bypassing the Duck Lady (she was suddenly began screaming in an unidentified language at the ducks minding their own business on the river), we stumbled upon a charming cobblestone restaurant patio. We sat on a bench and admired the view of the trees, the flowing water, the sunset.


The view was beautiful, but not more long. A group of shirtless (and unattractive) men clearly drunk out of their minds were acting like imbeciles and yelling nonsense. Seated next to us on the bench was a bear, posing for picture (yes, you read that right). This sad looking man with a mullet was crouching and snapping endless photos of his fluffy toy. No more than five minutes passed when one particularly rotund and intoxicated fellow with obscure tattoos emblazoned on his chest grabbed the bear (who we dubbed Misery Bear) and found it a new home...on its lap. He bellowed in British accent, “Oy! Why you taking photos? Is this your bear? Can you take a photo of me and your bear?”

Poor Mullet Man. He mumbled something and tried to claim his furry friend. We left and walked through the curvy streets in search of icy drinks.


We returned the following day for dinner praying that the raucous morons had found somewhere else to party (preferably a black hole). Alas! They had! As we waited for our meal to arrive, the sky changed from gold to orange to purple to a deep emerald. The food was forgettable, but the two men at the table next to us appeared to be picking up two Russian ladies were trying to make the night unforgettable.

There was another time we were walking away from the clock tower, through the hoards of tourists when a tall breaded man walking towards us shouted towards Milos, “Want some mariWANA?” Wow. I didn't know my friend fit the stereotype for pothead.


But the most frustrating and head scratching part of our stay has got to be on our last day when we were scheduled to leave to Budapest by train. Desperate to make sense of the Czech language and signs, we searched for the correct platform to leave from. We failed. We asked the information desk (the man not once made eye contact with me, instead, kept his stone cold eyes on his computer screen) and were informed we had to make a transfer at Breclav to catch our second train to Hungary. Transfer time: 3 minutes. The woman next to him nonchalantly said, “No worry. You miss, next train in 2 hours. You ok? You wait. Yah?”

Forgetaboutit! We played it safe and waited for the next direct train a few hours later. We plopped onto the grassy park nearby and sunbathed, reading up on Budapest, excited for things to come.


Prague was memorable in terms of the people we met, saw, and eavesdropped. But Paris definitely swooned me and my tastebuds.

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Budapest

Let’s start with Budapest. Or as Milos who insists on pronouncing it like Magyar way: Buda-pchest.

We were darn lucky to have rented a prime spot in the heart of the city, the apartment was right next to the subway, steps away from supermarkets, close to a major shopping district. In the lazy afternoons, the sexy tune of a saxophone drifted into our apartment from the square nearby (I must add, Airbnb is a très cool concept. I was iffy about using it at first for safety reasons, but our host was friendly, very hospitable and made sure we were comfortable. If you haven't heard about it yet, hop to it!).

The most fascinating part of our neighbourhood was Deák Ferenc Square, named after the famed Hungarian Minister of Justice. Every night whether it be a weekday or weekend, this square was crowded with people in their twenties and thirties, lounging on the grass or sitting by the wooden decks on the pond, their hands grasping cold beers.

We joined the locals one night, bringing our own drinks. As we sat on our bench, a small group of young girls in miniskirts and high heels strutted by, two guys on short bikes rolled past us, a cigarette in their mouths. A bearded man stopped before us to scour through the garbage can for recyclable bottles.

The lamp posts dimmed the marble sidewalks with an amber glow, the friendly chatter and laughter mixed with the two piece guitar band strumming away gave the air a sense of bubbliness and excitement, like you were missing out on the all the fun if you weren't here.

And that’s what Budapest felt like. Everyday there was something to do; we visited the Gellert Hotel and Baths twice on our trip, soaking up more than healthy doses of UV rays.


We crossed Liberty Bridge and watched the golden sunset cast a magical sheen on buildings facing the Danube.


We ordered wine in the early afternoon at Művész café. Then we couldn’t bear to pass up these colourful sundaes: a mixed berry sundae for Milos and a lemon sundae for me. I nearly fainted with joy at my first bite; it was delightfully tangy and refreshing.



Never once did it rain in Budapest. For six days, we were blessed with skies so blue, it looked like the sea.


One night on Andrassy utca, we sauntered through wide sidewalks passing fashion boutiques and tall apartments, it almost looked like Paris. Then we stumbled upon a grandiose building, ornately flourished with statues and pillars, glowing by yellow spotlights. There were groups of formally dressed men and women in stilettos milling about; it became clear that we were standing before the Opera House. To the left was Callas, a café with outdoor seating, so without hesitation, we settled at a table facing the main street and ordered drinks and dessert. It was a quiet night, motorcycles zipping past and dark leaves rustling in the nippy wind.



