eat drink one woman

If your only knowledge of France came from what you'd read in Saveur, heard in Piaf tunes, or seen in the impressionist/Robert Doisneau posters you bought for your college dorm room, you might get the wrong idea about the country.  You might imagine Paris as a food/fashion/culture star orbited by a constellation of quaint milkmaid hamlets and fiercely-protected vineyards.

Confession: This weekend's trip to Mulhouse was really my first time hanging out anywhere in France. Really, I'm that fool who had romantic visions of what France would be.  Nothing but grazing agneau, fromage farms, terroir overgrown with ancient grapes, boulangeries, bistrots and berets, Santé! A food mecca where I wouldn't have to explain why I needed to find the best choucroute in Alsace, or why I was interested in tracking down some of Christine Ferber's jams.  I would find soulmates in the French; they would triple air-kiss me for my studied enthusiasm of la cuisine.

Clearly I'd read too much into the little explanatory placards at Murray's Cheese Shop.  The France we visited was nothing like the bucolic Legoland fantasy I'd unwittingly built in my head.  Seems so obvious now, but of course the French have their own versions of Jersey City, Dayton, Fresno -- cities that are not picturesque, that warrant only the briefest of mentions in travel guides; anti-destinations where normal people live everyday lives.  These are the cities that probably cover the majority of the Western map.  They're the kinds of places whose freaks fly to New York, Berlin, London, where they can live in exile among their own kind; but whose residents mostly stick around, leading the lives they know with the people they understand.

Mulhouse is one of those places.  It's the largest city in the Haut-Rhin, the second largest in Alsace (next to Strasbourg).  It used to be a huge textile manufacturer; while Europe's largest Peugeot factory is still here, you get the feeling that this is a bit of a drained city. There's a strong working class vibe.  It's also an ethnically diverse town; the cars driving by blast florid Turkish pop and laid-back French hip-hop.  The adolescent young men on the street look very much like the kids you might see cruising the Fulton Street mall, with higher waistlines and maybe a few more tucked shirts.

Mulhouse sits at the crossroads between Germany, Switzerland and France, just over the Rhine river.  The historic city center is a pedestrian area, with somewhat rundown marzipan architecture, unruly, skinny cobblestone roads, and plenty of outdoor seating in the big Place de la Reunion.  With all of the chain stores surrounding the plaza -- H&M, M&S, Monoprix, Kalida -- it feels a lot like Le Swiss Miss Galleria.



We rented bikes for the two days we were there from Locacycles at Mulhouse's train station -- at 5.20 Euros a day, it was the cheapest bike rental I've found so far.  They were also the jenkiest bikes ever, nothing like the well-maintained steeds in Berlin and Copenhagen.  The first one they gave me kept making these Psycho stabbing creaks, so I had to go back to the shop and exchange it.  Marika was even less fortunate -- one of her pedals kept getting loose, even after we found an Allen wrench to crank it back on; on the second day, it fell off completely.  The shop was run by a bunch of kids barely out of their teens who were very nice, but couldn't seem to be bothered to tune up their cycles.  I guess when you're the only game in town, it's not that big of a deal.   (Though technically they weren't the only game -- there was also Vélocité, a very cool-looking paid version of the Amsterdam white bikes, but they required the use of a French credit card.)



We did get to ride along a brief bike path by the river -- a pretty, if short, sojourn.  Otherwise, there wasn't much town to see.  We didn't get around to the zoo, the botanical gardens or the big car museum, and other than the nougat center of town, I can't say Mulhouse is much of a looker.

Also, Mulhouse didn't strike me as much of a food town.  Maybe it's the Swiss-German influence.  We did find one adorable little cheese shop in the Place de la Reunion with furry little curds in a variety of shapes and flavors:



I also found a local farmer's market where I got to try Alsace-grown Mirabelle plums for the first time.  Yellow, sweet and speckled, they're the size of extra-meaty Washington cherries, with tiny little freestone pits.  I can't say they were more transcendent than the local plums we get here in season, but they were quite cute.



Even this pâtisserie didn't inspire me to sample.  We're so spoiled in New York.  I thought, well, what's this place got on the display at Dean and Deluca, or Grandaisy, or Bouchon,  or City Bakery?  Nuthin. 



The locals I talked to all seemed to give half-hearted restaurant recommendations -- none of my usual restaurant interrogation tactics worked because the people I talked to seemed surprisingly unenthused about food.  In France!  It was unexpected.  For the two days we were in town, we decided to stick with the venue catering, which consisted of a cute apron-wearing couple laboring in the kitchen above the venue.  It was pretty simple, large group-cooking fare -- runny red currant tarts, sausage-stuffed zucchini, chicken simmered in turmeric and coconut milk over red rice.



So my food dreams didn't really come true.  I couldn't bring myself to try the choucroute with fish that's supposed to be a local specialty -- all of the restaurants we passed looked like tourist traps. But the Mulhouse audience was fantastic -- sophisticated listeners who clapped and laughed in all the appropriate places.  It's always a pleasure to sing Charming Hostess songs to people who get it.  And it's always a laugh hanging with the ChoHos.   We were there for the music, and the music was happening, so I can't complain.

I haven't given up my dreams of France as food Eden.  I'm sure the high temples of gastronomy will deliver when I finally pay them a visit.  Can somebody please book me a French tour?

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2008/08/30/fashion/20080830-street/index.html

I'm so sorry I missed this.  Did any of you go?  I love Bill Cunningham's On the Street audio slide shows.

Follow the Berlin map as we go along!

Berlin is for Breeders

Someone told me that there are more babies being born per capita in Mitte than anywhere else in Europe.  I don't know if it's true, but it certainly feels true.  There's a park on every corner, and a playground in every park -- to the point where we were all complaining about the noise of playing children waking us up too early everyday.  It feels safe.  I didn't see a drug epidemic.  Granted, I was staying and hanging in pretty nice areas.  Still, one Ghana-born cab driver we met said this:

CABBIE: It's very safe here.  I NEVER worry about driving late at night.  Not like New York.  I moved here when I was 13.  At the time, I hated it.  I spoke English, nobody else spoke English.  Now I've been everywhere -- New York, Chicago, London, whatever -- but Berlin is home to me.

Berlin is for All-Nighters

So truth be told, I didn't partake of the nightlife as much as I thought I would.  I was just too excited to wake up in the morning and see the city on my bike.  I think La Doug did enough dancing for the both of us, though.  I got a headache and stayed home the first night everyone went out.  When I woke up and realized that Doug was still out, I knew I missed something special.

Doormen at all clubs enforce a strict no-groups rule, so your best bet for gaining entry is by pairing up with a friend and pretending not to know your other friends.  Who you know, what you're wearing, how big your tits are all don't seem to matter.  If you stand in line, and you don't act like a total asshole, you'll eventually get in.  The prevailing sound is the minimalist techno Francis and Shannon are most fond of. 

