Tea Time in Assam

By Susan McKee

Slurp, slosh, spit, repeat. I watched Abir Goyal sample his way through a hundred different lots of tea in the broker’s office in Guwahati, India. This was his second run through. The first was steeped with boiling water. This go-round added milk to the brewed tea, just as it would be drunk by the majority of tea drinkers in India.

He was tasting “dust” – the lowest quality of broken tea leaves that looks like powder. Goyal said that it’s very popular in the south of India because it brews many more cups per kilo than the pricier leaf tea. He said it’s also used in tea bags.

Just like wine tasters, Goyal doesn’t actually swallow what he’s tasting; he just swirls it in his mouth for a bit. Tasting notes are dictated to the clerk following him down the line of teas identified only by number. “Thin,” he’d say. Or “thick” or “smooth,” or other succinct adjectives.

The vocabulary, too, reminded me of wine tasting. Goyal assessed the weight and quality of the tea on his tongue, just like an experienced sommelier, checking for burnt, harsh or coarse overtones. “Malty” is sought after in Assamese teas, “metallic” is not. “Full-bodied” is the top designation, the target combination of strength and colour.

He also looked at the unbrewed tea next to the prepared cup, checking to see if it was well-picked and clean.

Goyal, who is a senior executive with Carritt Moran & Company, is charged with providing guidance for his company’s purchasing agents. Based on his tasting notes, they head to the tea auction in Guwahati and bid for the lots. Carritt Moran, founded in 1877, is the second-largest tea auctioneer firm in the world, handling about one-fourth of the teas sold through the Indian auction system.
I had spent the morning at the Gauhati Tea Auction Centre, watching both the live and the subsequent electronic auction. Assam – the province of which Guwahati (also called Gauhati) is the capital – grows most of the tea exported by India. Some 20 percent of Indian tea passes through this auction house. Watching the auction itself was mesmerising. I had no idea what made one lot of tea worth more than another, but men such as Goyal certainly did.

I was staying with friends, originally from Darjeeling, who’d moved to Assam several years ago. Like many in Guwahati, they invested in a tea plantation, which is called a tea garden here. But they hadn’t visited their property in months; the region had become too dangerous. The entire north-east section of India had been off-limits to foreigners for decades because of an ongoing guerrilla uprising against the central government. Although things had quieted down enough to lift the tourism prohibition, out in the distant reaches of the province things were still a little bit dicey.

My friends said they’d ransomed their manager twice now, that keeping good staff was a problem when kidnapping was a routine occurrence.

I didn’t see any trouble in the tea plantation I visited, however. The Brahmaputra River is bordered by more than a half a million acres of lush green tea gardens growing in the rich alluvial soil. The total production of tea in Assam approaches one million pounds per year.

The tea gardens themselves are beautiful. The emerald green of the waist-high camellia sinensis bushes seems to glow from within. The best tea is picked by hand, and whole villages of migrant workers are imported to do the specialised work. First comes withering, when the freshly picked green leaves are spread out to dry on enormous ventilated trays. The leaves are then processed and graded, with whole leaves at the top of the scale, and the powdery dust at the bottom.

Tea, while a darn good excuse, isn’t the only reason to journey to Assam. There are a couple of significant Hindu pilgrimage sites here and one of the top game preserves in the world.

The Kamakhya Devi temple, known for its animal sacrifices, occupies a prominent hilltop in the middle of town. The Umananda Temple, dedicated to Shiva, is the centrepiece of Peacock Island. Hindu priests and golden langur long-tailed monkeys are the only permanent residents of this small bluff in the Brahmaputra River. Ten rupees (US$.25) buys you a round-trip ferry ride from Kachari Ghat, about 20 minutes each way.

The Assam State Museum, located near the Standard Chartered Bank on the GNB Road, provides a good introduction to the history, culture and art of the region. Just looking around, one can see Burmese, Chinese and Indian influences on the people and the culture.

Although there are many stores selling the distinctive champagne-coloured Assamese silk, if you travel to Sualkuchi (about 32km from Guwahati on the north bank of the Brahmaputra River) you can see the weavers in action. Don’t miss a trip to Kaziranga National Park (www.kaziranganationalpark.com). India’s first wildlife sanctuary, it was established a century ago by the British viceroy to preserve the then-dwindling population of the one-horned Indian rhinoceros. There are now some 1,500 of the majestic beasts roaming free in the park, protected by 400 staff members and 120 anti-poaching camps.

Tigers, sometimes seen on excursions into the park, are considered an especially auspicious omen on one’s visit. It’s an astonishing experience for visitors who can climb aboard elephants for an early morning ride out into the bush in search of wildlife. That’s when I saw my “lucky tigers,” but also lots of swamp deer, hog deer, storks, herons, a group of wild buffalo and, of course, rhinos.

Kaziranga is about 217 dusty, bumpy kilometres by road from Guwahati, so arranging a package tour is the best way to get there.

There are no name-brand hotels in Assam, even in the capital, so don’t expect Western hotel standards. The rooms will be clean, if a bit threadbare, and the occasional insect should not be cause for alarm. There will be two sets of prices – one in rupees for Indian nationals and another in US dollars for foreign nationals.

The best hotel in the Assamese capital is the Dynasty (SS Road, Lakhtokia, Guwahati, tel 91 3612 5104 9699, www.hoteldynastyindia.com). In the heart of the Fancy Bazaar shopping district, it’s close to restaurants and many businesses. The doorman wears an impressive uniform, the lobby floors are marble and the atmosphere is definitely Indian. To get an actual bathtub in your bathroom, you need to request a junior suite. The 76 rooms have minibars, and there’s a fitness centre.

