Il mese dei Porcini

It's a sad night when you forget your camera for a great dinner. Sounds silly but it's true. I've become one of those people who take pictures of dinner, shamelessly, at the dinner table. Ask those with whom we've dined.

So last night Stefano made reservations at a place he'd found online via www.ilmangelo.it, a handy restaurant review site for Milan and Rome. All we knew was that All'Osteria dei Vecchi Sapori was recommended as a great place for traditional tastes. We didn't know that it was in the throes of "Porcini Month." Or that last night was the final night of the month-long event. When we walked past the kitchen (visible from outside the restaurant) and saw a heaping pile of porcini mushrooms we were excited. When we saw the flyer pictured above, we were ecstatic.

Of course we both went for the "Il Mese dei Porcini" (Porcini Month) special menu. For those who don't speak Italian, go ahead and give it a read anyway. You'll be surprised by how many words are quite familiar... carpaccio, tortelli, polenta, vino, caffe. "Zigoiner" was a little difficult for us too.

The meal began with a great bottle of red wine and the antipasto: "Carpaccio di Porcini." The uncooked porcini mushrooms had been thinly sliced and lay under a drizzling of olive oil and lemon, with long thin slips of parmesan grated on top. There was a little pepper, a little salt and a lot of fresh throaty flavor.

The primo was "Tortelli Rustici Panna e Porcini" - tortelli with porcini mushrooms and cream. Wow. Just creamy enough. Just salty enough. With woodsy hints in each porcini.

(In dishes like this the Italians truly justify their light portion sizes; had you been served a giant plate of these magnificent tortelli with cream you'd need to be rolled out of the restaurant by a kind stranger upon finishing. But with a smaller plate, hosting a lesser serving, you're able to honor each tortelli with a slow and savored tasting. And when you're finished you've still room for the secondo.)

"Zigoiner di Manzo e Speck con Polenta Taragna e Porcini Trifolati" was the secondo. Basically, this was a delicious bed of soft polenta topped with porcini cooked in oil, garlic and parsley. The most interesting aspect, though, was the giant wooden rod wrapped in grilled meats that was laid across the plate. Think broom handle barbeque. Stefano removed the thin slices of beef and smoked ham from the stick (we'd observed the process other diners had employed) and piled it atop the polenta and porcini. The stick barely sat on the table for a moment before the server whisked it away. The polenta with porcini was wonderful and Stefano vouches for the supremacy of the meats - salty and savory.

At this point we were rather full but soldiered on to enjoy coffee, digestives (Limoncello for me, Sambuca for Stefano) and a selection of light cakes for dessert.

The meal was impeccable and a great opportunity to take advantage of what experts can do with porcini mushrooms. Two brothers who despite their striking similarities are not twins (I asked) run the restaurant and told us that next month will be "Il Mese dei Tartufi," aka Truffle Month.

I think you know where to find us.

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All'Osteria dei Vecchi Sapori
Via Carmagnola, 3
Milano
02.66 86 148
www.vecchisapori.it

two (or more) for the road

There are a lot of motorcycles zipping around Thailand. These don't strike me as the fashion accessory that scooters in Italy are. These cycles are actually The Family Vehicle. And damn if they're not able to fit the whole family on it at once.

At first I was startled by the transporting of very small children at the front of the cycle. Some were just sort of propped there. Others had specially constructed plastic chairs in which they sat. Not many wore helmets, but then not many of their parents did either. Although sometimes they had those kamikaze helmets that you can't help but admire.



People propped their kids on the front of cycles in the morning. At night. In the rain. But you soon realize that's nothing. That's only two people. There are entire families perched on these cyles. I wasn't able to get a shot of a family of four; three was my max. But looking at this photo of three people on the cycle... just take another child and squeeze it between the last person and the driver. This seemed to be the preferred location for infants.



Not only are there families scooting down the highway on motorbikes, there are also uniquely configured cycles that have a transport area added on. Often you see street vendors on this bikes, with their entire food operation packed into the rather large sidecar. But as evidenced by these four guys, those cycles also make for great four-person vehicles.



Lack of helmets or protective gear notwithstanding, the Thais have figured out how to get around. There's no winter in Thailand but there are monsoons and hellish heat. Makes the people driving around in SUVs one person at a time seem a little less rugged.

fruit and farang

Phuket Town is away from the beaches and, if you believe guide books, is the sort of place where a visitor can feel like a local. Let me make a critical point here: you can absorb the ambiance, you can marvel at the smells and sounds, but in Thailand on vacation you will never - ever - feel like a local. There are far too many people pointing at you and laughing, or selling you things for eight times the price. No, really. We were walking to dinner in Chiang Mai and had a motor scooter full of teenagers point at us, yell "farang!" and then laugh their way into the distance.