The one night I did go out, we started off at Club der Visionaire, drinking whiskeys and bottles of Bionade on these huge wooden rafts which bobbed a little every time someone got up or sat down.  We didn't get there until about 10 and it didn't really get bumping until about midnight.  At that point, we decided to try and hit a Kreuzberg club.  We wound up at 103 Club, right next door to Watergate, which I suspect is kind of like going to the Time Warner Center and saying, hey, there's Masa!  Let's go eat sushi downstairs at Whole Foods!  (According to everyone else, Watergate is a gorgeous club right on the water.  It's fairly small, with a wall of windows where you can watch the sun rise over the water if you stick around long enough. They'd just gone two nights before, though, and didn't want to go again.)

Still, it was super fun to dance on a raised platform with our crazy little clique.  Our dance styles ranged from calisthenic abandon to peek-behind-the-bangs cool to shoulder shrug bouncy.  There were some people around us downing glass bottles of mineral water and tweaking on E -- two flirtatious guys dancing close, a crew of rice rocket gangstas and their touchy-feely girlfriends -- but most, like us, were buoyed only by the energy of the crowd.

I'll have to sample more of the nightlife on my next visit.  Techno's not really my thing, but I could find plenty of my thing if I looked.  I'd love to observe the wild bacchanal that Berghain supposedly is.  But maybe I should start by going out dancing more often here at home.  (Does anyone go out dancing here anymore?  Are there any places worth going to?  I have no idea.)

Berlin is for Afternoon Lushes

One habit I wish I could incorporate into my everyday life is the afternoon glass of wine.  Riesling, Grauburgunder, Sekt, I loved it all.  If you want a really ideal afternoon glass in Mitte, go for a light lunch at the Cafe Altes Europa on Gipstrasse.

 
Bespectacled German gallery types in summery beige arguing and sharing a bottle of rosé -- CHIC!

There's indoor seating, but the experience is best in the little tiny island across the street from the shop, on the corner of yet another little park, where they've set up a bunch of mismatched tables under the shade of one skinny, pre-pubescent oak tree.  I loved my light lunch of tomato fennel soup, topped with brunoise yellow and red watermelon, with sturdy white bread for dipping.  But oh, that glass of riesling in the sun, so cold on the tongue, melting my limbs onto the chair...the only thing better was putting my sunglasses on and pedaling away on my little green frog immediately after.

It became my daily routine -- get on the bike, explore, park it, drink a glass of cold white wine or two at a cafe, get back on the bike, ride it off til naptime, be sober by dinner.

The bottle we shared at Cafe Einstein was particularly good -- a cold, crisp 2004 Chablis Montmains AC from Domaine Des Malandes, Bourgogne.  We went through 1 1/2 bottles between the three of us.  I love those white burgundies.  La Doug thought it was the best white wine he'd ever had. 

Wouldn't life be so much better if we could bring a bottle of wine to Prospect Park and drink in the sun without shame or fear?

Berlin is for Historians

If you go to Berlin, you've got to do the bike tour.  I found one through Fahrradstation, which started at the Friedrichstrasse branch, just north of Unter den Linden.  Heej, Francis and I met up there at 2:30pm, and because we were the only folks to show up that day, it was like having our own personal tour.  At 10 Euros (15 if you need the bike, too), it's a steal.  Helga, our guide and a native who grew up close to the wall in west Berlin, had the most ideal, chill disposition.  She wore a T-shirt that said, in front, "I BELIEVE IN MAKING TROUBLE"; on the back, "I DON'T NEED A REASON".  I had a total girl crush on her.

FRANCIS: So how long does the tour go?

HELGA: It's three hours.

FRANCIS: Three hours?!

HELGA: Yes, but it can be shorter or longer, just depends on what you want.



When I talked about the Berlin leg of the trip with some of the Danes at the wedding, they were like, "Oh, that's so exciting!  Berlin really is the heart of Europe, and it's so amazing to see all of these places you've only read about in history books."  I never considered myself much of a history buff, but it was really amazing to understand the rich history of the city in the context of the actual sites where everything took place.

Berlin is like a constantly renewing Tetris board, with new buildings growing on top of old buildings, with spots that were razed and built upon, then cleared again and rebuilt. But what great stories!


Here, the government held a competition to find the perfect design for the new Parliament building.  The winner was a young, totally unknown architect and the results were stunning.  Helga says that at sundown, you can stand on one end of the set of buildings and see right through them -- the glass structures are meant to represent transparency in government.  



And the story of the Reichstag, the fire that gave the Nazis the moral imperative to purge the communists, and the subsequent debate over whether or not the Dutchman Marinus van der Lubbe was the arsonist to blame.  (Helga said no, arson specialists say it would have been impossible for the building to burn as it did by the hand of one man.)



And here, in front of the TV tower, the construction site of what was once the Berlin City Palace.  The communists felt it was a gross representation of Prussian excess and elitism, so they tore it down and built the Palace of the Republic, a sort of shopping and social center for all.  When asbestos was discovered in the walls, the people of Berlin were asked whether or not they wanted to keep the Palace of the People.  Though 70% of Berliners thought they'd like to keep the old structure (it was the palace they'd come to know, after all), some west Berliners decided it would be a much better idea to restore the area's grandeur and build...a replica of the old City Palace. 



And here, the facade of an old hotel, the only standing memory of the glory of Weimar Republic era Potsdamer Platz, is preserved and consumed by the monstrous 80s steel and glass tower that is the Sony Centre.



Here's the Brandenburg Gate.  Up at the top is the Quadriga, originally designed as a goddess of peace with oak leaves.  She was kidnapped by Napoleon, successfully stolen back by the Germans, renamed the goddess of victory with an iron cross, stripped of the cross by the communists, then had the iron cross and eagle were restored to her during unification.  But she probably would have been just as happy to remain the goddess of peace.



Helga also told us the story of her own youth as we stood by the only piece of the wall left standing in the center of town.  As a child, Helga could peer into the death strip over the bit of west wall near her house.  She showed us a picture she took at that time of an active tower guard, well within sniping distance.

While we were in front of the Staatsoper, we saw an unwieldy amoeba of a bike group, 20-deep, being led by a slight British girl.  We saw an even bigger foot tour being yelled at by an American asshole.

ANNOYING AMERICAN TOUR GUIDE: So Berlin now is like New York was in the 80s, okay?  The only people who can afford to live in New York now are trust fund kids. 

I wanted to give him a big, hearty NYC fuck you, but I didn't want to contribute to the annoying Americanness already on display.  We were so very glad we were not stuck with that guy.  Anyway, go to Fahrradstation for the tour, ask for Helga.

Later:

ME: You know how they say Berlin now is like New York was in the 80s?

MATTY: God, if I hear that one more time, I'm going to shoot somebody.

Berlin is for Art Lovers


Hamburger Bahnhof.  Not a hamburger, not a bahnhof.

The museums are pretty great, but they're spread out all over town.  Once the wall went up, all the State museums were blocked off in the east.  The west Berliners had to build twin houses for all of their art.  So while many of the imposing, old official state museum buildings are on the east side, the great contemporary stuff tends to be in the west.  I liked the Mies van der Rohe-designed New National Gallery and the deceptively ginormous Hamburger Bahnhof, a converted train station lit up with neon fluorescents.  The only other museum I hit up during evening hours was the Pergamon, which had some pretty impressive installations of totally lifted altars and gates.  I liked the way they were unafraid to mix contemporary representations of Babylon with actual Babylonian art.

