Chocolate Season

It’s now that special time of the year in Luxembourg. No, not Christmas. Chocolate season. I’m convinced that if Jesus Christ were born not 2,000 odd years ago in Bethlehem, but in present-day Luxembourg, he would have received entirely different gifts.

No gold, frankincense or myrrh. More likely chocolate, champagne and foie gras. Because that is what is filling supermarket aisles right now. Seriously, the space allocated to these three items at least doubles near the end of December and stays that way through the New Year.

Chocolate is what makes the biggest visual impact. What used to be one measly aisle devoted to chocolate bars and assorted truffles from Belgium, France, Switzerland, Holland and Germany becomes nearly three aisles (plus extra displays) of chocolate eggs the size of rugby balls, seasonal truffles, chocolate Saint Nicks, and much, much more. I feel like an extra in “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” every time I propel my shopping cart past the elaborate displays.

This chocolate explosion is due to the season’s three holidays: Christmas, New Years and...not Hanukkah (which doesn’t make much of an appearance). It’s Saint Nicholas Day on December 6th. In case you haven’t celebrated this last one before, on the evening of the fifth, just before they go to bed, Luxembourgish children put a pair shoes by the door. If they’ve been good, Saint Nicholas fills them with goodies (especially chocolates) and toys. Of course, if they’ve been naughty, Black Peter (St. Nick’s stern sidekick) leaves a switch instead. (Which presumably is used by the parents. On the kids.) Note the Old European tradition, in which good is rewarded and bad is punished? It is quite a contrast to America, where all dogs go to heaven and all children get gifts no matter what.

Beyond the sheer quantity of chocolate, what is most striking to me is its quality. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, with Switzerland and Belgium―two countries for whom chocolate is almost a religion―only a short distance away. To make an unfortunate contrast again, I clearly recall American supermarket shelves stocked at this time of year with what looks like leftover Halloween candy and various milk chocolate truffles. Although there is some high-quality European chocolate in small quantity, the majority of what is available is something crappy from Mars, Nestle or Hershey. Or worse yet, Whitman or Russell-Stover.

Lest you think I’m just a chocolate snob putting on airs, my chocolate tastes are relatively simple. I can’t abide milk chocolate or white chocolate. If you offered me the choice of water torture or having to choke down a Hershey bar, I would have to think about it for a while. And I would rather chew on a candle than eat white chocolate. I appreciate trying various exotic flavors (lavender, curry, chili pepper) in chocolate, but I always end up buying my favorite―dark chocolate with nuts or coconut.

Two recent favorites of mine have been chocolate by...Nestle and Kraft. When I think of all the crappy Nestle products in the United States, I’m a little staggered to prefer their European products. But they are astoundingly good. Nestle Noir is the line of truffles that I have fallen hard for. “Noix de Coco” is a classic truffle dusted with bitter dark cocoa. Inside is chopped coconut. “Éclats de Noisette” features chopped hazelnuts inside. “Écorces d’Orange Confites” has bits of orange peel. Simple yet wonderful.

As for Kraft, I know they produce nearly everything, but the only product of theirs that I can name is their Mac & Cheese, which my kids crave. Cȏte d’Or is their brand for various chocolate bars and truffles in Europe. Cȏte d’Or has been making chocolate since 1883, when it was founded by Charles Neuhaus. The name can be translated to “Gold Coast”, the colonial name for modern-day Ghana, the country where the majority of their cocoa beans originated. The company became a supplier to the Belgian royal family in 1965, and was eventually purchased by Kraft. And even though their products cost a little less than other fancier chocolate names, they are remarkably delicious. My favorite is the “Noir Noisettes”, which is a hefty bar nearly half an inch thick―thick enough for whole hazelnuts to be entirely enrobed by 70% Belgian chocolate.

So as Christmas approaches, may yours be merry and bright. If you’re fortunate, may it also be filled with chocolate. Mine certainly is. Ho ho ho. (I hope that sounded evil).

What Up, Dog?

“Yessir, I’ve hit on a great scheme. The idea of a thousand years.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to train dogs.”

“Train dogs?”

“For the music-hall stage. Dog acts, you know. Performing dogs. Pots of money in it. I start in a modest way with these six. When I’ve taught ‘em a few tricks, I sell them to a fellow in the profession for a large sum and buy twelve more. I train those, sell ‘em for a large sum, and with the money buy twenty-four more. I train those--”

In the short story above--“Ukridge’s Dog College”--Stanley Ukridge explains his plan to get rich to a skeptical friend. As in any P.G. Wodehouse story, things don’t go as planned. Wodehouse was a master of both the English language and humor, whose rich cast of characters included dimwits of both the English upper classes and lower classes and a menagerie of animals, from prize pigs to angry swans to destructive dogs. Wodehouse could be extraordinarily funny while gently mocking British society’s foibles because of the truth in his observations. And the British are just as barmy about dogs in 2009 as they were in 1909.

Americans could also be described as crazy about dogs. If you don’t believe me, just go to a dog show. Or failing that, rent the DVD “Best In Show.” Dogs are both pets and family members. They get to lie by the fireplace on cold nights and in front of the fan on hot days with their legs in the air. They sleep on our beds and couches whether we let them or not. We buy them special gear, send them to special dog schools and take them to special dog parks like we do our children to soccer practice.

