The basket beckons at Shangri-La hotel, Singapore.
This intriguing basket was waiting in our room when we checked into the Shangri-La hotel in Singapore. It had been a long journey for us and our heads were spinning. We didn’t know quite what we wanted. Sleep? Food? Drink? A walk?
Too tired to make tea?
The Shangri-La knew exactly what we wanted. Jasmine tea! The insulated basket contained a large pot of hot tea, which turned out to be just what we needed.
The pot is large, full, and hot.
Shangri-La tea
Shangri-La tea, famous world-round, is a delightful hidden surprise in guests’ rooms upon arrival. I like that the beautiful presentation requires exploration. The reward is in the discovery.
And in case we should consider a run, there was a handy jogger’s map, too.
The Shangri-La hotel provides a handy jogger’s map.
A flashlight on hand at the Four Seasons Sultanahmet in Istanbul.
What has the Four Seasons Sultanahmet in Istanbul not thought of? I’ve already written about its coffee delivered with wake-up call, a practice worthy of its own little post by thiefhunters. There was so much more.
Four Seasons Hotel perfection
The flashlight was a nice touch. The bedside drawer was ajar when we arrived to alert us to the availability and location of the flashlight, which rested on fleur-des-lis drawer liner to match the fleur-des-lis rug. Never mind that we all have flashlights built into our smartphones. But… is the Four Seasons hinting to frequent power outages? Or do they know that a flashlight beam makes it so much easier to find a dropped contact?
Espresso ready any time in my room at the Four Seasons Sultanahmet in Istanbul.
Instead of the old Mr. Coffee, our room had an espresso machine. When we had our coffee in the afternoon, it was accompanied by a sampler of perfect baklava which had appeared on our table.
The fruit bowl was particularly beautiful with its luscious appealing bounty. Even more so was the plate of fat fresh figs we received later.
Have your coffee with luscious baklava, delivered in the afternoon. We also got a bowl of exquisite fresh figs.
Breakfast in the gazebo-like greenhouse in the hotel’s courtyard was simply the best. The choices, the quality, the ambiance, the service, were all top notch. There were gorgeous local cheeses paired with a variety of golden honeycombs, wonderful olives, Turkish simit, the sesame-covered bagel-like bread.
In the bar we had a variety of unique cocktails, traditional Turkish tea, and raki, the aniseed-flavored Turkish liqueur, similar to the better-known ouzo. The presentation of all the drinks was just… perfect.
The breakfast gazebo in the courtyard of the Four Seasons Sultanahmet in Istanbul.Tea in the bar at Four Seasons Sultanahmet in Istanbul. Beautiful presentation of raki, the local anise liquor, to which water is added.
In Stockholm, it’s that time of year. Fresh, delicious, Swedish potatoes. Get them in the neighborhood grocery stores, dirt and all. I’ve never seen them sold like this in the U.S. Maybe I’m living in the wrong places. In Sweden, I gorge on these.
You find the strangest things in airport lounges. Fancy banana liqueur?
Banana liqueur in a Turkish airport lounge. Is this a joke?
This was in the Turkish Air lounge in Izmir. Let me tell you: the Turkish Air lounge in Istanbul is fantastic! I love the cuisine of Turkey, and the lounge has a luscious sampling. In Istanbul, I want a long layover.
Of course I had to try the banana liqueur. Yep—very sweet. Probably mixes up well though, if you know what you’re doing.
Russian oligarchs suck billions of dollars from the national economy but leave lavish scraps to tease big bucks from high-end tourists. As trips to the region are being cancelled left and right, I’m looking back at my recent visit relying for sustenance on those extravagant scraps. Here’s to the past: dining like the oligarchs on vodka and caviar in Russia. A dis/tasteful extravaganza…
Red salmon caviar, sour cream, and perfect pancakesCaviar toast
This was a favorite of mine (below): “Spirit of Russia Imperial Cocktail,” served at the Grand Hotel Europe in St. Petersburg. “A fine selection of the most famous varieties of caviar: beluga, ossetra, and red salmon caviar. Served on blinis with sour cream. Accompanied by a set of premium vodkas: Beluga, Tsarskaya Gold, and Russian Standard Platinum.