Berlin is for Dessert

Luisa told me that cafe culture in Berlin was amazing, better even than Parisian cafe culture; I don't know from Paris, but I loved what Berlin had to offer.  The Germans love their cake and they love their coffee.  And I love their cake and coffee.  The names are such a mouthful -- here's Kaiserschmarrn, a sort of torn pancake with vanilla sauce, sour cherries and cinnamon sugar.



Here's a Pflaumenkuchen, a crunchy plum tart:



There's something so Berlin about the hot bitterness of the coffee with the sturdy, substantial  sweet.  The combination is fortifying.  And like the city, I think what I enjoy is the refrain from preciousness, from delicateness.  Berlin feels like a city that can stand up to me, the way coffee stands up to cake.  I can't wait to come back and experience all the Berlins I missed this time around. 

Follow the Berlin map as we go along!

Berlin is for (Solitary) Cyclists

So thrilling to go from a perfect cycling town like Copenhagen to another excellent cycling town like Berlin.  Lauren, the local who gave us the keys to our rental, pointed us towards Prenzlberger Orange Bikes at Kollwitzstrasse 35 for cheap rentals.  Their bikes are all upright orange comfort rides with rear baskets; at 6 Euros a day, they're an excellent deal, which makes the bikes very popular and kind of hard to come by.  Heej managed to snag one of the orange bikes later in the day, but they were still closed when I woke up. I decided to try my luck at the Fahrradstation at Kollwitzstrasse 77 instead.

It was only 10:30am, but I was already the fourth person in line for a rental.  I was a little worried about not being able to get a bike.  

ME: Hi, I'd like to rent a bike for four days.

BIKE SHOP KID: [in halting English] Four days...Let me see what we have for you.

He came trudging back up the steps from the basement.  And that's when I fell in love.

BIKE SHOP KID: I think this should work for you?

ME: YES!  Ahem...yes, that should work.



Could it be any cuter?  It's sprightly and kind of butch, which is how I like to think of myself, and it was a way smoother ride than my Copenhagen utilitarian bike.  In my mind, I looked super tough on it.  Made me feel like a BMX badass even though I was probably still riding like a grandma.  I love it.  I want it. 

Compared to the little postage stamp that is Copenhagen, Berlin is huge, sprawling. It's a muddled mix of old and new, communist and capitalist, grass and stone, water and glass, and you can pretty much see it all if you've got a bike.  Even the really big and busy streets feel safe because of all the really well-trafficked bike lanes.  I am a total bicycle newbie, but I really got around -- I'd ride from Prenzlauer Berg down through Mitte, through the lush Tiergarten out to the west side, lock up and putz around the museums, ride to a cafe and meet friends for lunch, strap all my goodies onto the wheel-mounted rack and head home, wind in my hair.  The streets are well-paved, the air is clean, it's not too hilly...such sweet freedom!   Zip zip zip!

Okay, I almost got hit by a tram near Unter den Linden (those German-engineered trams are too quiet for their own good).  And I really only had one tiny spill, which happened at a stoplight by Wittenbergplatz while I was trying to climb up onto the curb without enough velocity.  No scrapes, just a little embarrassment.

I was so sad when I had to return my baby at the end of the trip.  Saturday was our last night together.  The shop was going to close at 6pm, so I dropped it off at 5:45pm. 

ME: Thanks... [Bike shop kid inspects the bike.  I loiter for a minute and watch, reluctant to go.]  I loved this bike.   LOVED it.  I'm sorry to leave it.

BIKE SHOP KID: Yes, it's a good bike. We call this one our "little green frog".

My favorite cycling snapshot: Handsome guy with a pompadour, popped collar and dress shorts, riding upright on his bicycle with his Jack Russell terrier tucked under one arm like a loaf of bread.

Berlin is for Treehuggers

Berlin is so green.  Like crazy lush Bavarian forest green.  I had no idea.  It seems like there's a little park on every corner.  In the east, every park has a playground, and most parks have outdoor ping pong tables.  Sometimes I'd see young people strolling through town with a liter bottle of beer in one hand and a ping pong paddle in the other -- now that's living! 

Cycling through Tiergarten felt so Little Red Riding Hood -- the greenery is tall, dense and hushed, the soft sunlight patchy.  It doesn't feel like you're in the middle of a major metropolis at all.  I guess that's what it's like in Central Park, too, but Central Park is more open, sunnier.

I've got a thing for farmer's markets, and one of my favorite haunts was the market at Winterfeldplatz in Schöneberg. Oh, the baskets of berries -- bay berries, tiny wild blueberries, strawberries, gooseberries, blackberries, red currants!

 

Bucket after bucket of pfifferlinge, aka chanterelles!



The clusters of perfect cherry tomatoes on stiff branches!



Fresh flaxseed oil, ground on site!  They even sold the ground flax seed -- they're the dookie twigs you can see in the basket in the picture below; the girl at the stand encouraged me to try one.  I guess you can put it in your yogurt or muesli or something, but it was a little too hardcore for me.  It tasted like waxy kibble, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to pick it out of my teeth with my tongue.



The card table-sized wheels of Berg käse!  Herring sandwiches!  The smoked fish that look like shoes, as Sarah R. pointed out!



I've heard Berliners are almost fanatical about seasonal eating -- some locals told us that when pfifferlinge are in season, they're on every menu, prepared a million ways. Berliners are also profoundly good at taking advantage of outdoor and green space in the summer, weaving nature into everyday life.  Maybe it's the hard winters, and maybe things would be different in New York if we had more space.  Whatever it is, it's really inspiring.

On our third day in Berlin, Sarah R.'s mom invited us to take a three-hour cruise around the canals and onto the river Spree.  I know it sounds kind of cheesy and touristy, but I'd heard from several people that this was a great way to see Berlin.  We met near the Markisches Museum U-Bahn stop on Inselstrasse, where we all boarded the top deck of a packed tour boat.  The boat tour is kind of like It's a Small Ent World -- the lushness along the city's canals is unreal.  Tons of weeping willows pour their hair into the water.  City residents come and sit out on the benches all along the canals, or dangle their legs over the river's ledge to enjoy the breeze over the water and watch the boats drift lazily by.



For three hours, we ducked down under low bridges, drank beer and sekt, and ate sausages and ice cream, all while the sun made its slow descent below the horizon.  The weather was perfect -- high 70s cooling into the breezy low-70s.  As the colorful graffiti of Friedrichshain introduced us to the canal-side beerhouses of Kreuzberg, which became hidden by the bosomy trees of pretty Schöneberg, which gave way to the bricks and mortar of the city center, the sky went from magic hour light to rainbow sherbet to blue velvet.  The merman statues in Nikolaiviertel threw dominating shadows against spotlights onto the buildings on the opposite side of the river.  While passing Museum Island, you could see straight into the Bode Museum, the marble sculptures waving from within their well-lit home.  Totally magical.
 

To be continued...

If I learned anything from our trip to Berlin, it's that there's a Berlin for everyone.  La Doug and I rented a studio apartment in Mitte together for the duration of our stay in Berlin; every morning, Doug would come home just as I was leaving to start my day; later, I'd go to bed just as he was getting ready to go out.  I think at least one of us was awake for every hour of the day.