Much the same is true here; Luxembourg dogs appear to lead a charmed life. But there is one rather large difference between Luxembourg dogs and American dogs. In America, despite their coddling, dogs occupy a lower social order. You can’t take them into restaurants, malls or movie theaters, unless they are service dogs. Last year I saw a woman get politely ejected from a QFC supermarket in Seattle because she had her Bichon Frisé propped in the child carrier of the grocery cart.

That wouldn’t happen here. In Luxembourg (and many other parts of Western Europe, for that matter), dogs go everywhere their owners go. When I was out with my son Trevor for lunch a week ago, a little pug not far from us relaxed in his own little rattan shopping bag while his owner enjoyed a salami panini and a Bofferding beer. His patience was rewarded with occasional panini tidbits.

Dogs actually appear to have more rights than children in European hotels. When we traveled to Paris not long ago, it was difficult to find a hotel that would allow two children in the same room with their two parents. However, I could have packed the Citroën with hounds and it would have been okay. It’s a little baffling. Our kids, being generally well-behaved, won’t poop on the carpet or chew on the furniture. They even bathe regularly. I can’t say the same for your average Citroënload of hounds.

However, there is a dark side to doggy love.

Another difference between America and Luxembourg is that America has pooper scooper laws in most cities. Not so here. The sidewalks are littered with turdmines of a canine nature, just waiting to go off on unwary boot heels. Once in a long while, city workers with push brooms will tidy things up. Most of the time, rain, sun and inattentive pedestrians take care of the problem.

Every now and then you’ll see dog and master out for a walk, the one with opposable thumbs carrying a plastic baggie. But that’s pretty rare. And with the high percentage of foreigners who work in Luxembourg, odds are they’re from somewhere else. Somewhere with a higher level of turd guilt. Lest you begin to think that Luxembourg is like the feudal England of “Holy Grail” lore, (“Denny, there's some lovely filth down here!”), where the walking surface was composed of mud and assorted excrement, Luxembourg is really clean and put together. There’s just this one messy quirk....

Thomas Jefferson once wrote, "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance." In Luxembourg, eternal vigilance is the price for freedom from crap-encrusted soles. I encountered the ultimate close call the other day--a doggy land mine in the central walkway of an indoor mall. Some poor soul had already made contact and paid the price. I thought of the English martyr John Bradford, who famously said, “There but by the grace of God go I.” A trail of brown footprints faded into the distance.

John Bradford

Simple Kitchen

The Chastains have been in Luxembourg for a year now. In that time I’ve been learning what seems to be an enormous amount about this country and its people. At the same time, I know that I’m only scratching the surface. In terms of food, I’ve been paying attention to how Luxembourgers cook and shop. In contrast to America, beef takes a back seat to pork. There’s a greater emphasis on cured meats such as ham, sausages and salt cod. We don’t get so many clams and oysters here, but mussels fly off the shelves at an astonishing rate. The chocolate section in American grocery stores is but a fraction of the chocolate aisles here. 

Beyond ingredients, I’ve been learning a lot of things about myself. One that jumped out at me the other day as I was cooking dinner was the complexity of my life in Seattle and the comparative simplicity of it here. Our Luxembourg apartment is nice, but like many apartments, the kitchen is compact, with very limited storage. Yet for a year now I have been doing quite comfortably with a fraction of the kitchen gear that I owned in Seattle. 

To explain, we own a house in Seattle to which we will be returning once our expat adventure is over. That house contains our dream kitchen. When we first peered in the windows while house-hunting, my comment (which I still remember vividly) was, “Wow. You could land a Cessna in there.”

You almost could. The kitchen is huge, built for someone who really liked to cook for groups. We renovated it, adding a professional six-burner gas range top and similar appliances. We put in new cabinets, counters and flooring. It was a labor of love that lasted several years. When it was all finished, we moved out of the country. 

We had more drawers and cupboards than kitchen gear to fill them. Naturally, junk started to materialize in those drawers, because deep down inside, we are all pack rats, storing interesting things away on the off chance that we might need them one day. I had numerous gadgets that I rarely used. An apple slicer, for one example. By the time I dragged it out of the back of the drawer, I could have sliced an apple with a paring knife. 

So I have a humble proposal: to simplify and to prioritize. This isn’t an original concept; many others (most recently Alton Brown) have long lauded the virtues of simplicity. The reason why might be more original. It’s not just an economic thing; it’s not just a “reduce, reuse, recycle” thing. And it’s not merely for efficiency’s sake. I say do it for the virtue of simplicity. 

I’ve been very appreciative of that virtue lately. I don’t watch much television; the only English channel we get is CNN, and I can’t take more than twenty minutes of that. I’ve been getting through my reading list at a faster pace than I’ve had in years. I found a fountain pen that I love, and have been writing letters home on a regular basis. I haven’t become a technophobe; I merely have rediscovered some simple things that have added immensely to the value of my life.   

Here’s the way I think simplification in the kitchen should work. Get a few high-quality pieces of equipment and use them up. Get equipment that can be used for many purposes. A good example is kitchen thermometers. You can buy half a dozen types of thermometers; all you need is one. The Thermoworks Thermopen Candy Thermometer is water resistant, instant reading and accurate, and can be used for anything from candy and deep-frying to roasts in the oven. 