For a spectacular view, ask for a room overlooking the river at the 49-room Brahmaputra Ashok Hotel (tel 91 361 602 281, (www.theashokgroup.com/brahmaputra_hotels.htm) – as long as there’s no noisy party scheduled on the ground-floor patio. It’s on Mahatma Gandhi (“MG”) Road, opposite the High Court in Guwahati.

Contact Susan at Susan@globalfoodie.com. This prolific writer can also be found at:

Roadtrips.Foodie@gmail.com
http://Twitter.com/RoadtripsFoodie
http://RoadTripsforFoodies.com

During a recent visit to France, planned more for viticulture than history, it became impossible to ignore all the military monuments and cemeteries in the green fields and vineyards of the lush farmland north of Paris.  This land was historically connected to America’s participation in World Wars I and II. Everyone had a story that connected them to the horror during those long years of battle. Conversations about grape harvests, architecture, gastronomy, and even bread all led back to, “The war…”

I Met A Man Who Loved His Bread
By Richard Frisbie

M. Boizard is a lifelong baker who collected bread related items as he baked his way into semi-retirement. Now, M. Boizard tends his collection at the Musee du pain; but I think of it as the Bread Museum.

We met on a bridge near his home in Fismes, France. I’d stopped to photograph the blossoming crabapple trees that stood next to a picturesque little mill along the La Vesle River.  When he learned I was American he pointed said that our 28th Division took the bridge in 1918, after a weeklong firefight. “Hundreds of Americans were killed to liberate my village,” he said. Then he invited me to his home – or so I thought.

This occurred all over France. Two Thousand and eight was the 90th anniversary of World War I’s end. France had been commemorating the anniversaries of various battles for the previous four years until the culmination of ceremonies on November 11th. I was walking in French and American soldier’s footsteps. Everywhere I went the French people treated me as if I’d been in the Verdun trenches with them.

Forget what you might have heard about the French. They remember the World Wars better than we do. After all, the fighting happened in their back yards. They haven’t forgotten America’s help winning, either. I was received warmly wherever I went. And so, I accepted Mr. Boizard’s invitation.

With his little English and my nonexistent French it is no wonder I misunderstood. It wasn’t to his home we went, but down an alley next to the bridge, where I found myself in his bread museum. Outside he had a large German wood-burning oven on wheels, which is still towed and used at events. There were also two antique tractors, one French, circa 1957, and the other a 1955 English version. Both were once used to harvest wheat, and both still run.

It’s far more difficult to describe the inside of the museum. There was so much stuff packed into one large room that, at first, my eyes couldn’t focus on just one object. Gradually, though, I discerned a path, beginning with early bread making implements and eventually leading up to the present time.

Everything related to bread and bread-making art

was under this one roof. There were tools and machines for mixing, shaping, baking, twisting, rising, even for harvesting and reaping the wheat. I even watched an English video that showed how French bread was made. With floor to ceiling displays it was obvious that bread was truly his passion.

There were some models and images of local windmills where the grain was ground. He told me that in World War I the Germans machine-gunned the blades off the windmills because the French Resistance used them to as a landmark to locate enemy bunkers and stored munitions. That meant the French were often without flour for bread until the American liberation. That explained why he also had three flour sacks on display labeled “US FLOUR.” The soldiers who saved the village brought the ingredients for the French (and every other cultures’) staff of life. And, there’s nothing more important to a Frenchman or woman than bread. It’s no wonder the Americans were treated like heroes!

Over flutes of champagne he showed off his proudest memento. It was the newspaper account of his induction into La Commanderie de France des Talmeliers Bon Pain, the organization of French bread lovers. His homage to bread, his museum, earned him an honorary membership in this prestigious fraternity of bakers. It also earned him mention there as a man who followed his passion to create an incredible bread monument.

For more information:
Musee du pain:  03 26 48 00 13
Admission: 3.5 Euros

Official French Government Tourist Office: www.franceguide.com

Air France:  www.airfrance.us

Meuse Department of Tourism: www.tourisme-meuse.com

La Marne Tourism Office: www.tourisme-en-champagne.com

Tourist Office of Reims: www.reims-tourisme.com

**********************************

I Met A Man Who Loved His Willows … and Helped Save a Rose

By Richard Frisbie

France’s Champagne region is known for its baskets woven from willow branches. In fact, the French National School of Basket Weaving is located in Champagne. So, the next time you think of Champagne, think baskets, not bubbly, and you’ll win the admiration of Dominique Brochet-Lanvin.

Dominique Brochet-Lanvin, along with his wife, son, dog and a few rascally puppies, calls Botanique de la Presle their home. It is an arboretum, nursery and a labor of love in the French countryside outside of Epernay in Montagne de reims.

Dominique is a salixophile, or lover of willows.  “There are 500 to 600 varieties of salix” he told me. “No one knows for sure. I’m trying to collect them all here.”

When I told him that I only knew of the weeping willow, he said: “As we say in France, that is the one that hides the rest.” Then he told me a charming story so typical of the French.

“Before he died, Napoleon requested that a weeping willow be planted on his grave. It became the custom for everyone who visited his tomb to take a cutting home to plant. His weeping willow spread around the world. Now, what he couldn’t conquer in life he has dominion over through his millions of willows.”

The bread, the wine and now the willows are the reason I love the French.