I loved Berlin.  LOVED it.  While I was there, I started devising my 3-year plan to move -- Deutsch lessons at the Goethe Institute, get the book proposal in circulation, snip attachment to material goods -- but when I got back to Brooklyn, I was pretty happy to be home. Still, the adventurer in me smacks her lips at a good challenge. It's nice to know that if New York doesn't work out in the coming years (McCain gets elected, Europeans snatch up all NYC real estate, etc.), there's another city I'd be excited about moving to.

For those of you who want to follow along, I've got another map for Berlin with lots of recommendations I received from my friends Jon Lyon and Luisa, The Wednesday Chef. Because we had no local hosts for this leg of the trip, we had to do a lot more research, so this map has even more detail than the Copenhagen one did.  One interesting and telling note -- though we got recs from many different sources, very few of the recommendations overlapped, which says lots about how much Berlin has to offer for all tastes. Enjoy!

View Larger Map

Berlin is for Meat Lovers

Did the Abstain Project get thrown out the window?  For schnitzel, my nitzel.



First order of business on arrival in Berlin was dinner.  Lauren, the local who let us in to the apartment, suggested the wiener schnitzel at Weltempfaenger, a cafe/bar on the corner of Arkonaplatz in Prenzlauer Berg with tons of long wooden tables and benches.  The schnitzel (which I think was pounded veal) came with an oniony, warm potato goop and some kind of berry jam (gooseberry?).  No vegs, totally awesome.  

Francis, the vegetarian, didn't fare so well with his non-meat option, which turned out to be a cold baked potato with runny quark cheese, served with a sweet-dressed salad.  A cold baked potato does not a dinner make, so we supplemented with another entree of kasespaetzle, German pan-fried squiggly pasta with melted Berg cheese and fried onions -- much tastier and more satisfying option.

Better than the Weltempfaenger schnitzel was the schweineschnitzel (pork schnitzel) I had one hot, glorious afternoon at Die Schwarzwaldstuben in Mitte.  It was crisp, not greasy, pounded to a substantial but tender thickness, coated in panko-style breadcrumbs and fried to golden perfection -- I didn't think I'd be able to finish it, but I cleaned my plate. It came with a slightly mushy, vinegared cucumber salad, a huge wedge of lemon, and the best bacony fried potatoes I've ever had.   I was dining alone that afternoon, and it was one of those meals where I was like, I wish someone were here to share this experience with me, but I'm also glad I don't have to share this plate with anyone.


On the fancy end, I had wiener goulash at the elegant brasserie-type restaurant Cafe Einstein, a pretty little hotel restaurant in West Berlin recommended by Luisa.  La Doug, Julian and I took in a total grown-up summer luncheon in the back garden with wicker chairs and trellises, a sassy Polish waitress with dyed ink black hair and penny-sized rhinestone earrings, and dappled sunlight pouring through the branches of an apple tree.  Viennese goulash included a weightlifter's share of stewed beef, served with a pretty mosaic bread dumpling and an umami-packed wine sauce.  My mouth starts the waterworks every time I look at the picture.



At KaDeWe, the largest department store in the European continent and Berlin's version of Harrod's, the entire sixth floor is devoted to foodstuffs.  And at least half of it is meat.  I'm not kidding.  Like think of the meat counter at the Chelsea Whole Foods -- take that and multiply it by 50.  It was case after case of fresh sausage, cured sausage, dry sausage, tube meats in every shade from pale beige to maroon, fresh meat counters manned by butchermen and women, 20 shrink-wrapped cow tongues in a corner just begging to be depressed by a giant balsa popsicle stick, and this, a whole refrigerator case dedicated to shmancy potted meat products:



On the low end, I had currywurst at this kiosk under the Ebenwalderplatz S-Bahn, home of the best currywurst in Berlin according to several locals we talked to.



Currywurst is a typical Berlin meal, the equivalent of a NY slice.  This efficient little operation, run by a uniformed Jack Sprat and wife-like couple singsonging to each other in German, had a relentless line for the ten minutes it took for me to finish my meal.



A blandish white wurst is deep fried til the casing turns bubbly and forms a thin, crusty skin.  The sausage is then cut into bite-sized, 1-inch hunks.  The whole thing is smothered in ketchup, topped with an aromatic shake of curry powder and served with a dainty little fork-pick.  You can get the fries with mayo or more ketchup -- I didn't realize they were going to drown the fries in mayo, but I guess that's the price you pay when your language skills are limited.  I love ketchup and curry powder, so I loved currywurst.  I can see how it would be awesome and sobering after too many beers.  My only question is: is it better to eat before you get on the train to go home or after you get off your home stop?

My favorite wurst was the rostwurst I got at a stand at the Winterfeldplatz farmer's market.  At 11 am.  Because it was available at that hour and I wasn't the only one who wanted one.  Super juicy and fresh from the grill, it smelled ever so slightly of allspice.  It was served on a no-bullshit, teeny hard wheat roll, which seemed to be meant only to keep your fingers dry. I probably should have gotten it with mustard, but I couldn't resist that curry-flavored ketchup. The leathery guy standing next to me chased his rostwurst with a cigarette.  Now that's a breakfast.



And if schnitzels and wursts are really not for you, there are any number of excellent kebab shops all over town, thanks to the huge Turkish population.  Kreuzberg is ground zero for falafel and schawarma (sha-VAR-ma auf Deutsch) shops -- most of the schawarmas are made from spit-roasted chicken instead of lamb.  We had some rolled in flatbread and then toasted, some in little pocket pitas.  Cheap, tasty, and excellent groundwork for a night of boozing.

Really the only bad meal I had was at Mirchi, a pan-Asian mess of a place in Kreuzberg.  (It calls itself "Singaporean".  My imagination doesn't even stretch that far.)  My friend Sarah R. got the tip-off on the walk over:

SARAH: Excuse me, can you tell me which way Mirchi is?

LOCAL: Oh, congratulations, you are going to the worst restaurant on all of Oranienstraße.

The flavors of the lamb curries were okay; the naan needed salt but was perfectly edible.  The thing that ruined it was that all of the entrees, from the weird sweet and sour paneer to chicken with Thai-style green curry, seemed to be thickened with a flour roux.  Wrong wrong wrong.  On the upside, there was enough seating for all twenty of us to sit at one long, banquet-style table. 

In general, I loved the food in Berlin.  I know!  Who knew? I maybe might have enjoyed getting a little more fiber in my diet, but if I were cooking for myself, that would be easy enough to accomplish.

To be continued...

Follow the map!

Tuesday, August 4

After a cheap, quick dinner at Wagamama, the British noodle shop (mmm, shrimp curry noodles), we file into Tivoli, located in Copenhagen's city center.  It's such a pretty Lite-Brite diorama of someone's oriental dreamscape.

 

Apparently, it's become a gourmet destination, too, with lots of high end restaurants of renown setting up shop here.  Sarah says that Nimb has been getting rave reviews for their housemade yogurt and chocolate.