"Farang" is a word applied to westerners and we've had friends tell us it originally was a word for the French. These days, though, we're all lumped into one big group of funny-acting strangers and the Thais aren't afraid to bandy the word around freely. But back to the point, you can wander around a great smaller place like Phuket Town and get a feel for things without all the commotion and commercialization, but it's hard to sink into the reality when tuk-tuk drivers keep offering to take you to "shopping."



Rather than be suckered into an engineered shopping expedition we meandered around and found a great market. We slowly walked the length of it, submitting to the cacaphony that is Thai produce and dining.

It was a pretty compact space with a main drag of sorts and stalls insistently pressing into the pathway. I have no idea what all of the fruits, vegetables, animals, you name it... were. Can't tell you what the pink and green fruit with the protruding petals is. Can't tell you what kind of small speckled eggs the woman was scooping into plastic bags. I can affirm that there was a stall with very, very sweet items all covered in bees. With a healthy crowd of bees still trying to find a spot.



There were piles of pineapples that still had long, sharp stalks poking out of the bottom. Never seen that before. There were large roaches/beetles ready to eat. Haven't seen that either. Lots of fish laying around on beds of ice bits. Seen that - but their eyes were clear and sharp, being pulled from the water only hours before.

Long florescent beans strung over poles. Hundreds of limes piled into pyramids. Spices, powdered and flaked. Armies of small bananas. And mounds of scarlet chilis that could fell a bear.



And such a delicious commotion. The vendors screaming, laughing, prodding. Children scrambling in tiny open spaces. Bees humming. A garbled TV running off a power cord appearing out of nowhere.

There were giant pots of prepared foods, cauldrons of Thailand's miraculous spice combinations. But we kept walking and let the real locals line up for clear plastic bags filled to the brim and tied off at the top.



Pig faces without bones. Yellow shirts celebrating the beloved king. You really can get anything in a Thai market. And maybe, just maybe, you can get a feel for Thailand without the tourists. Maybe.

the salty sea

Most everyone has heard of Phuket. And for those who haven't, it's the Thai island that was hard hit by the 2004 tsunami. Other than the Tsunami Escape Route signs that line the winding road along the beaches you wouldn't know what had happened there.

It's a beautiful place with tropical beaches that suit every personality. It's the first time that Stefano and I have purposefully visited a beach for vacation and we stayed in the more secluded area. Something about the non-stop craziness of the other party beaches just didn't sound super appealing. We did, however, find the idea of kayaking in the ocean very appealing.

Our guide, Gai, picked us up early in the morning and took us to the other side of the island where we arrived at a dock area perched on stilts at the water's edge. Everyone else was a local or a very scary half-fish half-reptile mudskipper skirting along the shallows. I can't tell you how disgusting and disturbing these creatures were. They look like angry nasty fish with legs and bug eyes and they sulk along the sandy mud, dragging their tails and stopping only to fight with their disgusting counterparts. I would have jumped on any boat at the dock just just to get away from them.



My openness served us well as we boarded a longtail boat. (Pictured in the first photo of this post.) We'd share the boat with our guide and two teenage drivers who would spend the majority of the trip sleeping in a hammock conveniently draped outside, next to the screaming truck engine powering the boat. Even when the engine was on. And even when it was pouring rain.

Our boat took us out to uninhabited islands covered in jungle and dripping with stalactites. Other islands lurked in the distance, blurry behind layers of fog and mist. Storm clouds hung low but didn't open up until lunchtime. And there were tamarind seeds to eat in the meantime - wresting them from their dried seed pods, chewing off the sticky sweetness and spitting the stripped seeds into the ocean as Gai had.

Before we got into the water with our kayaks for the first time Gai gave us a brief instructional talk on how to paddle. Good thing it made relatively little sense. And that he was screaming over the thrum of the motor. And that I had never been in a kayak before.

Come to think of it, neither of us had not been asked if we knew how to swim, or to wear a life jacket. But that's a true adventure for you. A wooden boat powered by a truck engine and a 15 year old... A life jacket just doesn't fit into that picture.



But three turquoise kayaks do. And so we got into the kayaks and were on our way. The first place we went to test our skills was a cave filled with bats and disturbing rock growths resembling wasp nests. Maybe it would have been less terrifying had we each been carrying a flashlight, instead of just our guide. But there I go again, trying to minimize adventure.