Willows have many other uses. During World War I the French lined their trenches with woven willow panels to hold back the earthen ramparts. Near St. Mihiel I actually got into some of the trenches. The German trenches were original, with walls and bunkers made from huge blocks of stone. The French trenches were reconstructed with fresh willow walls, illustrating the impermanence of their battlements. What they built for temporary protection from the barrage of enemy shells often became semi-permanent as the trench warfare dragged on for years. And all those years their willows kept them company.

Back in the arboretum, as a light rain fell, Dominique walked me through his willow collection. It was perfect gardener’s weather for admiring the various black, yellow, green, and contorted stems, each with their different size and shape catkins, or flowers. Tall, short, multi- and single-trunk bushes and trees, all willows, competed for my attention. When I recognized the pussy willow I realized that where I used to know only two types of willows, now I knew two hundred! And still the collection went on.

We toured over 1000 feet of perennial beds bordered with short woven willow fences before finishing our walk in the old fashioned rose garden. Here Dominique showed me a prized specimen of the La Marne rose he and his wife rescued from extinction. Originally named in 1915 for the Battle of La Marne, this blood-red beauty was nearly lost until they discovered a “forgotten” specimen in a relative’s garden and propagated it. Today, the Botanique de la Presle proudly sells descendants of this noble antique. While the last French veteran of the Great War has been laid to rest, the La Marne rose lives on, a testament to the hardy French stock and the toils of two gardeners of Champagne.

For more information:

Botanique de la Presle: www.jardin-brochetlanvin.com
Official French Government Tourist Office: www.franceguide.com
Meuse Department of Tourism: www.tourisme-meuse.com
La Marne Tourism Office: www.tourisme-en-champagne.com
Tourist Office of Reims: www.reims-tourisme.com
Air France: www.airfrance.us

Richard Frisbie is a food wine and travel writer; a bookseller and publisher of New York centric books; and a newspaper columnist who resides in New York’s Hudson Valley. Online, his articles appear here, on Gather.com, GoNomad.com, travellady.com and the many websites of EDGE Publications. He also writes for regional New York magazines such as Adirondack Life, Life in the Finger Lakes, and Kaatskill Life. Richard can be reached at Richard@globalfoodie.com.

Hafod Eryri, Snowdon Summit Visitor’s Centre

By Keith Kellett

Someone once said that you can see six kingdoms from Snowdon’s summit: Wales, England, Scotland, Ireland, the Isle of Man and even the Kingdom of Heaven. Whoever wrote that obviously went up on a clear day. Quite often, low clouds mean you see absolutely nothing but mist. If you walked up on one of many footpaths, you might still risk visual disappointment. You would certainly enjoy the trip if you rode up to the summit on Llanberis village’s delightful vintage rack railway. Once there, your reward — a meal at the recently rebuilt Hafod Eryri Complex, located just below the summit. If it’s a clear day you’ll get additional sustenance from the view.

By world standards, a restaurant a little over 3,500 feet above sea level isn’t all that remarkable. After all, there are whole countries that sit much higher. But, the Hafod Eryri Complex is in Britain, Snowdon, Wales, to be precise, only 60 feet below the country’s highest point. Officials are careful with facts and figures and say that it’s the highest restaurant in England and Wales. But, technically speaking, the Ptarmigan Restaurant in Cairngorm, Scotland tops it at 3,520 feet –but then again, that’s another kingdom away ….

The Hafod Eryri restaurant, originally designed to fit into the hilly landscape, was extensively renovated and refurbished and now offers an attractive and inviting building to those who make the journey, either by foot or by the little vintage rack railway that has been climbing the mountain since 1896.

Hafod Eryri’s predecessor was a squalid, grim concrete blockhouse, which I was surprised to learn was designed in the early 1930s by the noted and environmentally friendly architect Sir Clough Williams-Ellis of Portmeirion fame. (Williams-Ellis designed Portmeirion, a resort village reminiscent of Portofino, which sits on the Snowdonian coastline.)

“But, it wasn’t Williams-Ellis’s original design,” Vince Hughes, the restaurant’s communication manager, said. “He called for large windows, which got completely destroyed after the first winter.”

It’s not surprising, really. Winds of up to 150 miles per hour have been recorded on the summit. So, those windows were replaced with narrow panes, more suited to a military bunker.

Modern technology has, however, allowed big, panoramic windows in the new building. They’re called “’whispering windows.” Stand close and you’ll hear an audio interpretation of what you see (or what you could see if the clouds weren’t there) or a poetry reading from the former National Poet of Wales, Gwyn Thomas.

The steel frame and granite are from Blaenau Ffestiniog and Portugal. Most were transported up on the train in 10-ton pre-fabricated pieces, and some of the work was finished on site. The design is and was intended to blend in with the contours of the mountain, rather than stand out against them.

The pleasing, attractive interior is lined with Welsh oak, a sharp contrast to the former structure, which made a vacuum flask and sandwiches carried up the mountain seem a much better proposition.

It would be tempting for the owners to offer dinner on “the roof of Wales” but they can’t. Everything, including the water, is brought up by train. And, since the electricity comes from the restaurant’s generators, they can’t really operate large ovens, deep-fat fryers, or even dishwashers,

“So, all our crockery has to be disposable,” Hughes said.

Visitors who come up by train, only have half an hour at the summit before returning on the same train, otherwise, a place on a later train isn’t guaranteed. And, it’s a long walk down! Although, of course, if you walked up you can stay as long as you wished. There are now three till points that cater to those walkers. There was once a self-service cafeteria and only one till point. Visitors could easily spend all summit waiting in line for food.