But we are there to ride the roller coasters.   At 285 Kroners (about $57) for entry and unlimited rides, it's not cheap, but hey, how often are we at Europe's oldest amusement park?  Because it's raining and pretty close to closing time, there are no lines at any of the rides.  We hop on the Demon, a loop-de-loop roller coaster, twice -- once from the front where you can see the tracks, once at the back to experience the most Gs.  I love the Golden Tower, which affords us a gorgeous nighttime panoramic view of the entire city before dropping us into freefall.  It's now drizzling insistently, and we try to wipe as much of the pooled rainwater off the seats as we can. 

And then we get on the Dragon.  Doug straps himself in next to me.  While we wait for the ride to begin:

ME: So what's this thing do?  [I pull the harness down over my head and lock myself in.]

DOUG:  I have no idea.

The ride is like a ten-armed ferris wheel in 3-D, laid down on an angle.  Each arm gingerly holds a car at its fingertips.  As the wheel spins quickly counter-clockwise, each car begins to swing back and forth violently, until finally the car gives in to centrifugal force and spins upside down.  I am screaming.  Doug is laughing.  My brain is coming unmoored, the capillaries in my skull lose their grip en masse.  Just when I think I can't take it, the ride slows, thank God.  I can't wait to get off this torture device.  But then the ride starts up all over again.  It's like gray matter pinball up in my head.  The rain is needling us so hard I feel like I'm getting a Maori face tattoo.  I am cold and wet and miserable I want off this ride.

When it's finally over, I stumble down the slippery ramp and try to get my gummy worm legs to keep me up.  Doug wants to find another roller coaster.  We run into Emily and Mo, who are carrying concessions from a booze stand.  I get a whiff of Emily's vomit-scented Gammel Dansk and I want to puke.  I splinter off and join the warm, dry folks in a cafe near the entrance. 

ME: I don't know if I can ride home on the bike.  I might have to take the train.

HELEN: Why don't you get a cup of tea?  It might help.

ME: How long is the ride home going to be?

HELEN: Mmm...maybe 20 minutes?

LOUISE: Depends on the wind.  If it's behind you, you'll get there in 10 minutes. 

I warm up with some elderflower tea to mentally prepare myself for the ride home.  Shortly afterwards, Sarah storms into the cafe with Shannon in tow, her hoodie up over her head, her brow furrowed.

SARAH: Did you guys go on that spinning thing?  That made me so angry!  I feel like I need to take it out on someone. 

The revelers slowly trickle in.  The rain lets up a bit and I'm ready to climb back on my bike and get in bed.  Helen's been having trouble sleeping, so someone gives her half an Ambien, which she takes right away.  I'm feeling paranoid that she's going to pass out on her bike halfway home, so I try and cheerlead everyone out the door.  We ride north through the rain.  The wind is howling, but it doesn't seem to be pushing against us.  We're all exhausted.

Helen's got an old-school Danish apartment where the shower is in the kitchen and her personal toilet is out in the fire stairwell.  We come home to discover that the wind has blown in so hard that the door is latched shut, and the only way to unlatch it is from the inside.  And, unfortunately, there's no alternative way for us to get in the bathroom.  I suppose if one of us were Spiderman, we could climb up the 5-story building and swing ourselves into the skinny, open window by a cobweb filament.  5 people + no access to the toilet = disaster.  Heej tries slamming her body against the door to no avail.

HELEN: I don't know what to do.  This has never happened before.  Is Ambien supposed to make you feel dizzy?

ME: Wait, I'll get my skeleton key!

FRANCIS:  What, you just happen to have a skeleton key?

ME: Yeah, for my bedroom at home.

I stick the key in the lock as everyone looks on.  I feel the key catch the latch, turn it once to the right and pop the door open.

HELEN: How did you do that?!

HEEJ: Wow. I have to admit, I did not think that was going to work.

I wasn't sure if it would work either, but I'm pretty pleased with myself.  Despite my Dragon-addled brain, I go to bed feeling very puffed up and useful. 

Wednesday, August 5

Hej -- Hello and goodbye


We're off to Berlin today!  I'm not feeling too wistful because I'm sure that I'll be back in Copenhagen.  I'm fantasizing about moving here to live among the beautiful people, eat gigantic breakfasts and ride my bike everyday.  Helen makes us one last Copenhagen brunch with her amazing tuna salad.  I write down the recipe so I can bring a little bit of Copenhagen into my Brooklyn life.

Helen's Tuna Salad


Canned tuna
Cottage cheese
Yogurt
A bit of fresh squeezed lime juice
Sliced scallions
Sliced green olives with pimentos
Capers
Chopped hazelnuts
Chopped red pepper (not pictured)

Mix and serve with fresh bread, sliced cucumbers and cherry tomatoes.

Stay tuned for Berlin...

I'm going to Mulhouse, France this weekend to sing with Charming Hostess at the Mulhouse Jazz Festival.  I'm taking recommendations -- where to eat, what to try in Alsace in general, etc.  We fly into Zurich and drive over the border into France.  I would love to hit some phenomenal bakery for coffee and breakfast on the way.  I don't know how much free time I'll have, and I'm only there for two days, but I already found the bike rental shop.   Send me an email (ganda [at] eatdrinkonewoman {dot} com) or leave a comment.

Who doesn't love a good pickle?  I'm a big fan of that sort of in-between cooked and raw texture.  The Zuni Cafe Zucchini Pickles Luisa featured on The Wednesday Chef recently looked right up my alley.  Recipe was easy enough, but why not tweak it to include achat flavors?

My friend Julie's mom makes the best achat -- crunchy, sweet, and tart, it's loaded with peanuts and different kinds of blanched vegetables.  I always ask for the recipe when I see her, but I don't know how far I should push her for it.

I googled "achat recipe" and didn't really come up with anything more than anecdotes and pictures, so I decided to just wing it.  I used cane vinegar in place of the apple cider vinegar, mostly because I only use that stuff for chicken adobo, so I've always got vast quantities on hand.  I replaced the mustard seeds with some mystery masala my friend brought me from India, adding a couple of squirts of hot sesame oil, chopped peanuts and crushed red pepper. I also added a teaspoon of salt to the sugary vinegar because it seemed appropriate. 

After 24 hours, I sampled  -- it was okay, but it was missing a little kick.  Then -- AHA! -- I decided to add a couple of tablespoons of chopped ginger and some sliced serrano peppers I got from Eckerton Hill Farmat the Greenmarket.  (By the way, Eckerton Hill's serranos had zero heat as of last week.  They're green and tasty, but they're not that threatening, just FYI.)  That added some welcome dimension.

There's still a little room for tweaking.  Next time, maybe more sesame oil.  I don't think I'd add garlic, unless I were going to eat the pickles within 24 hours -- I'd be afraid of botulism.  Maybe some lemongrass next time?  Some blanched green beans and green cabbage?  Lots of possibilities here.   It's not a real achat, of course, but it's pretty damn tasty.  The pickles are quite good after 24 hours; I think I like them better after a week. 

Achat-style Zucchini Pickles
found on The Wednesday Chef, adapted from Zuni Cafe

1. Wash and trim the zucchini, then slice 1/16 inch thick.  Slice the onion and red bell pepper very thinly. Combine veg in large bowl, add the salt and toss to distribute. Add a few ice cubes and cold water to cover, then toss with hands to dissolve the salt.