Another great example is kitchen knives. I recently bought a fascinating book--An Edge In The Kitchen; The Ultimate Guide To Kitchen Knives by Chad Ward. It not only discusses types of knives and how to sharpen them perfectly, it dares to go into the philosophy of which and how many knives to get. 

According to Chad Ward, you only need three knives. Period. When Cammy and I got married, we did what many engaged couples did--bought a pretty wood knife block from Macy’s, filled with nearly a dozen pieces of German cutlery. To be honest, the knives aren’t that bad; we keep them sharp and we baby them. But were I to do it all over again, I would buy an 8-to-10 inch chefs knife, a 3-to-4 inch paring knife, and a serrated bread knife of at least 10 inches. Also a good sharpener. Living in the Northwest, I would consider getting a slim and flexible salmon knife that could also be used for roasts, turkey and hams. That’s it. 

The follow up to simplification is prioritization. Focus on the type of cooking you like to do. Unless you’re a professional chef or a very accomplished amateur who is cooking a wide variety of cuisines, you don’t need every piece of gear. I’m not suggesting everyone start throwing out their cookware. We can’t have Williams-Sonoma go out of business, can we? If you like to bake, get a real baking setup. Same thing with grilling or entertaining or candy making. Each of these requires pricey specific equipment to do it well. As a former coffee and tea professional, I have enough coffee and tea gear stored away to fill my present kitchen. I have more ways to make coffee than there are days in the week, but I only use a couple of them.   

Try this and I guarantee that you’ll save money and have more space in your kitchen More importantly, you’ll start to become aware of what you have, what you use, and the virtue of living at a simpler level. The alternative is to buy an airplane hangar and start renovating it into your dream kitchen. 

Heidelberg Part 2: Coffee, Castles and Kirsch

Saturday morning, we trooped downstairs to the hotel dining room for the traditional Euro Breakfast (soft-boiled eggs, breads, pastries, a plethora of sausages, cured meats, meusli, yogurt, cheeses, juice and coffee). Thus fortified, we headed out ready for adventure. And maybe for another cup of coffee along the way. 

Our hotel was only a couple blocks from Hauptgasse, the main shopping street wihch is about a mile long. We walked past the Heidelberg University Library, an impressive-looking red stone building on Plock Street. With over three million volumes, it’s even more impressive on the inside. Despite its humble beginnings, it is now one of the largest libraries in Europe. It got its start in the 1300s and has continued to grow over the centuries, despite several setbacks. It had to start over after the Vatican stole all its books in 1622. Then after a catastrophic fire in 1693 destroyed everything, they had to start anew. Finally about 40,000 books were lost during World War II.    

Charmingly, Hauptgasse was a cobblestoned pedestrian-only boulevard, featuring both old and new storefronts. And the occasional car driving through the strolling crowds at about 10 miles per hour. Don’t ask me why. Maybe they were allowed. Maybe they weren’t and were still just trying to find their hotel. 

There were the usual buskers (a jovial group of guys calling themselves Pirat Abend, or Pirate Evening). They were quite good, and had the crowd clapping in no time. I looked for a CD, but they hadn’t got that far in their career yet. There were also the unusual buskers: a woman dressed as a tree, just standing there very very still. And another man with his head sticking up through a hole in a table. On the table was a still life with vases and fruit. His head was painted like a bright red apple. And yes, he was also very very still. If you stared at him long enough, he would say hello. Both the tree and the still life featured a small basket in front to put coins into. There wasn’t much action in the baskets, either. 

Heidelberg is like Pittsburgh in at least two ways: a love of bratwurst and a funicular railway.  Shortly we found ourselves at our first event of the day--the funicular mountain railway up to Heidelbergh Castle. Pittsburgh’s Duqesne Incline is a 30% incline railroad to the top of Mount Washington, a 400-foot high view of the city. Heidelberg’s Bergbahn heads up a steep incline 1,700 feet to the top of the Königstuhl. There are three stops, the first of which is Heidelberg Castle, 262 feet above the city. Since we had two small children with us and more things to do that day, we chose to skip the 90-minute ride to the top, and just go to the castle.   

Heidelberg castle is made of beautiful red stone. Some of it is dressed in neat squares, some of it is rough field stone that is mortered in place more haphazardly. Everywhere we looked we could see wonderful stone carvings. And rubble. The castle has been destroyed a few times over the centuries, and is in the process of being restored. 

Honestly, we didn’t see a lot of Heidelberg beside the castle, the zoo and the shopping district. Our time and energy were limited. I didn’t get a chance to explore certain important cultural parts of Heidelberg. For instance, it was the city closest to Colonel Hogan and his comrades in Stalag 13. (Who knew?) Nor did I get to search for the clubhouse of the Heidelberg Harriers, the professional Quidditch team described in the Goblet of Fire. (It might have been a lost cause anyway. Despite a year of sleuthing, I have yet to find the clubhouse of the professional Quidditch team based in Luxembourg). 

