So much good living, Part II.

Day 25. My nose is still stuffy, too.

The good living didn’t end in Switzerland. Even in England I managed pretty well.

Most of the time.

Liverpool was pretty good. There were some pretty funny missteps, but there were also some wonderful home-cooked meals, good bacon-buttys (grilled ham & cheese on thick farmer’s bread) at the local pub, and there was always the Chinese restaurant at Fiveways.

London could be tricky.

Lots of late nights at the office. Lots of meals missed, lots of meals out. Some of them were ok.

Or on good nights, crispy duck (or garlic prawns) at the Tradewinds on Baker Street with a favorite colleague.

If I was lucky.

Another nine rounds with the room service chef at the hotel, if I was not.

I lived in that hotel for six months. And later stayed, off and on, for another two or three years. A very nice hotel, with—very unfortunately, and very typical of British hotels, even really nice ones—a SHORT room service menu.

That led to frequent and frustrating battles with the Room Service Chef.

I’d order roast chicken, with green beans, and wild rice.

No, he’d say. The wild rice comes with the lamb (smothered in mint jelly—YUCK! What a horrible thing to do to perfectly innocent lamb.) and overcooked carrots and mushy peas. The chicken comes with runny mashed potatoes, greasy gravy and drowned green beans.

I get that.

What I’d LIKE is the CHICKEN (no potatoes, no gravy), with wild rice and green beans.

Not possible. The chicken comes with..

After two or three rounds of this (Who’s on first?) I’d inevitably, over and over again (I’m not kidding about this) be forced to order the lamb—WITHOUT THE LAMB, WITHOUT the overcooked carrots and mushy peas,

AND order the CHICKEN, WITHOUT the GRAVY, WITHOUT the potatoes.

And he would send up two plates:

One with the wild rice (hold the lamb, hold the…).

And one, with the chicken and green beans…

And charge me for two meals.

(It’s not like he didn’t get it, either. After three or four weeks he started sending just one place setting, instead of two. Still charged me for two meals, though. For being “difficult.”)

And then occasionally communications would break down entirely.

I once asked for a cheese pizza. I was really tired of all the strange toppings (tuna?!!) and weird ingredients and just wanted a plain, cheese pizza.

I didn’t think it was an unreasonable request.

It certainly didn’t seem like a difficult concept.

Wrong again, Sherlock.

First of all, cheese pizza was not on the menu. If it isn’t on the menu, it’s a PROBLEM.

Full stop.

I’m an American. The “If it isn’t on the menu…” attitude is INCOMPREHENSIBLE to me.

Make me a damn pizza. Refrain from polluting it with corn, leeks, aubergine, mashed potatoes, and any other of the strange and inappropriate toppings you have listed. Leave it PLAIN. Bake it. And then send it up here before I start gnawing on the furniture.

We went around and around: JUST cheese. Nothing else. No, not even onions. JUST cheese. No, nothing else. JUST cheese. Yes, CHEESE. Just like normal. Whatever cheese you usually use. Just don’t put anything ELSE on it. No, JUST cheese…

Ten minutes later, the furniture was starting to look pretty good. Or maybe some of the flowers might be edible?

I resolved to duck out of an all-day meeting with Nintendo the next day (the Japanese appreciate fine food—they’d understand) for an hour and go grocery shopping. If I took all the booze, the salted peanuts, and the jar of candied grapefruit slices (?!) out of the teeny, weeny mini-bar, there’d be enough room to wedge in something.

I waited.

The man next door called down to Reception to complain about the loud growling noises coming from my room.

(It was just my stomach, I swear.)

Then there was a knock at the door.

I looked out the peephole first (I’m no dummy) and was relieved to see that it was just a liveried room service waiter with a cart.

Not hotel security.

He wheeled it in, waited impatiently for his signature and tip (to add insult to injury) and bolted.

Like he was a little afraid.

I grabbed a thick linen napkin and carefully raised the domed cover…

What was revealed underneath looked like a pizza—mostly—and smelled like a pizza—mostly.

Except for five large, evenly-spaced, blue-ish gray, slightly lumpy, toxic-looking puddles floating on top.

I think one of them was moving.

I know of no naturally-occurring edible substance that color.

But it was late. I was really tired, frustrated, and starving. The company at that time had a large insurance policy on me—I figured if I was poisoned to death in this London hotel room the rest of my family would be set for life.

And that chef would get his.

It was not that big of a pizza to begin with, but I carefully cut around the pulsating puddles—leaving a WIDE margin of safety—and ate the little that was left.

By the time I’d finished, the puddles had congealed into a soft, blue-gray, slightly lumpy porridge–like substance. Darker streaks, like veins, were becoming visible.

Alien.

And vaguely threatening.

I trapped them back under the dome before they could spring to life and make a break for it,  pushed the cart out the door into the hall, shut the door and locked it behind me.

Safe.