2. After about 1 hour, drain veg.

3. Combine the vinegar, sugar, salt, and curry powder in a small saucepan and simmer for 3 minutes. Set aside until cool.

4. Return the vegs to a dry bowl and pour the cooled brine over them. Add sliced serranos, crushed red pepper, chopped ginger, chopped peanuts and sesame oil.  Stir to distribute the spices. Transfer the pickle to jar(s).  Seal tightly and refrigerate for at least a day before serving.  Eat with hot rice and fatty meat.  Yums to your mums.

Again, the map.

Sunday, August 3 -- Recovery

øl, pronounced uhl -- beer


At around 2pm, we join the masses at the Stella Polaris festival for a picnic on the grounds of the Statens Museum for Kunst.  Helen has made bread from the dough which she prepared at 8am, still drunk, having danced all night and all morning at the wedding.  Impressive.

HELEN: Sorry, it's a little too salty this time.

HENRIETTE: That must have been what your body was craving when you made it!



Some of the braver souls are taking a little hair of the dog in the form of beer.  I don't know if you can see, but in the middle of this photo, there's a bald guy in a gray shirt carrying a genius cardboard transporter for five beers.  Danish drink efficiency -- love it.

And see all these people in this picture?  They all came on their bikes.  The clusterfuck of bikes locked up outside the festival entrance would probably make this guy pop a woodie.

sult -- hunger


That evening, we climb on our bikes for dinner at Sult, a restaurant in Det Danske Filminstitut in the city center.  We're practically the only diners there; when it comes time to order our prix fixe meals, we discover that there are only three fish plates available, which means that I, and the rest of our party, have to eat unremarkable hamburgers.  I can't say my meal makes me want to jump back on the beef wagon.  On Sunday nights, the prix fixe dinner is half off, which leaves the bill at 300 Kroners ($60) per person, which still doesn't feel like much of a deal.

Helen, La Doug, Heej, Francis and I get back on our bikes to head back home.  We're like a grown-up E.T. gang. Doug remarks, "I can't believe we can all fit in Helen's small apartment."

Monday, August 4

Helen takes a big group of us cycling through Christiania.  Francis, who's already gone through on bike, gives us a preview.

FRANCIS: It's hilarious.  It's like the dark, seedy underbelly of Copenhagen, where the overweight and ugly people go.

There are signs posted everywhere asking that people not take pictures.  This is the alleged free-state of Copenhagen, where the hash trade is alive and kicking, and nobody pays taxes. Tibetan prayer flags are strung up on solid little mushroom houses that seem to be built from junkyard detritus.

We cross a river over to the adorable, hobbit-scaled summer shacks with perfect little gardens.  The skinny wood bridges and dirt paths are barely accessible by bike -- it seems impossible to bring heavy things like washing machines or lumber over to the island.



Lunch is a super-civilized affair at Bastionen+Løven, an old-school restaurant that feels like a converted farmhouse, all eggshell white wood, with white butcher paper on the banquet style table.  We eat a late brunch of fiske frikadeller (fish cakes), coffee and beer.  It's a spare lunch, but it feels great to keep it light.  Outside, the storm clouds make heavy threats, the wind tickling the tall, latched windows.




Ama -- an island in east Copenhagen, colloquially called "The Shitty Island"


We ride east towards Amager Strandpark, where cement lookout points the color of kneaded eraser rise like monoliths out of the fine beige sand.  The wind whips my hair into my mouth as we glide along the perfectly smooth cement bike paths, curving our way around sand dunes sewn with long grass hair plugs.  There's something essentially Danish about the moment -- that stark, smooth melancholy, steadfast against the bluster. It's my other favorite Copenhagen snapshot.




To be continued...

I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map...I'm the map!

Saturday, August 2, 5pm -- Wedding Day

Det er (Det var) rigtig hyggeligt -- This is (This was) very cozy. A very Danish thing to say, maybe the most Danish thing you can learn to say.

We've been told to congregate at the polar bear statue on Langeliniekaj 5, close to Kastellet on the eastern coast of Copenhagen.  The actual location of the wedding has been a closely guarded secret for the better part of a year.  Here's what Sarah says in the itinerary:

"First off, you CANNOT be late to the meeting point.  Not to sound dramatic, but you CANNOT be late.  Ok?  Please get there early."

Helen, Francis, La Doug, Heej and I walk for about 20 minutes til we get to the octagonal ice cream shack in front of the meeting spot.  I think we're quite a striking bunch, strolling down the road in the pearly late afternoon sun.



La Doug and I are wearing the same shade of eyeshadow (because I borrowed some from him).  Along the way, one of Heej's snakeskin heels breaks off.  Once we arrive at the meet-up, Sarah R. manages to snap the other one off.  We're toting two bottles of Herradura silver, imports requested by the groom who insisted that there was no good tequila to be found in Copenhagen.  (The only available choice was a brand topped with a festive sombrero screw top.)

Guests trickle in at the harbor's edge.  We hear English spoken with an Irish lilt, with a clipped English accent, with slight Japanese inflection, with California upspeak question marks, along with the nylon string song of Danish. 



Louise, who's recovering from hand surgery, makes an elegant entrance folded and tucked in the front wagon of her sister's bicycle. 

Sarah's bridal gown has also been a well-kept secret; she's been creating it for months.  It's the first dress she's ever made, and it's been a labor so intensive that none of us were sure she'd actually finish it in time for the wedding.  But I have to say, never has a bridal reveal been so impressive.



Her dress and shoes are the grays of the cobblestones, the gray of the stones that tumble into the Copenhagen harbor, gray like Danish cloud bellies; the tulle is dense, plush and huggable, undulating softly like harbored ocean from her neck to her knees.



She sports an amber-colored vintage hairpiece, originally meant to be skewered into the stiff lacquer 'do of a Japanese bride. I love the way she looks, but mostly I love the way Shannon looks at her. 


At about 6:30pm, a ferry slowly inches its way towards the land, docking and releasing its contents onto the cobblestones.  Once emptied, it becomes our ferry.  The entire wedding party climbs the silvery ramp with anticipation and delight, dispersing themselves among the benches on the top of the boat.

For ten minutes, we chug through the saltwater, introducing ourselves to unfamiliar faces, drinking in the cool evening breeze, resting high heels and dress shoes up on the backs of the row benches. 

I had my suspicions, but I can hardly believe it -- the ferry makes its wide, slow turn into the harbor of a tiny island, the lighthouse like a tall, white push pin stuck at 12:00. 



According to our wedding program, we are at Trekroner Fortress, King Christian VII's fortress.  It was meant to be a safeguard against Napoleon.  It is now a novel blip in the Danish sea.  If you're interested, you can read the full program here -- if there were a Pulitzer Prize for wedding programs, Sarah and Shannon's would be a shoe-in for sure.



We start with champagne in a clearing, framed by the tall, blond-frosted grasses being blown out by the sea winds.  Then we head in to the party house for dinner and the rest of the wedding festivities.