One Heidelberg highlight was locating Starbucks. One was closed for renovation, but unlike the A8 freeway, there were workmen swarming all over the place. It is probably open by now. The other one had Sumatra on tap, and I luxuriated in its warm embrace. I found decent espresso here and there, but Heidelberg’s drip coffee was not as pleasant, due to the the usual culprit--light roasted coffee. But millions of Europeans love it,so maybe it’s a character fault of mine, and the tastebuds of all of Europe are in the right. Who knows? 

Another highlight was liquor store called Alte Brennerei on the Hauptstrasse. It’s niche was the dozens of brandies and other liquors that they made in the back room. You could wander among the many glass jugs and ask to sample various concoctions. If you liked it, they sold it already bottled in several sizes. Most were brandies of 80 proof. I bought a bottle of particlularly lovely Sour Cherry Kirsch. I also tried their 110 proof Absinthe. It was slightly sweet, with an anise and herbal flavor. I am by no means an absinthe connoisseur, so I can’t vouch for its authenticity. But this neophyte found it smooth and pleasant, though not pleasant enough to buy a bottle. 

Saturday night we headed to Steingasse, at the end of the old bridge, for a memorable meal. It was memorable both due to the quality of the food and sitting at an outdoor table in the street. This street is Heidelberg’s Restaurant Row, so it’s hard to go wrong here. We were very pleased with our meal at Hackteufel, at #7 Steingasse. There was a wide choice of traditional German dishes as well as more normal food such as good steaks and pasta. 

We drove home a different way than we came. I couldn’t face any more jaunts into the boonies. One memorable moment came when we were driving by the US Air Force Base in Ramstein, where the A6 meets highway 62. The end of the runway begins at the edge of  the freeway. A US Air Force C-5 Galaxy cargo jet flew right over us and landed. That is one huge gray airplane, especially when it descends a few hundred feet above you. 

In retrospect, Heidelberg was worth visiting for a weekend, and might have been good for about a week. It is pretty and cultured, and seems to be a cool university town. With so many other places in Central Europe to visit, I don’t know if we’ll make it back. It’s too bad, for Heidelberg deserves more than we’re prepared to give it.  

Heidelberg Part 1: The Road To Heidelberg Is Paved With Good Intentions

The Chastain family just returned from a weekend in Heidelberg, Germany. We determined a while back that we needed to do two kinds of traveling in Europe: elaborate multi-day holiday visits, and fast weekend visits. Otherwise there would be a lot of Europe that we would just miss. Heidelberg was a short two-and-a-half hour drive, according to the map. At least that was the plan. 

We headed east from Luxembourg Cityat around 5:30 PM toward Remich, a town on the German border River just this side of the Moselle River. When we got there, the bridge across the river was closed for renovation. Taking this sign as merely a minor setback and not a looming  omen, we followed the river south to the next crossing, at Schengen in the southeast corner of Luxembourg. From there we successfully made into Germany. Things were still looking good. Our trip would likely only be three hours.  

For those of you who haven’t driven in Europe, the major freeways are designated with the letter “A”. Hence, having made it onto the A8 freeway, we thought our detours were behind us. As Peter Pan might have directed us, “Second star to the right and straight on till morning.” Or at least straight on till Heidelberg. 

We were flying along at the 130 kph speed limit for only a few minutes when the freeway ended. Actually, that isn’t quite true. ALL lanes in both directions were blockaded, for no visible reason. Since our only alternative was to sit on the A8 until hell froze over (or the German highway workers showed up to finish the construction job), we opted to follow the other cars up the exit ramp and into an involuntary tour of the German countryside.   

Copilot Cammy whipped out the Deutschland road map. Thank goodness we had that, or we wouldn’t know where we weren’t or where we couldn’t get to. I was doing 90 down the country roads, calling out village names as we flew past them. Cammy finally said, “I found where we are, but you don’t want to know that. You REALLY don’t want to know how far we have to go to get back to the freeway, and how long it’s going to take.” 

I took her word for it. The countryside was beautiful and we weren’t in that great of a hurry. In most of the fields farmers were busy with hay bailers, getting ready for autumn. The setting sun cast a gorgeous golden glow on everything. We still had plenty of time to get to our hotel in Heidelberg. Then it happened. I was approaching the Merzig village limit, where the speed drops from 90 kph to 50 kph, so I took my foot off the gas and started coasting. As I passed the town limits, there was a bright red flash from the roadside. Seconds later, around a sharp curve, a handful of police officers motioned me to pull over. 

The kind (and thankfully fluent in English) officer told me that I was doing 59 in a 50. It was hard to argue against his logic (and his presumed evidence). I’ve had worse tickets. This one set me back 15 Euros, and maybe a red mark against my European driving record somewhere. Maybe. I hope that is the only shoe to fall. Our two-and-a-half hours was now looking like four.  

We finally made it back to the A8 after our pastoral detour. We saw scenery that we would have missed had we not gone through the rabbit hole, or through the back door. And it only cost us 15 Euros. Eat your heart out, Rick Steves. 

