Oysters and Disdain

On a street in Williamsburg that a gal from suburbia might call “seedy”, we showed up for our 10:00 reservation at an oyster bar.  We had ubered over from a rooftop bar ten blocks away and were relieved to take off our heavy coats in exchange for the warmth of a dimly lit room and the clatter of diners and their absinthe induced laughs. In a corner booth beneath an oil painting we were sat with a view of the room so perfectly tailored you might find yourself thinking you were transported to the 30’s, and that the noise of the clinking dishes and flirtatious banter around you was all that existed in the world. 

Then, we were judged, well I wasn’t…but.

We were there for my friend Annette’s birthday and this place came highly recommended.  We had looked at the menu the night before because our friends Sarah and Heather are the chicken and spaghetti types and they’ll be very upset with me for saying that.  While I had just a few nights previously been given a quick education on absinthe thanks to a bar tender in Fullerton, we were able to pick one from the menu so we didn’t look like the complete newbs that we were.  So Annette and I ordered absinthe and the chef’s choice of oysters ready to indulge in some of life’s most obscure delicacies. 

Then, our chicken spaghetti friends ordered, and thus began the judgment.  They had to ask for regular butter because the seaweed butter tasted like it was infused with essence of ocean.  They then preceded to order one absinthe to share as they weren’t big fans. The one non-fish dish at the restaurant was a big slab of pork for which they had to bring out the only steak knife in the restaurant, and like a scarlett letter it was placed on our table to be viewed and silently scoffed at throughout the evening.  The server brought the meat out with disdain and a pretentious smirk as he asked with half hearted enthusiasm, “who ordered the pork?…enjoy”. 

Annette and I were giddy with laughter over our fabulous oysters and the cloud of judgment that hung over our friends like an American in Paris.  We fell prey to the pompous environment as we slurped oysters like we were the real adventurers, the true experiencers and our friends watched with disgust over the air of our elevated joy and the gelatinous look of our dinner.

We finished our meal hysterical over our polarized experiences and walked out of the restaurant where the spell broke.  It was not 1930, we were all just tourists in New York, we'll always be Americans in Paris, sometimes we'll have to order the pity dish, and it’s really funny if you laugh about it. The moral of the story is that you should go eat oysters, and if you don't like them you should be like Sarah and Heather, who although they would never dream of eating such grotesque cuisine, would go to an oyster bar anyway and take delight in the snobbery of others. I now deserve to be taken to a steak house in Texas where vegetarian is not in their vocabulary and they throw some iceberg lettuce and ranch on a plate for their costumer who eats rabbit food…how embarrassing.  

Latin America in Los Angeles

I live in Orange County, but we southerners often find ourselves crossing the Orange Curtain for a good night of food and entertainment in the big city, but we know LA people look down us, we can see it in their eyes. 

It's like we’re just not cool enough, we’re not quite at the leading edge of culture like they are, they’re like…'that was so last week'. Granted we are known for pleasantville neighborhoods with identical homes and way too much money(I'm looking at you Irvine)…but we’re not all that way, I swear it. I sort of get the obsession though, I think people in LA like the seedy characteristics of the city, they like living in a place that’s part terrifying, part totally awesome.  The grunge adds to the thrill, the intrigue of irony, as they pop from one hip restaurant to another. 

But there we were with fabulous friends, starting at a wine bar with shelves of wine from floor to ceiling and a mescal tasting in a back room.  Smoky Tequila is gross, except that I loved it. It might ruin a margarita but when sipped alone, the subtle details become extravagant. Then on a busy street in Beverly Hills we opted for valet the price of a bottle of wine to avoid the dreaded wondering around the street affair, afraid to hit the Maserati directly in front or the homeless guys directly behind while parallel parking.  The crowd outside the Mexican restaurant was huge, which we later came to find out was a night of prayer, music and gratitude for mother earth, complete with a rainbow display of votive candles to light in a vigil to the gods that be and a performance by Peter, Paul & Mary. Inside the restaurant the beautiful servers who undoubtedly doubled as working actors whirred about the room expertly weaving in between tables, trays full of cocktails and red wine.  While we ate I engaged my skills of peripheral people staring – no watching- and I wanted desperately to be a hippie.  Women were wandering barefoot with braids down their backs, one with a rainbow knit smock that could only have been handmade.  Babies were strapped to backs, which brought along friendly conversation and congratulations “you have a baby…in a bar”. Then there were the modern day hipster hippies, who weren’t quite sold enough.  They did a bad performance of hippie reenactment while they flirted at the bar with chiseled cheekbones and a hat I’m sure I had seen at Urban Outfitters last week. 

We left and ran across town and parked in such a precarious area I would have bet my cats that our car would get stolen.  Unknown streets can be very exaggerated at night, like a scene from some rapist movie that I can’t quite remember but has lodged itself somewhere in the back of my mind to torture me with its fear. Pass the graffiti, pass the overflowing trashcan, pass a man sleeping in a tent, pass a man in a tailored suit - wait, no that’s us.  He leads us upstairs and through a closet (insert Angelinos eye roll) and into a Rum bar with a live Cuban band and a dance floor full of beautiful people and perfectly timed hips and feet. If I’m not careful in a place like this, I might let the mojito tell me I can probably dance like that…I cannot dance like that, NEVER let me try!  