There's no way for me to really encapsulate the evening/morning in words -- besides, what happens in Trekroner ought to stay in Trekoner.  Here are a few key snapshots for those of you who want to feel like you wuz here:

• We arrive at around 7pm.  The first ferry back leaves at 1am.  The only other ferry back leaves at 5:45am.  Word.
• We apparently manage to break the record on most alcohol ever consumed at a single event on Trekoner.
  
• The Danes have some great wedding traditions, my favorite being the one where if the groom leaves the room, all the men in the room descend on the bride for an obligatory kiss.  The opposite happens when the bride leaves the room. So charming.
  
• Sarah's poofball dress flaps and bounces like Donald Duck's tail when she's on the dance floor.
• Heej discovers Anders passed out at the top of the hill.  She rouses him to let him know that the only ferry is leaving in ten minutes.  Jens has also passed out on the lower hill, his shoes and the bottom half of his legs peeking out from a shielding patch of grass.
  
• 7am -- After a heroic evening and morning of dancing, a bleary-eyed Helen piles into a cab with eight life-sized, inflatable penguins.  The cab driver sternly refuses to take her unless she deflates her buddies. 
  

And this extraordinary, quiet sunrise, 5:19am, hot pinky orange over slate blue:


To be continued...

Here's the map again if you want to follow along.

Friday, August 1

tak pronounced tahk, short and sharp -- thank you


There's nothing on the wedding agenda until 7pm, so Heej, Francis and I take the train down to Cykelbørsen on Gothersgade to rent bikes for the duration of our stay.  It's about 200 Kroners for four days, which winds up being about $10/day.  For an additional 135 Kroners, I hire myself a helmet because I am a chicken and I love my Mae.  The shop is tended by a jolly white-haired man with a ruddy, healthy complexion and two blue topaz eyes that point in different directions. 

ME: Tak!

BIKE SHOP GUY: Oh, you speak Danish?

ME: No, that's all I know.  But I know the bike hand signals.  Left [left arm points left], right [right arm points right], stop [right hand raised, as though taking an oath].

BIKE SHOP GUY: You'll do just fine, then.

ME: Can I rent a night light from you?

BIKE SHOP GUY: I don't rent those, but you can buy them from a department store for cheap, about 100 Kroners.

ME: You don't sell them?

BIKE SHOP GUY: No.  In the summer, you can ride for 19 hours during the day.  That leaves 3 hours for disco and 2 hours for sleeping.  [laughs]

Bike culture in Copenhagen is amazing.  There are bike lanes on every street, and the small city is easy to navigate.  Most of the streets even have curbs that separate the bike lanes from the automobile traffic.  It feels splendidly safe.  I love getting lost in a new city and exploring by bike.  (Why can't it be less treacherous to ride around Brooklyn and Manhattan?  Our quality of life would be so much better if this were a bicycle town.  The air would be better, we'd get better tans, we'd be healthier, and I might actually get to Williamsburg more than once a season.)

 

We spend the rest of our day orienting ourselves and riding all over the city center. We ride down past the metallic swirls of Tivoli amusement park and Central station to Vesterbro where red light establishments jut up against sweet boutiques and design shops.  We visit Helen at her work, a secondhand clothing shop brimming with Helen's favored print dresses and American prom gowns, all ruffled tiers and lamé and black taffeta.  Then we loop back up the east side, through Kastellet, a 17th century fortress surrounded by a star-shaped moat with long, blond-streaked grasses waving on the banks.  It's ridiculous how pretty this city is.

6 pm, Kongens Have

god smag -- good taste


We consider making dinner for Helen at home, but Helen suggests meeting for a picnic dinner at Kongens Have, the King's Gardens.  "In the summer, it's nice to be outside whenever we can."  Sarah describes Kongens Have this way:

"A park in central Copenhagen. On a sunny day, this is where the Danes drink too many beers and bare their chests (yes, both sexes...). It also happens to be beautifully landscaped. If you get really drunk, you can head over to the Rosenborg castle in the park and check out the crown jewels, although this is technically not really recommended."

We don't see any nipples, but we do see lots of beautiful, tanned young people laying out in the grass next to their prone bikes.  The rectangular gardens are filled with well-maintained bloomage, and the park is clean clean clean.  Lots of folks are enjoying cans of beer, or wheeling babies around in their giant, old-school baby buggies, which seem to be the stroller of choice in Denmark.

We lay out a noshy meal of hummus, a sort of ratatouille, crusty rye bread from a local bakery, olives, green grapes, cherry tomatoes, curried egg salad, cheese and salami, all of which Francis managed to clamp onto the little shelf on the back of his bike.
 


We pick up La Doug on foot at nearby Nørreport St.  He's just taken the metro in from the airport.  After a finishing up our meal, we head to Louise's house in the city center for a cocktail party.  I can't believe we're going to a cocktail party on bikes.  I love it. 

The polka-dotted dress Helen is wearing falls mid-calf; she wears it with white ankle-strap low heels.  She looks amazing on her bike.  She, and many of the ladies of Copenhagen, have the most fluid, elegant way of mounting their bikes -- left foot rests on left pedal, right foot pushes off the ground from the left side of the bike. As the bike propels forward, the right foot swings over the bike frame in one fluid motion and pretty lady glides away.  So chic.

7pm Louise's house


Haps, haps, haps, nu skal vi ha snaps! - A drinking saying which means, yum, yum, yum, we're going to drink schnapps!  The schnapps imbibed is usually the invigorating breakfast shot of Gammel Dansk (Old Danish) which, according to Sarah's brother David, tastes like vomit.

Louise's 2-bdrm flat is stunning.  Pale wood, 2 bedrooms, windows that look out into what may as well be medieval courtyards, and no stuff.  Well, there's a beautifully curved chair here, huge paintings on the walls, a spare table there, but there's zero junk.  Where are all her papers, her desk, her drawer full of pens of many colors, her tchotchke piles?  I WISH I could live like that.  I am so into this Danish minimalist design.



It's hot, I'm drinking white wine with ice cubes somebody has miraculously brought along (because I'm American and because I can), and while I've been instructed not to get too wasted the night before the wedding, I sort of fail.  The Danes are really throwing it back.  It's impressive.  We all dance it out in the front room to Euro pop.  (I keep thinking Ace of Base -- I know it wasn't Ace of Base, but it was something similarly challenging to dance to.)

It's drizzling and I have to admit that I'm kind of excited about the 15 minute ride back to Helen's house.



DOUG: Get in the cab.

GANDA: I'm not leaving my bike!

DOUG: Ganda, you are too drunk to ride your bike home.  Just leave it and we can get it in the morning!

GANDA: I am totally sober!  Look! [While touching my nose with alternating index fingers, eyes closed] Z Y X W V U T --

HELEN: She'll be fine.  We always ride home drunk. 

DOUG: Yes, but she doesn't know this city as well as you do.

GANDA: Seriously, I'm fine!  I'm following Helen.  Seeyouathomebye! 

It's about 12:30am.  I strap my helmet on and follow Helen's lead; Sarah's brothers ride ahead while Heej takes up the rear.  We ride north, following the five lakes west of the city center, past Nørrebro into Østerbro.  The streets are super quiet, with very few cars on the road.  The street lamps' reflections dance on the lake's surface, and the pavement is slick and black with rain. Sarah's gorgeous younger brothers turn back and smile over their shoulders every so often.  The drizzle is chilly, but my blood is pumping and the city's night silence envelops me.  It might be my favorite mental snapshot of Copenhagen.