We finally pulled into Heidelberg. As is par for the course, we didn’t have a city map yet, and only the vaguest online directions. It didn’t take long for us to fall back on our strategy of circling vainly through town, looking for landmarks or familiar sounding streets. We hadn’t found our hotel yet, but I was tempted to pull over at a restaurant called “Hemingway’s”. It wasn’t so much that I was hungry or needing a break, but that I had a hunch that I might never find it again. (And that turned out to be true). The real draw was that Hemingway’s address was #1 Fahrtgasse. That’s right, readers: it was number one on Fahrtgasse Street. That’s a lot to be proud of, and I wanted to share in that pride. Or at least to get a picture of the street sign. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t stop. I just kept driving, giggling strangely. Cammy stared at me strangely. Eventually I stopped to ask two idle taxi drivers where we were and where our hotel was.  One of them told me to go left, left, and right all the way to the end of that street, then up a hill and around the castle and there I would be. I couldn’t miss it. The other driver said that when we had done that, we could then drive back around and ask them again. All three of us got a hearty laugh at that. If I’d only thought to stow a sixpack of beer in the car, we could have become great friends. (Men, see how asking directions is not so bad? It lets you bond with strangers. Give it a try some time).

We found the hotel, mostly by accident, after we had gone left, right, right, left and to the end, around what might have been a castle (who could tell in the gathering dark?), down a steep twisty road, through a tunnel, left and finally another right. It is almost a miracle we found the hotel. It was after nine, and long past the time the kids needed to be in bed. 

Mirabelle Plum Eau-de-vie: A Reflection of Beauty

It’s harvest time for mirabelle plums. For a brief moment of time, dainty little yellow plums hold center stage in Luxembourg’s supermarkets. Being a longtime fan of roadside stands and farmers’ markets, I can’t resist fresh local fruits that are in season. After scooping up a bagful, I head over to the liquor aisle. (Unlike the nanny state of Washington, the Luxembourg government is not afraid of their citizens buying liquor along with their pork chops). In the brandy section, elegantly colorful labels featuring a familiar yellow fruit jumped out at me--mirabelle plum eau-de-vie. At only twelve Euros for a bottle of locally distilled brandy, it seemed a worthy investment. 

Eau-de-vie is a French word meaning “water of life”, similar to the Scottish phrase uisge beatha from which we get the word whiskey. Eau-de-vie is a clear, colorless brandy made from fruit. Unlike some fruit “brandies”, which are often cheap grape brandy with fruit syrup added to it, eau-de-vie doesn’t have any added coloring or sugar. It is made by pressing the actual fruit for its juice, letting that juice ferment into a base wine and then distilling it a least two times. After distillation eau-de-vie is immediately bottled so that the purity of the captured flavors is preserved. It doesn’t spend any time mellowing in wooden barrels. It is the pure, fragrant essence of the mirabelle plum captured in a bottle. Taken literally, “mira belle” means a reflection of beauty. It’s an apt description.

Just south of Luxembourg is the Lorraine region of France. Together, Luxembourg and Lorraine produce about 80% of the world’s mirabelle plum harvest, about 15,000 tons. The harvest lasts for a couple months, usually in July and August, and the fruit is only around for a couple weeks in stores. That is one reason that the vast majority of mirabelle plums, over 90%,  are turned into preserves or eau-de-vie. It’s a good way of storing a large crop that doesn’t have much of a shelf life. 

A better reason for turning plums into eau-de-vie is that it is perhaps the highest, noblest use of the plum. What else can one do with a plum? Plum tarts are nice (and seemingly everywhere right now), but one can only eat so many plum tarts. Put up plum preserves? Dry prunes? 

Taking my catch home, I sit out on the balcony with a bowl of mirabelle plums and a glass of mirabelle eau-de-vie. Mirabelle plums are not as interesting eaten out of hand, compared to Italian blue plums or red plums. Other plums are a little more tart, eventually becoming even sweeter in time. The mirabelles are pleasantly sweet though lacking in acidity. But what makes a slightly insipid raw fruit blossoms into a stellar distilled liquor. The softness becomes a wonderfully luscious liquor with a sweet, almost honey-like aroma. The flavor is soft, barely sweet and slightly floral. All this in a 90 proof liquor. Most whiskies are less potent than this. Yet mirabelle slides down like a much lower proof brandy. In contrast is slivovitz--blue plum brandy--which can be enjoyable, though it has some harsh undertones. Perhaps the acidity of the blue plums contributes to the resultant roughness. 

Mirabelle plum eau-de-vie has now taken an honored position in the permanent collection of the Chastain liquor cabinet, alongside eau-de-vies of Kirsch and Douglas Fir.  You may not be able to find Luxembourgish or Lorraine mirabelle plum eau-de-vie in your stores. However, Clear Creek Distillery of Portland makes a lovely bottle of it, and it is available at finer liquor stores and at www.clearcreekdistillery.com. As they say here, “Prost!” 

A Tale of Two Breweries

The Luxembourg Chastains recently returned home after spending a couple of weeks in the U.S. Whether you call it a furlough or a pilgrimage, it was our annual trip home. Since Cammy grew up in Escondido (just northeast of San Diego) and her family still lives there, that was where we set up camp. There were quite a few highlights--the beach, the zoo, the mall, watching baseball on television.

The biggest highlight, however, was reconnecting with loved ones. Seeing Cammy’s family (who lives there), and my family (who traveled from Denver and Los Angeles to meet us), was the greatest reward. Seeing friends from Santa Barbara and Seattle was also really wonderful. Third on the list of highlights was eating American food again.