Hot food needs to be of the sort that can be cooked quickly – in a small oven or a microwave. It doesn’t, by any means, mean the choice is restricted, though. And, the prices are reasonable. For instance, a sausage, egg and bacon panini only costs £3.55 – and it’s Lincolnshire sausage, too! There’s also a tempting range of panini, hot savouries such as Cornish pastys (I am reliably informed that, in Cornwall pastys is the correct plural), baguettes and cakes.

It’s all fresh, too. Unable to sleep, I took a walk early in the morning, saw and photographed the food assortment delivered by a baker’s van. “Locally sourced” is a phrase you hear often about the food there. Workers load it on to the early morning train, which brings supplies and any staff needed to reinforce or replace those who have spent the night up there.

Top of the hot food range is the traditional Welsh “Oggie’,” which is almost the same as a Cornish pasty, but made in Wales; and it’s much bigger. Both have similar origins and were a handy means of providing a portable packaged meal for miners. The Welsh coal miners held it by the crimping in the crust, because of the coal dust on their fingers, the Cornish tinners held it so to keep from ingesting the antimony and arsenic, which were a lethal by-product of tin mining,

Both would leave the crusts for the spirits they believed haunted the mine, and, if you kept them fed, would give warning of impending disaster. The Welshman would throw his crust over his shoulder with a cry of “Oggie,” which is probably the origin of the Welsh rugby fans chant.

No, I didn’t try one. Only two hours earlier, I’d got on the outside of a gargantuan Welsh breakfast at the Dol Peris Hotel. Even if I hadn’t, I don’t think I’d manage it; it’s definitely an item for sharing!

(Yes, I know my mobile phone, which I placed by the Oggie to give an idea of the size, is so last century, But, I am planning to replace it soon!)

For more information visit:

www.snowdonrailway.co.uk/hafod_eryri.html

www.dolperis.com

Keith Kellett is globalfoodie’s UK correspondent and an expert on England’s food history and origin. He can be reached at: Keith@globalfoodie.com. You can see more of his work at: travelrat.wordpress.com.

by Keith Kellett

I have it on pretty good authority that mice don’t really care about cheese one way or the other; apparently, peanut butter is far more efficacious bait for mousetraps. Were I a mouse who didn’t know this fact I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven after entering the Dairy Products Hall at this year’s Royal Bath and West Show.

Bath is in Somerset; so is the village of Cheddar, so, naturally, the great majority of dairy products on show were cheese. And, the greater proportion of that cheese was cheddar.

Now, cheese doesn’t have to be produced in Cheddar to be called cheddar. I’ve seen Irish cheddar, Australian cheddar and Canadian cheddar. Cheddar has become widely used internationally, and does not currently have a Protected Designator of Origin (PDO). However, the European Union does recognise West Country Farmhouse Cheddar as a PDO.

To be called West Country Farmhouse Cheddar – the real stuff – it must be made on a farm, and that farm is within the four counties of Somerset, Dorset, Devon and Cornwall. Those four make up the south-west of England.

Even in the old days, people said that only cheese produced within a thirty-mile radius of Wells Cathedral should be called cheddar.

A certain process must be used, too. After heating, the resulting curds are kneaded with salt. This is then cut into cubes to drain the whey. The cheese is then wrapped in cloth, and stored, and turned at intervals. The longer it’s matured, the better it is. It can be released for sale after three months; but mature cheddar usually starts at around 15 months. It can be stored for up to five years, after which time, I’d suppose you need to eat it quickly, before it eats your cracker!

Most of cheddar cheese country is in limestone country, which means there are plenty of natural caves to store the cheese. These are ideal, because, winter and summer, the temperature in a limestone cave remains constant. Even show-caves, such as those in the Cheddar Gorge and at Wookey Hole have side-caves for storing Cheddar.

While cheddar is usually made from cow’s milk, one stall offered me a goat’s milk cheddar. “Can you still call it cheddar?” I asked. I was told “yes; it’s made in Somerset, and the ‘cheddaring’ process is used.”

Cheesemakers throughout the country also brought their products. Double Gloucester, Stilton; Wensleydale (my favourite!) and Caerphilly, were among countless offerings. Some offered morsels of their cheese – even for those entered in the ‘Smelliest Cheese’ category.

Of these cheeses, I particularly liked ‘Stinking Bishop,” and I wondered, if, like some beers, they give unattractive names to the good stuff to discourage those who don’t know, and leave more for those of us who do?

For more information:
Royal Bath and West of England Society
Royal Bath and West Show
www.bathandwest.com

Cheddar Cheese:
www.farmhousecheesemakers

Aussie Pies

by Keith Kellett

When asked what the Australian national dish was, a comedian once waggishly replied “Pies.” Maybe it’s not the national dish, but I’ve visited very few places where I couldn’t get one. Call it a “footy pie,” a “four-and-twenty pie” an “Aussie pie” or simply just a pie, everyone there knows what you mean.

You don’t ask what goes into it, though. American author Doug Lansky once did, and was simply told “Meat!”

There are some establishments where your pie is served on a plate, and eaten with a knife and fork. But, usually, it simply comes in a paper bag, which you use to protect your fingers as you eat.

Another is the “pie floater.” The pie is served in a dish, immersed in green pea soup. You can, at your discretion, add a swirl of sauce and a side order of chips. At the Balfour’s Pie Cart, outside the railway station in Adelaide. They say it’s the cheapest meal in Australia, which is just as well, because the gambling casino stands next to the station.