We make it home minutes after Doug's taxi.  We fall asleep pretty quickly.  I wake up again at 5am, still drunk -- I realize Doug was probably right.  Still, I can't regret the super pretty ride.

To be continued...

Before we move on with the story, I'd like to confess that Abstain Project pork is officially over.  Wurst came to wurst and I gave in in Berlin.  It was clear it couldn't last.  A conversation with my friend Winnie C. last night:

ME: I'm eating pork again.

WINNIE: You're Asian.  You can't live without pork.

There.  Confessed.  Now I'm going to leave my cave and get back out into this gorgeous sunshine. 

For those of you who want to follow along, here's a (super nerdy) map I made for my trip.  All of the places of interest mentioned in these posts will be on the map; the map has some extra recommendations from my friend Sarah which you may also enjoy.  Feel free to open it up in a new window and follow along with the story.  I wish somebody made me a map like this for my trip.  It's my souvenir gift to you.  Click on "View Larger Map" for details. 



View Larger Map

Wednesday, July 30 5pm

Anonyme Alkoholikere = Alcoholics Anonymous


Did you know that at the Dufry Duty Free shop at Newark, you can buy 1 liter bottles of Stoli for $12?  $12!  That's the price of a cocktail at some bars.  Heej, Francis and I spend a good twenty minutes debating whether or not we should get one or two bottles.  We wind up getting three, and another $21 bottle of Jameson's.  Just before we board the plane for our red-eye, I try and buy a fourth bottle, but it's too late to get it packed up and delivered in time.

Thursday, July 31 8am

København, pronounced kind of like "Kuhbenhoun" = Copenhagen



We've arrived in Wonderful Copenhagen! Francis, my super blond English friend, says he's never seen so many blond people in his life.  We take the incredibly easy train to Nordhavn St., the stop closest to our friend Helen's house.  It isn't cheap to ride short distances, but it's very user friendly, with folding seats and tons of bike racks in the cars.  After a quickie nap, we're treated to the first of many extravagant but easygoing Danish breakfasts -- Helen's crusty homemade bread with flaxseeds, walnuts and cranberries, my new favorite tuna salad, juice, fruit, cheeses and good, strong Danish coffee.  I love Helen's bread -- she's able to throw the dough together instinctually, even (and especially) after a night of serious, sopping drinking.  They're fragrant, moist and not too yeasty.  We find that most people and most restaurants serve their own homemade bread.  Eating out is not really a big part of Copenhagen culture.  People are much more inclined to make their meals; cooking and baking come naturally, and without much fanfare.   I admire their ease, the lack of self-consciousness in the food.

Helen's got style in spades, but it also is easy, nonchalant.  From her wasp-waisted vintage dresses to her Japanese grandmother's fluted plates to the vintage white and blue Poul Henningsen triple tier lamp hanging over the kitchen table, it's a pleasure to be surrounded by harmonious but not homogenous design.
 





The wedges of cheese are unapologetically huge here. One of the more interesting discoveries was Myseost, a Norwegian goat cheese that tastes like a cajeta cheesecake.  Slices up smooth, but has a bit of grit on the tongue and a rich caramel flavor.  I don't really know what to make of it, but I like it with grapes.  I've never seen it in the States. 



1pm



We head up north along the coast via train to Humlebæk, where we'll be spending the rest of the afternoon.  We buy discounted train+museum tickets at the Nordhavn station.  I sleep most of the way up and totally miss the scenery.

We walk to the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, a gorgeous seaside building with perfectly manicured glades dotted with sculptures.  It's heavenly to watch the sailboats and fall asleep on the grass on this perfect day.  The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, the greens and blues are as rich as I've ever seen them.




My glass of mineral water from the cafe is an impressive 30 Kroners, or about $6.  The exchange rate is putting the hurt on my vacation budget, but we're saving all kinds of money by sleeping like five sardines in Helen's 1 bedroom apartment.

After our museum visit, we walk along the beach up towards Sarah's house, passing defiantly quaint beach houses with thatched roofs and barnacled tugboats.



I walk with Louise, one of Sarah's oldest friends.  She's a lithe Dane with big Sally Jesse Raphael glasses and saucer blue eyes, framed by some of the longest eyelashes I've ever seen.  She has to curl her eyelashes just to keep them from brushing up against her lenses.  I ask her what's across the water.

LOUISE: That's Sweden.

ME: That close?

LOUISE: Yes, you can take a ferry from Helsingør.  It only takes about twenty minutes. 

ME: Elsinore!  Like Hamlet!

LOUISE: Yes, like Hamlet.

We reach a clearing and a semi-private dock where, despite the cooler winds blowing in, the Danes insist on going for a swim.  "It's not that cold," says local Henriette, "but the Vikings always say it's not that cold."

We jump into the clean waters which, to my surprise, aren't freezing.  The seaweed washes up on the short shore of rocky sand.  Blond "Viking" kids and teenagers jump into the waters with complete abandon.  I only last for about 15 minutes before I get dressed and join everyone for a chic seaside snack of potato chips, fresh peas, and champagne.





brombær = blackberry


There's a blackberry bush next to the picnic table.  Henriette and I pick blackberries until the thorns get in our way.  Some are sweet, most are tart, but I can't stop picking them and gobbling them down.  I mean, when's the next time I'm going to be able to eat blackberries I've picked on the beach?  We float them in the champagne and drink in the late afternoon sunshine.  Later, I notice the blackberry bushes everywhere, climbing fences in industrial lots, crawling up the sides of houses in Christiania, spilling over walls on the side of the road.  Every time I pass them, I want to put on a bear suit and go nuts in the brambles.



5pm Dinner at Sa's house

tandsmør, pronounced "ten smuhr" = literally "teeth butter", it refers to the practice of putting so much butter on your bread that you leave teeth marks in it when you take a bite.

Sarah's parents and grandmother have prepared a traditional smørrebrød spread for us, the classic Danish open-faced sandwiches usually eaten for lunch.  Sarah's father explains to the newbies that you start by piling your slice of dark, buttered bread with the fish items; only afterwards can you move on to the meats.
 


The bread in Denmark is unlike any bread I've ever had -- super moist and dense, dark like chocolate, it's like someone took a whole grain porridge, cooled it until it congealed, then sliced it thinly across the grains.  It's practically meaty, and one or two slices are enough to fill you up. 



It's a spread I'll probably dream of for the rest of my life -- hellefisk, halibut which has been fished up through the ice in Greenland, smoked and sliced into satiny, translucent leaves; herring in a creamy curry sauce sweetened with apples and sharpened with red onions; a beet salad, its sweetness tamed by what tastes like creme fraiche and heady horseradish; a potato salad made of the creamiest new potatoes and bold cherry tomatoes, dressed with chopped parsley and a vinaigrette; salamis and cheeses galore; Grandma's foie gras, veal and pork paté with olives and cornichons; and my favorite, fiske frekadeller, sautéed oval fish cakes made of ground whitefish (I couldn't get the translation for the type of fish, but I'm guessing it was something