When an American lives his whole life in America, he may take for granted all the food choices that abound in the Land of the Free. Something as simple as a juicy mushroom and swiss burger accompanied by a couple pints of handcrafted ale is exotic, heavenly and entirely absent from our present European lifestyle. Nonetheless, that simple lunch is the one that stood out among the many I had. Here’s how it went down.

One morning, the guys in the family (Chuck, Jim and Marc) were trying to pick a place for lunch. It was just us guys, and we had only two priorities: great beer (preferably brewed onsite) and good food to go with it. It wasn’t a difficult task--Escondido and neighboring San Marcos have a handful of good watering holes. Perhaps the most famous is the Stone Brewery of “Arrogant Bastard Ale” fame. I’ve been there several times, most memorably in the days soon after it opened. Back then, they had so many interesting kegs that you could get vertical years of certain beers, such as their Imperial Russian Stout. The selection is now more limited, about a dozen beers in total, though each is exceptionally tasty. 

We were about to go to Stone, until I had a flashback to the last time we had gone there, back in 2006....

I stared at the rest of my Grilled Buffalo Burger, the only burger on the menu. Here is how the menu described it: “a tamarind-glazed buffalo patty with pickled red onions, roasted garlic mayo and butter lettuce served on a Caramelized Onion Roll...with a choice of garlic mashed potatoes or Chile-Lime Chips. Sriracha [Asian hot sauce] pickled cucumbers on the side as well.”  After choking down three bites, here is how I described it: dry as hell and badly in need of a good soaking in the roasted garlic mayo and some ketchup. And as for sides, I love garlic mashed potatoes, but I was longing for some thickly-cut steak fries or onion rings, some garlicky cole slaw or something like that. Something that actually tastes good with beer. Something you would find at any Red Robin. 

As I flashed forward to the present, I pleaded with the others to find somewhere else. My argument was that beer and food should complement each other, which is why burgers and beer, ribs and beer, pizza and beer, work so well. Stone has great beer, but their menu is a baffling tragedy. Their menu choices are a puzzling mishmash of vegetarian, Asian, Mexican and British. Tasty Tofu Stir-Fry? Wild Mushrooms Over Penne Pasta? Spicy Almond Crusted Tilapia? Tempeh Shepherd’s Pie?! I love fish, and I grew up on tofu and the fermented soybean cakes called tempeh, but that doesn’t mean they belong in an American brewpub. 

I could list another dozen nonsensical dishes. What is even more baffling is that the menu hasn’t changed in years! Stone could use about three more beef burgers (with enough fat content to make them juicy), a classic reuben sandwich, grilled bratwurst in a soft roll, a hearty fish and chips dish, and maybe even a few wood-fired pizzas. 

I actually didn’t have to argue at all; I was preaching to the choir. The guys agreed and came up with a brilliant alternative, the San Marcos Brewery and Grill. You could call it Stone’s less pretentious little brother. They also brew their own beers, seven of them, one which was memorably called Pompous Ass Ale. (Which is worse, being arrogant or pompous?) The beer was delicious, but what sold me on the place was the beautifully prepared pub food that was obviously meant to accompany a pint of beer. 

For starters, we ordered fried calamari and a round of beers. The calamari was so tender and flavorful that I was sorely tempted to order another plate, but I knew a large mushroom and swiss burger was on its way. When it arrived, I concluded that if burgers had aspirations, they would all aspire to be like this. It was big, containing a half pound of fatty ground beef grilled until the inside was barely pink and the outside was dripping meat juices, with sauteed mushroom and melting swiss cheese and reposing inside a soft kaiser roll. There were five other tempting burgers I could have chosen, none of them from an anorexic buffalo. 

Everything that San Marcos offered was beer-friendly. The club sandwich, the reuben, a steak sandwich, a steak! They had a sausage sandwich that had bratwurst, knockwurst and linquisa all inside the same bun! There was a selection of pasta dishes. If you wanted to go light, there were half a dozen salads and a couple of soups. I was in brewpub heaven. 

Is there a moral--or even better, a point-- to this story? Why yes, there is. The point is to look at the whole picture when choosing a restaurant. It is too easy to choose a steakhouse because it reputedly has the best chunk of meat in town, without taking into account the side dishes, the wine list, the ambiance.

Sure, you could argue that Stone’s fame and craftsmanship make it the stronger candidate compared to the lesser-known San Marcos Brewery. But I just couldn’t face another eclectic, weird menu item at Stone, while San Marcos had excellent beers and a menu that I wanted to revisit. You could call it the lunch worth 6,000 air miles.  

Chipotle Beans

It was Kismet--meant to be. Saturday morning, after turning on the TV for the kids, I got a hankering for some spicy beans. Cammy and I are chilihounds; we love both the red and green iterations of spicy beans and meat. Breakfast had already been served and cleared up, and I was savoring the last cup of Starbucks coffee out of the thermos. I chopped some onions and garlic and tossed them into the Le Creuset cast iron dutch oven that already held the slowly-warming mogette beans and water.