It was a evening of experiences stringed along like beads that made the night like something out of Latin America with a side of 70's, and I was in love with it.  I was grateful for a city close by that may not have it’s own distinct culture, but in a country of immigrants our culture is international and it is definitely alive. Who wants one thing, when you can have pieces of it all.  So LA I’ll give you an A+ for the night, don’t make me fall for you! 

Apple mint and Sourdough Bread

I started the day with a woman called Claire who works here at the farm.  She has her degree in Sustainable Farming and did interesting things like moving to Ecuador for two months to study their farming.  In Ecuador they eat sustainable whole foods that aren’t processed, preserved or sprayed with pesticides, just because that’s the way food is made.  They don’t have access to chemicals so the food doesn’t have chemicals.  It’s not yuppy, it’s their only option. We spent the day transplanting orange mint and arugula so they would grow bigger.  We seeded peas and told stories and asked questions and learned from each other.  I ate the mint while I worked.  I dug my hands into dirt without thinking twice…then I saw a black widow and put on gloves cause really, I’m from Orange County and I’m not that tough.

At lunch Bill invited me over for bread making. He is everything you want a farmer to be.  He is knowledgeable about his trade and works tirelessly to create a sustainable way for farming.  He went to a conference a few months back to meet with some Berkley students who are researching how it is they can get young people back on farms making a living, avoiding the dreaded industrialized farmer takeover.  He cares enough to fight for a different way to work the land.  He invited me into his home and taught me how to make sourdough bread, then cut me a slice toasted with homemade mayo, Dijon, spinach and avocado.  He brought me a book list for readings I might find interesting and loaned me one about urban farming.  He brought me over some fresh eggs the perfect shade of grey/blue with bright orangie yolks and I fried them with some thyme I grabbed from one of the greenhouses. He’s generous, kind, interesting and I wish I could be their surrogate granddaughter.

I’ve realized in my time here that with open space and silence I’m affected really deeply.  I would do things like watch the wind move the grass, or the clouds change shape.  I would listen to the pattern of a birds songs or the crunch noise from the sheep pulling up grass. I contemplated nature and earth as this big strong living being all connected like one body with different parts - everything has its little job and together it’s exquisite.  I stared at an apple blossom because it looks like a tiny peony. I rode a bike with no destination and I climbed a steep mountain that didn’t have a trail. I sat in Bill & Barbara’s kitchen while they told me stories about farming and their life together.  I held a book and never read it.  I didn’t need input.  Just to look at the purples and golds of the hills was enough.  I felt like all these layers fell off when I got alone.  I don’t ever want to be lonely and am so grateful for friends and family, but sometimes the busyness keeps me from awareness.  Maybe it’s because I’m an introvert but I felt that when I got alone, as hard as it was, I felt more.  I thought more.  I cried over nothing, and I prayed more because God felt like he was everywhere.  So, either I’ve gone a little crazy, or this has all been really life giving. It feels fresh, like eating a kale salad or the way I feel right after a good run. 

Sage Blossoms

Yesterday was my first day volunteering at Wind Rose Farm. I woke up so grateful for the sun because I had a cold and sleepless night.  I don’t know that I’ve ever been consciously grateful for the sun, but there I lay watching the world go from grey and black to gold and green and found myself a little weepy over the grace of morning.  

Bill and Barbara Spencer are the organic farmers here and they know so much about the earth I feel like such robot.  Like I’m this piece of machine that lives in between concrete walls and am never human enough to touch the earth.  When I was wrapping bundles of rose scented geranium - which will be used to make rose ice cream at a restaurant in Santa Monica - Barbara asked me what I was looking for in my time at the farm.  I didn’t really have an answer except I knew I wanted to experience something new and develop an appreciation for nature and thus God. Her response, “well, a little dirt should help you get there”.  Dirt. Yes of Course.

Together Barbara and I bounced around from one greenhouse to another and then on to other gardens.  We were bundling lettuce, thyme, rosemary, sage blossoms, Sicilian oregano, arugula blossoms, chocolate geranium, Portuguese kale, apple mint and so much more. I’ve never been so aware of scent and how many rich smells can come from the earth. I’ve never been so aware of my ears and the silence or the sound of wind in the trees and infinity birds. I’ve also never been so aware of how much my body could hurt, it feels good to work hard and sleep hard, but also I should probably do a little yoga in the morning.

What must it be like to be such a genius like God, making things that smell like arugula - and little bushes that taste like thyme - and red ladybugs that protect lettuce leaves?  This whole system relies on the system and it works when we let it. Concrete and gushers are such a sad imitation.

Barbara talks to her plants sometimes and I’m obsessed.  “So these arugula blossoms can be used in a salad with the leaves and – oh hello there mustard, we need to have a talk you are much to big.” I’m into it. If I lived, worked with and loved plants every day I probably would too.