Three caviar varieties, three kinds of vodka
No, this was my favorite: “Egg in Egg.” An egg filled with truffle-scented scrambled egg, topped with ossetra caviar. Oh, yum! Also at the Grand Hotel Europe.
Who does it better, the chicken or the sturgeon? Together, pure decadence!
Outrageously delicious. Three varieties of caviar on silky, truffle-flavored scrambled egg.
Egg in egg: three times as goodFlavored vodkas at the St. Petersburg restaurant called RestaurantFlavored vodkas at the St. Petersburg restaurant called RestaurantNot figs and strawberries, but marzipan candiesA favorite vodka. (Doesn’t it look like the waiter’s face beneath the tray? But no, it’s just his hand.)A waiter keeps our vodka glasses full at Grand Hotel EuropeWe could have eaten at Killfish Burgers…
Bob and I were enjoying a delicious dinner in a small Turkish resort town. It was a balmy, late-summer evening and the restaurant was in a narrow alley; our table was outside, on the edge of light pedestrian traffic.
We had a beer and some raki along with this gorgeous mezze plate and warm bread fresh from the oven. I was hoping to save room for the oddly chewy Turkish ice cream, but that didn’t happen. We lingered, letting the meal stretch and be the night’s main event.
I noticed a large bottle fastened to the wall across the alley. It appeared to be a plastic water bottle. Why was it perched there so prominently? To hold flowers? rolled-up messages? a broom? It seemed to be partially full of something…
Eventually, I had to get up and go look. Bottle caps! It was about a quarter filled with blue plastic bottle caps. Why? I asked our waiter, who explained that when the bottle is full of caps, it could be traded in for a wheelchair. Huh.
The mysterious door opposite our restaurant, and the water bottle that got our attention. Bottle caps equal a free wheelchair?
But, really? This seemed more like a hoax to me. Whatever…
As we considered the bottle on the wall across the alley, our focus shifted to the door at which it was mounted. It was an elegant entry surrounded by rich woodwork—at odds with the glass-fronted commercial establishments up and down the lane. It was warmly lit, while the surrounding shops flickered cool florescence. Could the doors lead to an upstairs guest house or hostel? We looked at the upper windows but could ascertain nothing. The glass doors were blacked out from the inside, reflecting alley activity, emanating mystery and privacy. This lent it a bit of foreboding, but that feeling was tempered and conflicted by the welcoming light. Come hither… stand back! Could it be an apartment house? The iron gate folded to the side implied a need for security.
After a while, it occurred to us that there was regular traffic into and out of the door. We hadn’t noticed at first, but once we began to pay attention, we saw that a couple or group would enter, then leave ten or fifteen minutes later. The visitors looked like tourists, not locals.
Again, we asked our friendly waiter. They sell copies inside, he said, knockoffs. But you have to know someone to get in. It’s the shop at the end of the lane. If you ask the right questions, you’ll be taken behind the wooden doors for the good stuff. He looked left and right, leaned in and whispered. No—just kidding.
Turkish counterfeits
Counterfeit goods for sale behind the secret door.
When we finished our dinner we strolled to the shop at the end of the lane and asked what we thought might be the right questions. A boy brought us to the wooden door and gave a secret knock—the code! (Slight exaggeration here.) The door opened to a bright and immaculate shop. Its walls were lined with shelves of colorful leather bags, satchels, purses, and duffels. Its spotless marble floor reflected more of the same. Racks held belts, and a small section displayed red-soled Christian Louboutin shoes. The goods were branded Prada, Hermes, Gucci, Chanel… all the big expensive names.
Turkish bread to go with mezze.
The quality seemed excellent. The prices were high—in the hundreds of dollars, but not the thousands. This lower-cost merchandise was likely made in the very same Italian factories as the legitimate designer items, from the same bolts of designer leather, cut and sewn by the same expert craftsmen. Read how counterfeit items are made in Italy and why they are for sale. Could these items have been made in Turkey, which has a thriving leather industry of its own? I doubt it. Could they be imitations from China? Not likely. I’ve been to the Beijing copy district, where shop after shop displays branded goods with impunity. Those items, while good, are churned out factory-like, without attention to precious detail as is the custom of Italian artisans. Or… perhaps in Beijing I didn’t know the right questions to ask.