I went to check on the kids in the other room, kind of curious what Saturday Morning Cartoons in Luxembourg looked like. I remember my cartoon watching days vividly: Bugs Bunny and Friends, Captain Caveman, Scoobie Doo and many more. What had just started up was in French, and was morbidly fascinating.

I didn’t catch the title, but here is the gist of the plot. The heroes are two high schoolers, boy and girl, who go to class and make good grades. But beneath at mild mannered exterior lurk two undercover superheroes. Fighting for truth, justice and the...French way, I guess. Not so much in the way of muscles and tights, though they do have cool costumes; more like science nerds gone heroic.

They go to school one day and and notice that everyone is walking around like dazed zombies. More importantly, everyone is farting. Constantly. That’s right--teachers, administrators, fellow students--all are unselfconsciously blasting forth with mighty flatulence. The puffs of gas coming out of their backsides are purply-brown in color, and for a long while there is almost more theatrical fart noise than dialogue.

Naturally, as a closet Three Stooges fan, I was immediately hooked. The crudest cartoon of my childhood might have had a burp. Maybe. I left the beans in the kitchen to talk among themselves and settled down to watch this horror show of indigestion.

The dynamic duo do a lot of clever sleuthing and discover that there is something strange about the new school cafeteria cook. First of all, he is not very good, just glopping things onto their serving trays. For French sleuths, this had to be the first giveaway. The yellow glop might be a lovingly prepared bearnaise sauce, but I doubt it, given his surly attitude, general slovenliness and cigarette (no doubt a Gauloise) hanging out of his mouth. Did I mention that this was a French cartoon? The second giveway was the large squirt of ketchup (or catsup, we can argue about that later) with which he decorates each dish. Not only would a French chef NOT top off his creations with ketchup, he would not serve a ketchup named “FLATSUP”. That’s right, flatulent ketchup! Oh, how the insidious villains of today have raised the bar on evil! In no time, the school corridors are enveloped in a stinking purple-brown haze because of Flatsup.

Well, more sleuthing uncovers the Flatsup manufacturing plant, where two things give our heroes pause. The first is the thousands of bottles of Flatsup being churned out almost automatically. The second is the guy managing production, who is...the school cafeteria cook! Wait, no. Dozens of cafeteria cooks, all identical, all with glowing red eyes. They’re apparently terminator robot cooks, and they’re after our heroes. (See how just watching a cartoon without understanding the language clears away the clutter of annoying banter, leaving just the crystal clear plot behind?)

The intrepid investigators escape. Whew! They proceed to find the evil mastermind’s lair. He is a purplish-brown, obese lumpy creature who flits around in a little domed hovercraft, much like the character Baron Harkonnen in the movie “Dune” (starring Kyle McClachlan and Sting!). He carries around his own purplish-brown fartmosphere with him. When confronted by the teen heroes, he tells the sad tale of how he used to be a normal kid growing up in suburban France. His older brother would constantly subject him to fart torture, such as the much loathed “dutch oven” (not the Le Creuset kind, but the fart under the blankets kind). In time, he couldn’t breathe normal atmosphere anymore. So he started to plot for the day he could, 1) turn the Earth’s atmosphere into a more breathable purplish-brown smelly murk that he could enjoy; and 2) how he could get revenge on his mean brother, now a balding executive in a downtown office building who had forgotten all about his little brother.

Well, to cut to the chase (thankfully), the teens foil this nefarious plot. They defeat the heinous hovering farty blob...man. They expose the hazards of Fartsup to the light of day, and to the administrative authorities at their high school. And they save the air of France for more healthful Gauloises.

After this intestinal masterpiece ended, I went back to the kitchen, newly inspired to make not just a pot of beans, but a pot of Great Beans. Beans of Substance. Beans that would clear the decks and arouse...whatever needs arousing. Beans that would warm your tummy until lunch and maybe all the way to dinner.

These are those beans. No Flatsup required. Enjoy.

Chipotle Beans

2 cups dried white beans (mogette, flageolet, or Navy)

4 cups water

4 cups chicken stock

1 cup diced bacon

4 cloves garlic, sliced

2 onions, sliced

1 cup small mushrooms, quartered
2 tablespoons canned chipotle pepper in adobo sauce

1 tablespoon sundried tomato paste

1 teaspoon oregano

1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste

12 teaspoon black pepper

1 bay leaf

First of all, these measurements are rough, as most batches of chili are. Some eyeballing is required. Add all ingredients into cast iron dutch oven. Bring to a boil and reduce to a simmer. Let simmer for about 6 hours, until beans are tender and liquid is reduced to a thick sauce. Add liquid or other above ingredients as needed for flavor and consistency.

Serve hot. Adjust spiciness as needed with Cholula Chipotle Hot Sauce (or Tabasco). 

Coffee Despondency

As you might have noticed, I took a break from this blog for a little while. It has been weeks since my last posting. Sorry I didn’t warn you. Travel was initially to blame, then laziness became the culprit. Eventually it resolved itself as a problem of subject matter.

My intent for this blog has been to entertain myself, and hopefully the few readers who encounter it. The focus from the beginning was on Luxembourg and food, and preferably where the two intersected. Luxembourg is where I live, and food is what I like to write about. Sounds easy. I have been pretty good about adhering to that framework. 