The pie floater was reputedly born in Port Pirie, South Australia, conceived by one Ern “Shorty” Bradley – but, no one knows how. Did he inadvertently drop a pie into a bowl of soup? Or maybe, it developed from the Yorkshire “pea and pie supper,” useful when you have a lot of people (e.g. at harvest time or a cricket match) to feed on a budget.

The pie carts were as much a part of the Adelaide scene as “Light’s Vision” or the Glenelg Tram. The very first one was opened by an English ex-sailor called Gibbs. He opened his pie stall in 1864 on the corner of King William and Rundle streets, looking to cater to workers in search of a wholesome, but inexpensive meal.

Obviously, the site wasn’t as busy as it is nowadays. Today it’s probably the most trafficked street corner in Adelaide, but the last place you want to stand around eating a pie.

By 1915 there were nine pie carts in Adelaide, but by 1958 only two remained. They were Cowley’s Pie Cart outside the GPO on Franklin Street, once claimed as the oldest still existing in Australia, and the already-mentioned Balfour’s Pie Cart, outside the railway station.

The pie carts, for me, sum up all that’s democratic and egalitarian about Australia. They became a meeting place where cabbies, policemen and other workers rubbed shoulders with theatre patrons in formal evening wear, musicians, politicians and businessmen.

But, to visit the most famous pie-cart of all, we must go to Sydney, and head for Wooloomooloo, where Harry’s Café de Wheels carries on the tradition of selling what they claim are the best pies going. They don’t sell pie floaters as such, however, but “Tiger,” a pie with peas, mashed potato and gravy on top, is similar to the pie and mash served in some parts of London.

Wooloomooloo is the Royal Australian Navy’s equivalent of Portsmouth, and it was near the entrance to the Navy base that Harry “Tiger” Edwards set up his pie stall in 1938. He reasoned, correctly, that sailors returning to the base after a night on the town would be hungry, and there were very few places in Sydney where a reasonably inexpensive meal could be had at that time.

As in Adelaide, theatre and concert-goers began to frequent Harry’s, too and, as in Adelaide, mixed happily with the night-workers and sailors who frequented the café. One ex-sailor recalled seeing a full captain in dress uniform sitting on a nearby wall eating his pie.

The original stall was on wheels, because a city by-law said that such establishments had to move at least twelve inches each day. So, the structure was studiously moved the specified distance, and returned to its original position the following night.

Except for one night, when some practical joker stole the wheels … and the café temporarily became the “Café de Axle.”

In 1939, the café closed while Harry was away in the Army. But, on his 1945 demobilization, he found that the Sidney eating situation hadn’t improved while he was away. The Café de Wheels was soon operating almost to capacity once again.

Somehow, the word spread, and the café found itself hosting such household names as Frank Sinatra, Robert Mitchum, Johnnie Ray and Marlene Dietrich. And, perhaps the most distinguished visitor was Colonel Harlan Sanders, of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame. He ate three portions of pie and peas there, and declared Harry’s pies were the best he’d ever tasted.

Harry Edwards retired in 1970, and sold his now-thriving business. But, the café retained his name, and continued to prosper. A lot of customers still came from the Navy, and, in 1978 they decided to mark the 40^th Anniversary of the opening of the Café de Wheels in a rather unusual way.

It was officially commissioned into the Royal Australian Navy as one of its unsinkable’ ships, and was called: HMAS Harry’s!

Harry died in 1979, but the Café de Wheels continued, and its fame continues to spread. Celebrities still flock there. Elton John, Kevin Costner, Brooke Shields, Olivia Newton-John, Pamela Anderson and others of that stamp know Harry’s well.

The present owner is Michael Hannah, and I rather think he may be connected with Hannah’s, the firm who makes the pies. And, very good pies they are too, as I learned when the Open-Top bus tour I was on passed through Wooloomooloo around lunchtime.

The stall isn’t the original; that can be seen in Sydney’s Powerhouse Museum. But, the ethos is still there. I watched as office workers, taxi-drivers, glaziers, telephone engineers and road menders came for their lunch. It’s easy to tell who does what, because sometimes it seems that everyone in Sydney wears a corporate uniform.

And, of course, a policeman came. He was rather disappointed, though, because I wanted to photograph him buying his pie rather than astride his motor-bike. He’d visited Salisbury, where I live, he said, and, mentioned a B&B where he’d stayed, one run by some friends of mine.

But, I didn’t see any celebrities. Maybe I came at the wrong time; maybe I should have come back in the evening. I got what I came for, though — a pie. What at an excellent pie. It was so good I bought another!

As always, Keith captures the moment — and the food. Contact him at: Keith@globalfoodie. More of his work is available on his website at: travelrat.wordpress.com.

By Susan McKee

Long distance travel requires steel wings and an engine; throw in a few boats and you’ve pretty much exhausted the transportation options. For trips involving distance, taking to the air is a necessity.

One advantage to travel writing is obvious –traveling. Of course, that’s one of the disadvantages as well. When
you’re traveling, you’re not where you’re going, and you’ve left where you’ve been. Transit time is a state of suspended animation.

Take getting to Malaysia; it’s on
the other side of the earth from where I live. East or west it’s still 23 hours
in the air. I flew from Newark to Kuala Lumpur, so the plane stopped in “Dubai to
refuel.