Went for a bath, and a book, and bed.

And an hour later, just as I was falling asleep, it occurred to me.

He’d topped it with bleu cheese.

Life’s Been SO Good, part I

Day 24 and my tongue is still white.

Apparently, a white tongue, (which should eventually revert back to a nice and pink tongue again) is a sign that the body is still de-toxing.

I guess I have a lot of good living to cleanse.

It may have started freshmen year in college, when I discovered Ho-Ho’s. Or Junior Year Abroad, when we ate and drank our way through Germany (yum) and the rest of Europe. Ouzo, anyone? Fond memories of Rahmschnitzel, RitterSport, gyros, and Mandelhoernchen from my favorite Konditerei. Baumkuchen, and tortes and pastries of all kinds. That incredible, fresh bread! And hot pretzels. And hot pretzel buns. Hot, sugar-and-spice cinnamon almonds all winter. And chocolate, chocolate, chocolate.. (I have a whole TWO shelves of German cookbooks. Another of Swiss & Austrian. And all the recipes from my Oma, of course! ♥ )

It got worse during grad school, when I spend a summer as a intern in Bern, Switzerland. And lived across the valley from the Toblerone Factory. It was like coming home every afternoon to an entire valley filled with the inviting aroma of hot chocolate chip cookies.

I tried some strange and interesting new things; learned to make (always stir the cheese in a figure-8) and eat (never, NEVER drink water while eating) fondue, and risotto, and a great salad dressing that I still use; and generally had a great time.

And when I could graciously bow out of the full-fledged hot midday meal with my colleagues in town, I loved getting a fresh roll from the local baker, some chocolate at the Confiserie and sitting on the back steps of the Bundeshaus—the equivalent of the White House in Washington, D.C.—looking out over the river below.

Food didn’t become a big problem until I went back to Switzerland and worked in Zuerich for a year. It was cold, and wet, and rained for weeks and weeks and weeks at a time.

And that was summer.

(I once paid about $3.00—each—for a bag of California apricots. It was like holding the warm memory of the sun in my hands. Every bite was pure heaven.)

I didn’t share.

That winter it was REALLY COLD, and snowed and snowed and snowed. For weeks at a time. The man at the market laughed at me, because I was looking for fresh lettuce, and handed me a head of cabbage instead.

And pointed at the potatoes.

I would’ve dashed from building to building if I could’ve, but the sidewalks were icy. Lethal. The best I could do was a careful shuffle and slip. Or stay inside. A lot.

And eat.

The Swiss eat well—all year round. And exponentially more chocolate—it’s considered food, not an occasional ‘treat’ –than Americans do. (And this is real chocolate, remember. Not the chalk-and-paste stuff that Hershey’s tries to pawn off.)

Rich, full-fat, full-flavor, real cacao chocolate. They even have real white chocolate.

All day long.

Hot chocolate for breakfast. A chocolate bar tucked into the briefcase (just in case). Pick up out a few handmade truffles (mocha, praline’, and white chocolate champagne were my favorites) from the over 100 varieties at the original Teuscher Confiserie you pass by every morning on the way to work. A chocolate-filled Broetchen, or pastry in the afternoon, when the sun goes down at 3:30 and you need a little boost to make it through the rest of the day workday in the pitch dark.

Then a sweet snack for the trip home.

And chocolate fondue (after the cheese fondue for dinner) for dessert on the weekends.

Everyone has their favorite brand of chocolate—and there are jillions of them. Big, international companies like Lindt, and tiny, specialty houses who create only enough for a select, often subscription-only, clientele.

Different chocolates for every season, every occasion, and every possible taste.

On a regular basis the company I worked for took me on tours of their other holdings. Among them, of course, were chocolate and other confectionary companies. And sent me home laden with samples, bless them.

In my free time, I toured a couple of chocolate factories on my own. Like said Lindt. (Very stingy on the samples, they were.)

And it wasn’t just chocolate. Tortes, and pastries, and crispy little cookies (cookies dipped in chocolate, cookies filled with chocolate, cookies sprinkled with chocolate…) Marzipan and real nougat (the soft, chocolate-y hazelnut creme, not the yucky white stuff with fruit & nuts). Rahmcarameli—a Bern specialty—were a particular favorite of mine: little tins (I still have one somewhere) filled with little cubes of of a brown-sugary miraculous confection somewhere between a soft caramel, fudge, and the brown-sugar filling in those See’s chocolates that I can never remember the name of.

And then there were the cheeses—every shape, color, variety. Hard, soft, strong, mild, and those incredible creamy German varieties that are spreadable. And of course the breads—hot, crusty, fresh-baked everyday. Light and airy; rich and eggy; rustic and hearty; chewy and whole grain. (I did miss the pretzel buns from Germany, but I made do.)

In Switzerland (and Germany, and across Europe) people patronize a favorite cheese shop, a favorite baker, a butcher who has the best cuts and makes the best sausages, a green grocer who has the freshest produce.