Gai pointed his dim light at the roof of the cave as Stefano and I grappled with the complexities of how one steers a sea kayak in a very small space, edged with sharp oyster shells. The ceiling was awash in bats and the air had a pungent smell that we now know means bats live there. It was amazing to be in that small space, almost like an enclosed and far scarier version of It's A Small World. Only in this ride there are no lights, no sounds, and nothing to stop you from biffing straight into the sea cave wall.

We continued on with our tour of the island's coast. Eagles swooped down from the jungled cliffs above. Herons shot from the ledges and coves created along the waterline where the island had been worn away. We stayed snug along the edges and stalactites dripped onto our heads and the water around us. The ocean lapped at the sides of our kayaks and we tried to find that perfect movement, where your paddle cuts into the water smoothly, yet propels you decidedly forward. When it works, it feels like magic. When it doesn't, it feels like your back or arms might hate you forever for the damage you're inflicting on them.



We didn't see another tourist or another kayak all day long. We did slip past a sleeping fisherman who awoke as we passed and gave a drowsy wave.

At lunchtime we paddled up to the longtail and got back on. Gai suggested a swim before lunch so we turned around and jumped into the ocean. The water was warm and salty, and absolutely perfect. We swam to a cove on the island where the water lapped at a small bit of beach. It was composed entirely of shells. And as the waves came to shore there was the prettiest, most delicate, tinkling. The sound of shells being deposited on top of other shells, and of still others being dragged back down into the water. The noise of wind chimes drifting over from the house across the street.

We stood there alone. On a tiny strip of land, at the side of a deserted island, along the warm salty ocean. Looking out at the longtail, seeing it ride the current. Thinking of our guide. His life. Our lives. And the constant tinkling of the shells.



Our lunch was rice in a plastic bag with some dried seasoned onions. There was also fried chicken and several bags of Oreos. I didn't go for the chicken but I can say that the rice was excellent. Something about the ocean and kayaking all morning makes a plastic bag filled with rice taste better than most anything else. Even the Oreos.

We continued kayaking even as the rain came and eventually paddled into a deep cavern where we were able to park our kayaks along the edge and climb high into the cave. There were rock formations of every shape and size. Sheets draping smoothly along the length of the wall. Others pooling like saucers along the floor. But before we could gawk at the stalactites and stalagmites there was the small matter of tiny creatures that look like water droplets but actually bite. There were several on my leg and at first I couldn't figure out why the water droplets that were running down my ankle were stinging. Except they weren't water droplets. They were miniature sea monsters. And they were biting me. Cue fist raising to nature.



There was a point in the trip where we were in the longtail and Gai had to tie plastic tarps at every angle so that the sheets of rain wouldn't follow us into the boat. And it worked. We sat behind the sheets, listened to the boat's hum, and thought of our teenage captain driving through what by that point had become zero visibility. Again with the adventure.

At the end of our day Gai brought us to a lonely beach to relax. Except we decided to hunt for more shells, chase crabs across the shore, and go in search of giant chickens. All in the beautiful rain.

I still remember how warm the ocean was. How salty the water was when I jumped in. The way the kayak would sometimes ride the water like a racetrack, shooting along. The quiet of spaces where no one else is and where the water works to dissolve the rock walls around it.

So while Thailand has Bangkok and the stories people tell (which I now know could easily be true) ... Thailand also has tiny islands off of other islands in the middle of the ocean. With only jungles and eagles swooping down. And a few turquoise kayaks silently paddling through.

siamo ritornati

Some 24 hours after leaving our friends' Bangkok apartment, we were back in Milan. They're two different worlds, these places. Two. Different. Worlds.

Bangkok makes Milan look like a quaint town. Makes it smell like an odor-free laboratory. Makes it sound like a home with an only child vs. Bangkok's playground at recess.

Bangkok is a hectic traffic jam of culture and crowds, crazy and sane, low and luxe. It's gorgeous and insistent and stifling hot. And I think I love it.

In fact, I think I love Thailand on the whole. It's been a whirlwind romance between us and I'm about to write my first love letter. About to splay my feelings about this place and it's people. The rain drops and buddhas. The warm ocean and the watermelon juice. The monks in orange and the wats in gold. All the things I can't shake off...

Where do I begin?

riding the waves

The city of Milan is ravaged by a fairly constant and aggressive onslaught of graffiti. When we first arrived we were shocked by the sheer volume, but I guess we've grown accustomed to the tagging... the calls for anarchy... the giant Gary Coleman heads crawling along the walls. But still, graffiti is so not cool.

But it's like the pollution. The smoking. The lack of lines and order. I don't like it but I've gotten used to it.

And now out of the ugly and useless depths of graffiti come a family of dolphins. Our spray paint perpetrator has transformed barriers meant to keep cars out of pedestrian areas into the fins of frolicking ocean playmates. Shame on you, but as long as you're at it...