An hour or so in that international airport terminal is just enough time to ogle the jewelry and designer shops and send a postcard. Then it’s back on board to endure the tedium – dropping off to sleep, waking and reading for a bit, then dozing off again.

There’s not much to do other than watch videos when you’re stuck in steerage. Most overseas flights these days have individual television screens, even in coach. But, the choices are often inane, and how many times can you watch the same episodes of popular television sitcoms? I find myself tuning into the map charting the plane’s progress.

Sometimes that’s a mistake.

A recent flight home from Paris to Chicago required a
stopover in Cincinnati. I watched the plane make a 180° turn as it traversed Ohio. We’d been sent away from the airport and were in a holding pattern because earlier airplanes were stacked ahead trying to land in rainy weather (FYI: that’s really bad news when you’re already behind schedule).

Suddenly, there was a sharp, swift sound between a pop and a bang. It was accompanied by a blinding white light. We’d been hit by lightening! The pilot came on the public announcement system to explain, “everything was OK.” I watched the map as we did another about face. Finally we were in the front of the line to land. (Oh, and by the way, I still missed my connecting flight.)

Giant airplanes with hundreds of passengers aren’t the only method of getting around in the air. In the U.S. Virgin Islands, I took a pontoon plane to get from St. Thomas to St. Croix. In Britain, I boarded a 25-seater Sikorski helicopter to get from Penzance to the Isles of Scilly. Outside Melbourne, Australia, I went up in a hot air balloon.

Pontoon planes are hybrids; they land and take off from water. Usually the cockpit is tiny – four cramped seats, and when the engine’s going, it’s very noisy. Both passengers and pilot wear headsets to communicate aloft.

Sightseeing is especially good from pontoon planes, though, because they fly so slowly at such low altitudes. I had a glimpse of the disappearing wetlands along the Gulf Shore of Louisiana. I net a bird’s eye view of the brilliant fall foliage around Maine’s Moosehead Lake in a similar aircraft.

Helicopters come in all sorts and sizes. The Sikorski in England was huge, built originally for military use and reconditioned to fly regularly scheduled service to the islands off Land’s End. The sightseeing helicopter I boarded in Daytona Beach, Fla., seated
just four; but the views of the Atlantic coast and the Daytona Motor Speedway
were terrific.

Hot air balloons are another kind of flight altogether. It’s hard to imagine how they were ever considered as an efficient means of transportation, but they’re great for a morning or evening excursion. Up in the heavens it’s very quiet – except for the occasional roar of the flames let loose to heat the air to keep everything aloft. Of course,
direction is somewhat dependent on the wind, but with a good chase crew on the
ground, all turns out well.

Over the years, I have learned some coping strategies for long airplane flights. I never carry on board more than a backpack that stuffs under the seat in front of me (I don’t want to wrestle with stowing a heavy wheeled case in an overhead bin).

In that backpack, I carry my essentials – the things I positively cannot do without when I land, including an extra pair of contact lenses, my laptop, a paperback book and my notebook, my itinerary, medicine, camera and batteries.

Because I try to sleep as much as I can on the plane, I don’t need many toys in my bag. A bottle of water is essential even though I now have to buy it past security (unless the kindly TSAagent lets me take an empty bottle through security. Snacks are essential and trail mix works best for me. And I don’t forget to walk around occasionally and do
leg exercises to minimize the chances of circulation problems while aloft.

Fortunately, I forget the agonies of travel once I get off the plane. No matter how tedious the flight, how annoying my seatmates, how unappetizing (or expensive) the food or how dehydrating the cabin, I still look forward to my next trip.

After all, it’s only been a century since humans took wing.

Susan McKee can be reached at: Susan@globalfoodie.com

By Keith Kellett

Barossa Valley, taken by Keith Kellett

I’ve lost count of the number of people who, when I tell them I visited South Australia, ask: Did you visit the wineries in Barossa Valley?” My usual reply contains the words: “bears” and “woods.”

Of course, the Barossa Valley isn’t the only wine-producing region in Australia … or even in South Australia. But, it’s one of the most famous. For, it was here that the early pioneers such as Seppelt and Gramp first planted vines brought from their native Germany.

Sometimes, in the Rhine or Mosel valleies, it seems like grapes are planted on every piece of open ground that isn’t absolutely vertical. It’s not like that in the Barossa.

Lorraine Kellett enjoying wine and snacks at Peter Lehamann's winery. Taken by Keith Kellett.

The older wineries are established in ersatz schlosses or faux chateaux. The newer ones can be in anything from purpose-built buildings to old farmhouses. The best view, I think, is across the valley from the Bethany Winery, near Tanunda, which stands on a slight eminence. The wine’s pretty good, too!

At most places, you’ll be offered a tasting. If you’re driving, it’s best to do just that, and take only a couple of sips.

Probably the best wineries are out along Tanuda’s Para and Seppeltsfield roads. The imposing Zenda-esque fake castle at Richmond Grove, with its slick, commercialised cellar door rather put us off. But, at Whistler’s Winery, in an old farmhouse, a lady broke off from working in the garden to see what we needed.

Keith leaving the Bethany with a bottle of wine. Taken by Lorraine Kellett.

The Barossa Valley isn’t only about wine, though. We had lunch … a platter of German-style sausage, cheeses, salad and relishes at the Peter Lehmann winery. The wine, incidentally, is every bit as good as the food.