I would like to broaden that framework now. I found myself passing up story ideas that were very interesting to me, because they didn’t fit the food profile I had set for myself. Luxembourg is a fascinating place to live, and I would like to share what fascinates me about this place.

For instance, I have been watching a condo structure going up, just down our block, since we moved here. Construction has been going at a snail’s pace, compared to how a similar project in Seattle would have progressed. What became fascinating to me was watching the workers last week gluing rectangular blocks of polystyrene (yes, Styrofoam!) to the outside of the cinderblock walls that form the structure. Presumably, for insulation. Also presumably, they will stucco the outside and paint it to look like all the other houses on the block. We’ll see. Things like that aren’t food related, yet I’ve never seen them before and may never again. So brace yourself for the occasional Lake Wobegon angle on Luxembourg.

Which brings me to coffee, which I guess is still officially a food posting. Coffee is one of the main reasons I get up in the morning. (The other is the powerful forehand of my tennis-loving wife flailing me with a broom handle).  

After ten months of living here, I’ve been making more coffee at home and going out for it less. It was a tough decision, because I love going out for coffee. At home I have my beloved coffee press and my workaday electric drip machine. They do the job admirably. However, I regularly get a craving for a great cup of espresso. I love espresso, but I loathe bad espresso. And all I have found in town is pretty, bad espresso. (The exception was a decent cup from the Italian restaurant down the street, but I can’t hang out at the pizza joint at all hours of the day and night). 

The pretty part is the service. Every espresso comes in a cup and saucer, with a tiny espresso spoon on the side. On the saucer is a stylish serving of sugar and a complimentary chocolate square. Very civilized and cultured, no?

The bad part starts in watching them make it. For espresso afficionados, the default coffee is the “espresso longo”. You might say to yourself, “So what?” Well, an espresso longo brews the ideal ounce or two of thick, creamy espresso at first. When done well, that first part is creamy, roasty, caramelly sweet and deliciously bitter. It’s a grownup dessert. Unfortunately, another six ounces of hot water is pumped through the grounds until the espresso is the consistency of drip coffee and unpleasantly bitter. Dessert becomes insipid swill. And that is the state of coffee in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. At least so far, after ten months of searching and buying countless cups of pretty, bad coffee. You can find  regular espresso if you ask for it, but it also isn’t very good.

The other coffee problem is roasting. As a former roaster, I love coffee beans that are roasted to the perfect point of aroma and flavor, that glisten with a little bit of oil. I loved roasting, and I love experiencing it when somebody else does it well. The beans here are underdone. They’re light brown, wrinkled and dull in appearance. They are stuck in that awkward adolescent stage where voices crack and feet are clumsy, like Jessica Rabbit at the age of twelve, before her va-va-voom caught up with her and filled her out.   

The coffee I have found here generally comes from somewhere else, most commonly Germany or Holland. In theory, distance isn’t the problem. I could get to Holland in an hour of driving; Germany in half an hour. The problem is the preference in this part of Europe for very light roasted coffee. I finally found a small roaster in town, but they have low quality beans and a very light roast. And that’s the killer combination, because light roasting reveals more of the original green coffee’s flavor, for good or ill. If you have cheap coffee, all the defects in it are on display.

The best local alternative has been Illy Coffee from Italy. While not bad, Illy’s espresso beans are roasted too light for me, leaving a “green” taste in my mouth. I don’t know the origins of the actual beans they use in their blend, but they taste low-grown in their flavor profile, as opposed to the more elegant high-grown coffee used in most premium coffee blends. 

So what’s a boy to do? When I lived in Seattle, I could go to Starbucks, to Peets, to any of a number of great local roasters such as Zoka or Victrola. I could fret about blends and roast profiles to my heart’s content, and I wasn’t out of place doing so. Here, my choices are limited at best.

Surprisingly, I found the solution last Christmas. The week before, our family spent a week in Paris. We actually chose our hotel not only for its proximity to the Louvre Museum, but for its proximity to a Starbucks. That’s right: Louvre--three blocks away; Starbucks--two blocks away! There was a memorable moment for me when I went shopping for coffee beans. I walked into the Starbucks and picked out the freshest TWENTY bags of coffee.

What made this memorable was my tenure at Starbucks. At that time, one big concern the company had was the lack of bean sales in European stores. European customers were used to going in for an espresso or coffee, but seemed loathe to buy it and bring it home for brewing.

So when I walked up to the counter with my armload, the manager’s eyes got really big. I think he was trying not to go into his Happy Dance while he counted out the Euros I was laying in the palm of his hand. 

It is now summer and that coffee is gone. It was hard going back to the local choices. Starbucks was not only a taste of home, it was a taste of quality. Whatever people think of Starbucks and the many ways it intersects our lives, it has always turned out a superior bag of coffee beans.  

Right now, my closest Starbucks is either in Paris or Munich. Believe me, I would make the trip if I had to. Fortunately, we will be visiting California shortly for our annual trip home. No doubt I will stagger up the the counter with an armload of coffee bags. I’m not expecting a Happy Dance from a grateful store manager, but you never know. I know I’ll be doing my own Happy Dance after we get back here, that first morning when I tear open the bag of Sumatra. Yeah. It’ll have to be Sumatra, my favorite.