The dolphins aren't terrible. In fact, I prefer them to the aforementioned Gary Coleman craniums glued to old buildings. I still, though, would prefer that things were left as they were made. No spray paint. No glue. No messages to the masses.

I, though, will leave one message to the masses tonight: Arrivederci! We leave for Thailand tomorrow and won't be back until next Sunday. In the meantime I imagine there'll be quite a few things to observe in that corner of the world.

Until the 15th...

above milano

The Duomo is the sun around which all tourists in Milan rotate. It's a grand cathedral, one of the largest in the world, and it's certainly a looker, although various parts - including the ever important face of the building - are sheathed in scaffolding, promising a rejuvenated facade for those visitors who show up sometime in the abstract future.

I have to admit to being fairly crestfallen having arrived in Milan to find the face of the Duomo covered. I had flashbacks to an anticlimatic Parisian experience a decade ago, finding Notre Dame similarly cloaked upon my arrival. But I'm not complaining because Milan's Duomo has a parlor trick that beats most other cathedrals hands down - you can walk on the roof.



Now, I don't mean you can climb a few flights of steps and peer over a ledge, or go up to the bell tower and check out the panorama. You can actually walk along the length of the Duomo, high about the Piazza, high above the pews, on several levels. It's the opportunity to be both in urban Milan and in the company of the alps; flanked by lines of statues and spires stretching themselves into a surreal skyline.



This summer there was the limited opportunity to visit the Duomo's roof in the early evening before nightfall. The timing was such that you could catch the sunset before being shooed off the roof - watching as the sun sank behind the mountains and the statues took a golden hue. It was a slow melting of the blue of day, the warmth of sunset growing and then evaporating into night. It was slow and instantaneous at once. Picturesque and yet impossible to truly capture.

Milan's Duomo is in the heart of the city and sits on a large piazza generally packed with people and pigeons -- often with little space between them. It shares the neighborhood with department stores, museums, and the famous glass and iron Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele II. The Duomo is fairly integrated into the city and from it's roof you get the sense that it pours people into the arteries of Milan, circling them in the piazza below and pumping them back into the city. It's the lucky ones who've stopped on the roof first.

C is for castagna

Running in Milan is not as popular as one might think, and I certainly have not been the poster child for committed runners. There are some Italians who run and they seem to like the parks; they also seem to like workout wear from the eighties but who's keeping track?

If you run in Milan, you're running with meandering cyclists, scooters and dogs. And passing through second-hand-smoke clouds every few blocks. An extra bonus is that if you wake up early on the weekends to circle the park, you're definitely going to do battle with the amassing tour groups who huddle on the sidewalk in large confused groups.

I haven't run a marathon in a long time - not since the illustrious 2004 London marathon in which I managed to secure a throbbing sunburn despite London's reputation for an expanse of infinite gray. But there shall be a marathon in my future. Preferably one in Italy. I'm not at the point where I have to figure out where long runs will be found, or choose exactly which Italian carb I will use for carbo-loading but I am at the point where I'm trying to get out there and log some miles.

Now there's a certain family member, who shall remain nameless, who has run a marathon in his sixties and is generally faster on his feet than me. The one thing that can fell this mighty runner is a small oblong bit of nature. His Achilles heel is more like an Achilles acorn and there are stories of somersaults and twisted ankles resulting from these tiny beasts strewn on the path.

In Milan there aren't really acorns. Instead, there are giant thorny chestnuts that come hurtling out of the sky. You can hear them crashing their way through leaves and limbs, so there is warning of their arrival. But looking up to anticipate where the crashing piece of nature might land is really just begging for a chestnut in the head. So I just keep running, looking down, thinking of the unnamed family member and trying to avoid the chestnuts spilled out all over the path.

I should clarify. The chestnuts don't just fall from the tree. The chestnuts fall from the tree sheathed in a thorny suitcase that splits open upon contact with the earth. I ran with the above example for 15 minutes and I had to keep stopping for extra leaves to wrap around the thorns. Because the thorns are so sharp that they kept breaking through the leaves and breaking into my skin. So believe me when I say you don't want one of these lodged in your forehead.

So running in Milan might be unpleasant due to smoking or Vespas or pollution or whatever other part of an urban city gets in your way. Curbs. Lighposts. Whatever. But the real problem is the nature; the tiny small quarters of green you can find in this large city. Because in the parks, in the nature, there are thorny parcels hurtling out of the sky. And these thorny parcels leave behind obstacles that can easily cause a grown man great distress. Just ask my Dad.

He can understand the power of a castagna in the middle of the path.

C é per la castagna.