Later, we had coffee at Maggie Beer’s Farm Shop, on a balcony overlooking a placid, artificial lake. There’s a tempting range of foods offered, as well as relishes, pickles, preserves and olive oil. Mrs. Beer’s husband has a winery, too … but his wine, while not bad, isn’t outstanding.

Our last call was at the Chateau Barrosa … a mis-spelling and I believe it is deliberate – and not a very good pun. Yes, we tried some of their wine, and liked it enough to buy a couple of bottles to join the others in the car boot’s cooler. But, we’d really come to see the famous rose garden. There are nearly 30,000 roses there. And, it’s become so famous, they’ve renamed the road after the founder, Hermann Thumm Drive.

That’s is the connection between wine and roses. In Italy, they sometimes plant a rose bush at the end of a row of vines. The idea is that, if there are any “nasties” (bugs) about, they’ll strike the roses first, and the viticulturist can take any necessary action early.

We first saw this practice at the Mercouris vineyard in Greece. The vine-grower learnt his trade in Italy, and I believe the rose planting are also practices at other European and Middle Eastern wineries.

Earlier in the week, in the Adelaide Hills, attracted by the rose gardens, we called into the Chain of Ponds winery. Adelaide’s Corkscrew Road is one of the best wines I’ve ever tasted, and we bought a couple of bottles.

I told the lady about the roses, and she said she thought they’d just been planted because they looked nice. But, as we drove away from the winery, we saw another vineyard only a short distance away with a rose bush at the end of each tenth row of vines!

Vines and Roses, by Keith Kellett

No, we didn’t bring any of the Corkscrew Road home with us. It was so good, we’d drunk it all long before we got on the aircraft!

Keith Kellett is globalfoodie’s UK correspondent. He can be reached at: Keith@globalfoodie.com. For more of his work visit: www.travelrat.wordpress.com .

by Keith Kellett

I like cheese.

There’s nothing like a cheese-board to round out a good meal. One of the best ones I’ve had in a long time is produced by John Crompton, the chef at the Hotel Aravis Lodge in France’s mountainous Haut Savoie district.

There were only two cheeses on the board, the local Reblochon and, from further afield, Tome de Bauge. But, they were enough, especially accompanied by glasses of red wine and bowls of dried apricots and walnuts.

The previous day, we sat in an upland pasture and feasted on crusty batons, stuffed with the Reblochon and Tome. Looking down the verdant and lush valley, one surrounded by lofty mountainous peaks, made the “cheese sandwich” description sound inadequate.

We hadn’t come here to taste the cheese, though. We’d come to walk in those mountain pastures, but, cheese was everywhere and couldn’t be avoided.

Our daily path led us past mountain chalets, or upland farms. In winter, the farmer and his family live in the valley, where the herds are kept while snow lies on those high fields. In spring, the cows are led up the hill, and the family move back into the chalet.

France is noted for its wide variety of cheeses, and also has the AOC, or Appelation d’Origine Contrôlée. This means that the names of locally-produced cheeses are protected by law. You cannot do as they do in England, where “cheddar” cheese is sold – and it wasn’t produced in England, let alone Cheddar.

Reblochon has been made in the Thones valley since the 13^th Century. It ust be produced within that area and made from milk from only three breeds of cows.

Reblochon means second milking from the product of which the cheese was originally made. It is sometimes said that farmers used to be taxed according to the milk yield of the herd. But, to avoid paying tax on unsold milk, they only partially milked the cows, taking just what they estimated they could sell. Then, they turned the cows back out to pasture, to milk them again when the inspector had gone. This milk had a sweeter taste than the first official milking

They couldn’t, however, sell the milk obtained by this method, so they made cheese instead.

These days there are two kinds of Reblochon. Some farmers take the milk to a co-operative, where the cheese is made; this is marked with an edible red disc, or pastille in the cheese’s rind. If the farmer makes the cheese himself, it gets the green disc and is called ‘Reblochon Fermier. It is made from the milk of a single herd and held to be superior.

One important note: you mustn’t call your cheese farmhouse cheese unless it was made on a farm.

If a farmer doesn’t actually make cheese, but sends it to a milk to a co-operative, it’s blended with milk from other herds, and is distinguished from Reblochon Fermier by being marked with a red pastille in the rind.

A close relative of Reblochon is Tome, a name which comes from a dialect word ‘Toma’, which means “cheese from the mountain pastures.” It’s made in much the same way as Reblochon, but cooked at a higher temperature and left to mature for longer.

This results in a harder, nuttier cheese, and the most highly regarded is the already-mentioned Tome de Bauges … distinguished by spelling its name with one “M.”

Walking the Walk

For a lot of people, the phrase ‘Alpine walking’ is a bit of an off-put. It conjures up visions of using a lot of arcane and expensive ironmongery to climb up a gnarly, near-vertical, ice-covered rock face. But, in actual fact, the kind I’m talking about involves good paths through lush meadows, accompanied most of the time by the plangent clangour of cow-bells.

With the minimum of clothing and equipment, maybe you’re marvelling that you are well above the highest point in the British Isles. Even then, you’ll frequently pass a farm where they make and sell cheese.

But, if you don’t fancy that kind of walking, you can go into Annecy on Sunday morning where a market is held in Old Town. Around here, as well as elsewhere in France, the phrase “farmer’s market” is a tautology. Most stalls sell local produce … ham, vegetables, and, of course, cheese.

How to Get there: The nearest airport is Geneva, across the border in Switzerland; approximately one hour’s drive from St. Jean de Sixt. The nearest main rail station is at Annecy, about one half hour away. There’s a bus service from Annecy approximately every two hours; fare is about seven euros.