I was invited into their home for a spinach and egg frittata in which all the items were sourced from the farm or from surrounding farms that they had direct relationship with. Butter, eggs, flower, roasted garlic, feta cheese, spinach all from a couple mile radius.  Bill made a comment about the farming industry and politicians chief concern being cheap food “but with the disease and health risks that go with this industrial farming we really have the most expensive food in the world” - word.

In other news I bottle fed a little lamb. And if your question is, could I possibly get more hippie than this post, it’s too soon to tell…but probably, yes. 

One Meal in Paris

If you only had one meal in Paris, it would be an absolute tragedy. For a restaurant I would recommend you go here or here, & for drinks go here or here, but really, really the only thing to do is to picnic. Trever and I usually spend 60% of our meals in Paris, on the side of Seine eating all the goodies we've picked up during our stroll through the city that day.  

So, get your little self to the Isle St. Louis.  Go on the Rue St. Louis en I'lle and stop at this Cremerie for cheese (side note, click on the street view of the building because the owner is giving the camera the bird, it's spectacular).  The cheese guys don’t speak very good English so just pick something pretty.  Then head next door to the boulangerie for some macarons and a baguette, or two if you are feeling crazy.  Lastly, stop at this market to grab some grapes, peaches and Rose. 

Then start meandering towards the west end of the island. Sit RIGHT HERE and eat bread, cheese and fruit and watch the sunset turn the city pink. Make sure to pack some wine glasses, or you can just chug (I mean, not chug, sip) straight from the bottle, which we do sometimes - we're classy people.  This is the point at which the city will put it's little tallons in you and suck you in so you can never stop loving it.  Forever you will feel desperate to spend the rest of your life right there, on the side of the Seine, eating cheese. 

Musee de l'Orangerie

Trever and I have been to Paris four times and we’ve never been to the Louvre.  I don’t even feel bad about it, the amount of humanity in such a small space gives me anxiety just thinking about it.  The world gets so mad when you tell them you don’t want to go to the Louvre…get over it world!

However, there is a museum on the opposite side of the Tuileries gardens from the Louvre called the Orangerie.  It’s mostly impressionist artists and much smaller and more manageable.  If you like to move quickly through museums you can go from 5:00 until it closes at 6:00 and pay close to half the price, or you can go free on the first sunday of every month.  On the top floor of the Orangerie there are several Water Lilies studies by Monet.  The gallery rooms are huge white ovals and the ceiling is white and translucent, somehow.  When the clouds move over the sun and back off it, the light in the room completely changes and it changes the look of the paintings constantly.  So skip the Louvre, go to the Orangerie, jog through the other galleries and sit in the Water Lilies gallery until they kick you out.  Watch the colors change.  Take it in. You won’t regret it.  

Trasteverde in every city

Last spring Trever and I were in Rome for a Holiday.  I had been to Rome before when I was backpacking in college, but it doesn’t really count because it was tainted by the fact that we were pretty much out of money.  We would be buy a loaf of bread at the grocery story and eat the bread 3 meals a day until we ran out. Yes, I’m serious, I’ll show you pictures one day.

When we went back I decided to do some research on the best places to stay and areas to visit in the city.  My goal in travel is always to experience a city as close to the way a local does as possible - sooo douchy, I know.  So I had a recommendation to look into an area of the city called Trasteverde.  It’s on the south west (Kanye's kid?) part of the city, away from all of the tourist attractions that bring the masses to Rome in the first place.  The first thing I read about this area is that it was “seedy”, that felt like a good sign to me.  I like a place with a little grit (I guess thats why I like LA, sometimes).  It is also known to be an area with lots of young people, ancient and colorful buildings, fabulous food and a great night life.  HELLO! I’m there!

Within the first nano-second of arrival I knew it was the right choice.  The building we stayed in was sherbet pink with white shutters open to a narrow street carved out between a myriad of pastel colored buildings. Ivy was draping across laundry lines – like, it just started crawling across this functional laundry line and the owner just let it keep going.  Why fix something that exquisite? They just left it there draping leafy charm across the street and forcing me to fall in love.  The area is so old that the cobblestone streets spaghetti and swirl with the grace and elegance of a dance – whoever said straight lines are better than curvy ones?  I have this very specific memory of having marinara pizza (it’s bomb, get it) and drinking a vat of wine, because that’s how they serve it, in big huge jugs.  Every café was filled with locals laughing and eating and drinking, all the while being serenaded by street musicians - it was the stuff of Norah Ephron movies.

After a really long and drawn out dinner full of the conversation that prolonged time together brings out, we walked down the street to grab some pistachio ricotta gelato  and wandered slowly back to our flat.  I remember that night specifically because one of our neighbors was playing classic Italian music and we could still hear the vibrato of spirited conversation in the cafes below.  The cool air was blowing our curtains around the room like ballerinas, and I could hardly stand all the goodness.  I didn’t feel like a tourist, I felt like an Italian - wouldn’t that be nice?

So that’s a concept I take with me in all my travels.  Stay in an apartment if you can, look for the seedy parts of town, find the bits of the city away from tourist attractions and get local recommendations for the restaurants you choose, like this place.  Be Italian for a week.