A jumble of travelers’ belongings and precious air mattresses. Delayed travelers whose flights had been cancelled could not even check in.
The weather was terrible when we visited Japan last month. There was a whole inch of snow on the ground, and slushy puddles to slog through. It seemed Tokyo was unused to clearing streets and sidewalks. (I’d rather have slush than what I experienced on my March 2011 visit to Tokyo: the earthquake and tsunami.) Our drive to the airport, usually an hour, took three and a half due to closed and clogged roads.
But no problem: flights at Tokyo Narita had been delayed or cancelled. The airport was crowded with huddled travelers, their luggage piled neatly or jumbled. Our flight, too, was delayed, but only by a few hours.
Tokyo Narita airport comfort
We spent the time in a sushi restaurant where we had a mediocre meal and good wifi. Others were not so lucky, but luckier than delayed travelers elsewhere. Tokyo Narita Airport had kindly distributed lengths of air mattress, similar to bubble-wrap. People were sleeping on them, propped against pillows of the stuff, and covered by it. Creative families built tidy fortresses with floors and walls of air.
What a way to make a miserable situation a little more bearable.
Bubble-wrap fortress: more comfort than the digital aquarium in the background.Lunch at the fabulous Aoki Sushi restaurant in Tokyo. Not the airport joint.
I dream of Kajsas’ fish soup! Since I started visiting Kajsas Fiskbistron (fish bistro) in the 90s, I always order only that. It’s a hearty red broth stocked with fish like a dude ranch pond. Miraculously, the large tender filets are boneless.
Anyone who knows anything orders the fish soup at Kajsas Fisk.
When you order, you say yes or no to additional spoonfuls of cooked shrimp (yes!), shelled mussels (yes!), and aioli (absolutely!). Then you add your own double-dollop of harissa (spicy Moroccan chili paste) (essential!). Feast in a bowl!
The free “salad,” on my last visit a few days ago, was shredded napa cabbage, a nice, crunchy complement. I seem to remember other simple salads on other visits, but you don’t go for the salad. Bread is included, and so is water.
You can order other seafood dishes, but why? Plenty of tasty choices are on the blackboard menu, but only a few people seem to order them. They must be frequent visitors who work nearby. Just get the fish soup and swoon. There’s a bar, too, so you can have a beer with it if you like.
Located inside a top-quality food hall, Kajsas must source its fish from the neighboring seafood dealers—I’m presuming here—or maybe the restaurant buys from the same fishmongers the neighbors do. Regardless, you imagine you’re eating the fishermen’s own stew.
I love the atmosphere, even though the place is indoors, underground, in a market, with a giant, shiny Patagonian toothfish staring at me from between the octopus and baby squids in the glass counter across the aisle. It’s not romantic or scenic or high-design—just authentic, unpretentious, and efficient.
Kajsas Fiskbistron is in Hötorgshallen, in Hötorget, Stockholm. Take the escalator down to the food hall. Fish soup is SEK 90, about $14 with everything (at today’s exchange rate).
Kajsas is beside a fishmonger and a shop of gorgeous cheeses.Cramped seating at shared tables, but it’s fine that way. Waiters maneuver skillfully.There’s a bar area, and more comfortable seating at the opposite end.
The world’s best durian is sold on the streets of Malaysia, some claim.The durian men in Singapore cut, grade, and sort the fruit all day.The durian-man must wear an armor-like glove in order to handle the spiky fruit.Number-one quality premium durian costs a small fortune.The price of this durian is the equivalent of U.S. $54.Eating durian is not an elegant affair.Chendol, a classic Malaysian iced dessert, is heavenly topped with a scoop of fresh durian.
You love it. You hate it. Or you’ve never had it. This powerfully-fragrant fruit from Southeast Asia is considered so foul-smelling by some people, they say they hate it even though they can’t bring themselves to taste it.
All I can say is: poor them. I’m obviously in the love-it camp. I can smell it from blocks away and am magnetically drawn to the stand like a bee to honey or a fly to… well, I’ll leave the similes to you.