Every region in every country has their specialties—wonderful things, unusual things.

Things I might not be able to get ever again…

What can I say? I went native. It wasn’t just the food—it was the lifestyle, the camaraderie. The wine and cheese and amaretti on a warm summer evening by the lake in Lugano; or fondue, or raclette by the fire on a cold night in Bern. Fastnachtskuechli and Zwiebeli  at Fasching (Karneval). And Kaffee und Kuchen on a Sunday afternoon in the garden. With friends that became like family.

I spent more than a year living on bread, and cheese, and chocolate, and…

I could go on and on.

And did.

Some really wonderful memories there.

Stuff that no cleanse can ever wash away.

And I think I’ll get my raclette grill out and invite a few friends as soon as this fast is over.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raclette

Not cured yet

Apparently God does not mean for me to be a vegetarian.

I can go—and have—for weeks on just tofu and nuts, cheese and eggs at Tassajara.

And clearly, as I’m doing now, I can actually go for weeks without eating anything at all.

(Who knew?)

But I’m still fantasizing about savory, crisp roast chicken; rich, flavorful braised and slow-simmered short ribs; tangy, juicy barbeque; and even golden, perfectly toasted, crisp, warm, melty ham and cheese.

It’s Day 23.

Books in the Bathtub

Day 22.

One wonderful benefit to this fast has been all the long, hot baths I’ve been taking lately and all the books I’ve been able to read as a result.

I LOVE to read. But life gets in the way, and there are only so many nights you can go to bed at midnight and read until two before you need pharmaceuticals to get through the next day. (Or reading glasses. As much as I HATE to admit it, that time is inching nearer. Rapidly.)

Or maybe I just need a better reading lamp.

All this time on the cardio machines at the gym helps, too. But it’s a LOT harder to read bouncing up and down on the elliptical than it was on the old lady bike.

Sigh.

In the past week or two I’ve read, among other things:

P.D. James “The Private Patient” about a well-known investigative journalist who is murdered in a plastic surgery clinic outside of London. I like and respect P.D. James, but this is not one of her better ones. It started out slow and never got any better. It’ll be nice when the new Elizabeth George novel comes out. In May, I think. Hers books are incredibly tragic, incredibly gruesome murder mysteries, but she’s a phenomenal writer and one I hope to learn from. She was an English and writing teacher for years and has also written a great writing book  “Write Away” that I think is one of the best—regardless of genre.

“Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven” by Fannie Flagg, she of “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.” This dragged a bit at the beginning, but is really a sweet book with a nice message. It’s been on my pile for a while: I was searching for a caramel cake recipe last spring and read somewhere that this book has a great recipe for caramel cake with caramel frosting in the back, so I bought it. It does—and a couple of other recipes that sound fun—and I’ll bake it sometime when I’m eating again.

And about half of  “A Dirty Job” by Christopher Moore–a really strange book about a thrift-store owner in San Francisco, but I’m still reading.

I read pretty fast—it’s very rare that I dislike a book so much that I don’t finish. I can only recall two off-hand: One was “She’s Come Undone” by Wally Lamb, and the other was “The Lovely Bones.” Yes, I realize that I’m only one of seven people on the planet that didn’t like that one, but I don’t care. I hated it. Didn’t even finish reading it, just scanned the rest and threw it far away. Not going to the movie, either.

Ick.

But back to the bathtub. There have, predictably, been some unfortunate incidents. An old Agatha Christie: “Poirot Loses a Client,” I think it was, and at least one or two other books have been the victims of accidental dippings. Only one book—a particularly thick one—actually got dropped all the way in.

Ooops.

I now have a new only-paperbacks-in-the-bathtub rule.

And a whole stack of books, still waiting to be read.

Wild Weekend Women

I had a absolutely fabulous weekend with a dear, fabulous woman that I’m grateful and honored to call my friend.

Friday night we went dancing. The first time I’ve danced (or been able to dance) in ages and more fun than I’ve had in a long time. It was a wild, wonderful event for a really good cause. The room-length dessert buffet didn’t even tempt me. (The crispy, golden calamari emanating enticing aromas of garlic and goodness from the other end of the room, however, did. )

Not enough, though. Not enough.

Although I used to go up to the City once a week, I haven’t been in a while. And there’ve been things I’ve missed! But we didn’t go to any of my favorite restaurants, didn’t eat or drink any of my favorite foods.

And I wasn’t even tempted on Sunday, at a really unique and fairly rare event: a lovely tea which featured fresh-baked bread and a long table heavily laden with Tassajara-inspired goodies. Instead I enjoyed the music and the company.

And being back in surroundings that feel like home.

I was reminded all over again what an incredibly beautiful city San Francisco is. And how much I love it, and what happy memories I have.

And how glad and grateful I am that I live here, with open vistas of hills and trees all around me, instead.

Day 21.