We showed up again the next night for dinner. I ordered ravioli sheets with seared goose liver and truffle sauce. To be honest, liver scares me. It doesn’t have the most attractive name in the food world—liver. It brings to mind a red slab of glistening organ. Sometimes it tastes overpowering, too iron-y. But then again, it is considered a delicacy like foie gras and pate, so it gotta be good no? And surprisingly, it’s popular in Budapest; its usually found on restaurant menus. So being the adventurous eater that I am, I ordered it anyway, it can’t hurt to try.


My dish was pure bliss. The goose liver was mild, slightly crispy on the surface and dissolved pleasantly on the tongue. The pasta sheets were succulent, each doused in earthy sauce. After five bites however, my dinner became overwhelmingly salty. But overall, it was delicious.

Milos’s veal paprika with bacon wrapped cottage cheese wasn’t bad. Chunks of veal was hidden underneath a coat of thick orange stew, served along side some pickled cabbage salad.


As we ate, there was a little band playing jazz. The violinist, clearly the leader of the group, is a funny character. On my way to the ladies room, he held up his hand, stopping his colleagues mid-song, allowed me to pass, then resumed playing the cheery tune.

We walked home in the spring breeze full and happy. Seeing all my pictures of Budapest still makes me chuckle. There were unforgettable moments with Milos that just made the trip a thousand times better than I could have ever imagined it to be. That freeness of drinking beer, wine, vodka or what have you out at Deák Ferenc Square under the glittering starry night really tied up my vacation. Europe (or most of it) carries itself with a sense of freedom, the I Can Do Whatever I Want Attitude. Though I could just have easily gotten this muddled up with how relaxed I felt on vacation, no work stress, no financial stress. It just felt good.

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Europe in May

I think my heart broke when my flight left Budapest, the end of my 2 week vacation in Europe. As the plane took off, I shut my eyes, squeezed my hands into fists and imagined my favorite moments: dragging crusty bits of baguette through seaweed butter, sipping rose by the Vltava river watching the sun make its way to the other side of the world, dozing off while sunbathing at the Gellert Baths, and sharing every beautiful and crazy moment with my travel friend.


It has been my dream for the last two years to go to Europe, namely Paris. Just following blogs by David Lebovitz, Chocolate and Zucchini and The Wednesday Chef who have written so much about the splendors of the beautiful city made me want to see and taste as much of it as my belly could handle. I imagined bakeries at every block, each one offering a dizzying array of baguettes, quiches, pastries and cookies. I yearned to walk down cobblestone streets neatly lined with tall trees. I ached to smear camembert onto toasts and sip wine in cafes. Cliché as it sounds, but Paris to me was a place shrouded in mystery, kind of like that mystical place that you wonder through in your blurry dreams with curiosity and excitement, each corner awaits a surprise.


That curtain of mystery has finally been lifted. The bread—fabulous. That crusty chewy texture that I crave for never failed to disappoint me.


The ice cream is to die for; intense in flavor, generous in portions and thanks to David's suggestions, I visited the best gelato shops (Here's Berthillon's gelato: to the left, raspberry and mandarin orange-peeking out on the bottom. Praline aux amandes and cappuccino on the right).



Paris is truly romantic. The Seine flows quietly in the heart of the city, there were always small groups of friends sitting by the water sharing a smoke and catching up.


When I was at the top of the hill in Prague, taking in the gorgeous view of the clusters of copper red roofs and the scattering of oxidized domes of grand churches enveloped by the lush forest, that moment wouldn't have been the same if I was alone. Sharing these experiences with Milos made my 16 days memorable.


There was a moment when we walked into La Grand Epicerie, a large grocery store downtown stocked with every food you can find and I stood there frozen in my steps. There were shelfs of mustard to my left, stacks of chocolate bars on the right, rows of jam before me and I was too elated to know what to do. Which way do I go? And what about at the end of the store? I NEED to see what those aisles have to offer too. Minutes later when my panic attack died down, we strolled through the charcuterie section and chose a mixture of proscuitto and salami, picked up Bordier seaweed butter (I know!!), a multigrain baguette, and a jar of Speculoos and Bonne Maman strawberry jam. We sat in the nearby park and laid out our treasures. That picnic was one of the happiest moments of the trip. The simplicity of each item, our hungry silence only broken when we peeled back the parchment paper of butter, even the slight drizzling of wet rain filled me up with immense joy, like this enormous creature was pounding from excitement, eager to be released from inside me.

I can't wait to go to Europe again, chew on flaky buttery croissants while lying on the prickly grass, soaking up the sun.

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