Durian flesh is intensely sweet but at the same time, delicately flavored. Its creamy-custardy consistency can be firm to soft, and has a silky texture. Surely one of nature’s strangest inventions, its surprising, delicious interior is protected by multiple barriers. If its odor doesn’t put you off, its dangerous thorns might. And how do you crack the thing, anyway. All messages are: stay away!
Unless the fragrance entices…
The football-shaped durian has a thick spiked shell. If it weren’t so heavy, it would be a formidable weapon. Durian professionals wear an armored glove on one hand, and wield an evil-looking knife or cleaver in the other. The soft interior segments are gently prized out and arranged in a styrofoam box, where they look not unlike an undercooked omelet, or piece of raw chicken fat. Ready-to-eat durian will not win a beauty contest no matter who are the other contestants in the fruit-world. It beckons with its fragrance. By necessity, it must. A feast for the eyes, it isn’t.
I don’t know the qualifications the durian man uses to grade his fruit, especially without tasting it. Maybe they’re meant to remain a mystery. But wherever durian is sold, a range of qualities is on display. The priciest are often noted with a number of exclamation points: “best quality!!!” I’ve seen styrofoam boxes of durian ranging from about $3 to over $60. Locals scrutinize the offerings with serious concentration and buy the best they can afford.
Other durian stands sell the whole, uncut fruit. How does the buyer choose? Locals I have dined on durian with answer ambiguously.
Ladies-who-lunch and professional women visit the durian man in small groups. After selecting, they take their box to a plastic table, pull disposable gloves over their nails and jewelry, and dig in with their hands. I like the dichotomy: these elegant women visit their local supplier to quell a craving, get a quick and messy fix, then peel off the gloves, pop a breath mint, and slip back into society. The aroma will stick to them like illicit cigarette smoke.
Before I knew better, I bought durian and tried to take it home on a bus. This was in Singapore. It only took a few minutes before the bus stopped and I was ejected with my plastic bag. A taxi grudgingly drove me, but only with all its windows open despite the high temperature and humidity.
I ate too much durian in Bangkok one time and got what I later learned is called “hot tummy.” I felt light-headed, too, and had to take a tuk-tuk back to the hotel. Bangkok traffic is legendary—not even a little tuk-tuk can move quickly through it. The carbon monoxide fumes made me feel even sicker, but by the time I got back to the hotel, my hot tummy had cooled.
It seems you can now get durian in New York City, though I wonder how fresh they are. What is the shelf-life of an unfrozen durian? They’ve got to be frozen. If the NYC supply has been frozen, I’d stay away. They’d certainly not be suitable for a first introduction.
In Southeast Asia, when fresh ones are not available, I’m very happy with a durian shake. Durian cakes and custards are okay. Nothing beats the iced malaysian dessert durian chendol. I dream about it.
The pizza joint, and it’s single table on the left.
Sounds good, but it’s not what you think if you’re imagining a fragrant, wood-smoked Margherita pie.
Back in Naples, lunching at the tiniest pizza joint in the hillside Quartieri Spagnoli district. The “restaurant” is just an itsy-bitsy kitchen in a narrow building, with standing space for two men. It has one table—outside—with two chairs. We’re three. We try two on one chair, but it’s too hard to eat pizza that way. Pizza requires elbow room. So one of us stands.
The table is actually in the street, on a three-way corner. And though the street is narrow, it buzzes with disorderly traffic like a major thoroughfare. A steady stream of cars, motorbikes, and delivery trucks maneuver around us with only inches to spare.
The carbon monoxide fumes mingle with the vehicular honking and motorbike beeping to relegate this meal to the “fuel” category. And by that I mean the fuel-flavored pizza soothes our hunger pangs and provides energy. The “delicious” factor would be found later, over the unique coffee of Naples, and sfogliatella.
Not to disparage the thin- and chewy-crusted pizza or the quality of its tomato, mozzarella, and olive oil. But it was impossible to appreciate under the circumstances.
As take-out, though, this pizza place might really rank.
View from the table: Fumy motorbikes buzz by the lone pizza table in the street.My view from the pizza table in the street corner.