There is no public transport form Geneva airport, except in winter, when a ski-bus operates.

Where to Stay: We stayed at the Aravis Lodge Hotel in St Jean de Sixt, where there’s an excellent kitchen presided over by chef John Crompton, who also runs cooking holidays, see www.cookinginfrance.biz. The owners of the Aravis Lodge organise ski-ing and walking weekends. You can find the details at www.karibuni.co.uk. If you’re taking part in one of these tours, or just staying there, the owners will arrange a free transfer from Annecy or Geneva for you.

Keith Kellett is globalfoodie’s UK correspondent. He can be reached at: Keith@globalfoodie.com.

by Susan McKee

You can’t always get what you want – even in paradise. There I was, sitting on Scilly Cay, anticipating my barbecue-grilled lobster, when bad news arrived. Four patrons had ordered Caribbean Spiny Lobster for lunch. Four critters had been captured – but two had to be released because they were loaded with eggs. On Anguilla, crustaceans with child are spared.
The solution? Each of us would get one-half a lobster and a grilled crayfish.

Of course, I was thinking I’d end up with a mini Missouri crawdad or a slightly heftier Louisiana crawfish, the wimpy freshwater cousins of lobsters. I was surprised to learn that Caribbean crayfish are as large as — lobsters.

It seems there are more than 500 species of crayfish found worldwide. The ones I know best, the American dwarf crayfish, are only about 1-1/3 inches long. The largest, the Tasmanian, weighs up to eight pounds. On Anguilla, the crayfish are somewhere in between.

Eudoxie Wallace, Scilly Cay’s owner, better known simply as “Gorgeous,” confided in us. The secret to the savory shellfish was his proprietary barbecue sauce, of course, it’s the charcoal too. It’s locally made from sea grape, cedar, tamarind and wild mango – all indigenous hardwoods.

When my plate arrived with crustaceans, hot from the oil-drum grill on the beach, I knew I had a feast at hand. Plunging in, I managed to demolish everything, including the pasta salad, fresh fruit and grilled bread, washing it all down with a rum punch that deserves its name and an ice water chaser. I’d been warned about the potency of the punch, especially on a hot summer’s afternoon, so I stuck to one serving.

As I ate, I tried to puzzle out the barbecue sauce – I think I detected hot peppers, a trace of mustard, some peanuts perhaps and a touch of sugar from an orange marmalade. Gorgeous wasn’t talking.

Outlanders often come to Anguilla looking for lobster. A recent poll on an island discussion forum frequented by locals and visitors concluded that the favorite dish for breakfast, lunch or dinner was lobster, with crayfish coming in second.

It doesn’t seem to matter how the crustaceans are prepared. A posting on another Anguillan on-line forum asking for the “best lobster dish” brought more than two dozen suggestions, ranging from Caribbean-grilled with a honey-lemon-rum glaze to the continental combination of lobster ravioli served with melted butter sauce and chunks of lobster.

As a Midwesterner, I must confess my initial ignorance. I thought all crayfish were the same, and that the Anguilla lobster would be just like the crustacean I cracked in Maine. Silly me!

North American fishermen haul in lobsters with big claws from the briny deep. In the Caribbean, they catch the spiny lobster. Both are crawling crustaceans. They are cold-blooded with hard exoskeletons, five pairs of jointed walking legs, segmented bodies, sensory antennae, tail fans and compound eyes on stalks. They can walk forwards, but if they want to move fast, they curl their segmented tails under their bodies to swim backward.

I’d been eating the American lobster – Homarus americanu – with its enlarged claws or pincers. On Anguilla, I came face to face with something new – Panulirus argus. This species, the spiny lobster (also known as the Caribbean or rock lobster) has two ordinary front legs where the claws would be. Its carapace is marked with bright green, blue and yellow spots on an orange or brown shell.

The spiny Lobster defends itself by using its two long, thorny antennae as whips, and adds to its menacing appearance, with rows of short, sharp spines along the length of its tail and body. These crustaceans also have a unique ability to make scary noises by drawing their leathery plectra (protrusions at the base of each antenna) across scaly ridges below their eyes. Anguillans told me it sounds like the screech of a violin bow pulling across a badly tuned string.

Spiny lobsters are found in relatively shallow water in the rocks and coral reefs. They start life in a cluster of 10-20,000 eggs beneath the tail of one female – as was the case in the two who escaped the fire on Scilly Cay that day. When the eggs are ready to hatch, mom releases them in the open sea. Only a handful make it through the perilous journey to maturity. The lucky ones who escape predators and fishermen grow to about 20 inches and weigh about 10 pounds.

I only  had a few days on Anguilla, and wanted to sample as many of these sea creatures as possible.

This is a small island – about sixteen miles long and three miles across – with a year-round population of about 12,000. Development is tightly controlled on this tiny outpost of the British Empire. The Department of Physical Planning is determined to have orderly and sustainable development of Anguilla’s natural resources and infrastructure.

One of the results is Anguilla’s unhurried pace. There’s no rush to do anything here on what’s probably the last unspoiled island in the Caribbean. The airport can handle only small airplanes, so there aren’t any big tour groups. There’s no seaport capable of handling a cruise ship. There are no shopping malls, no thousand-room hotels, no casinos and no fast food restaurants.

With more than 70 dining options, it’s said there are more gourmet restaurants per acre on the island of Anguilla than on the island of Manhattan. In any case, slow food –and slowly eating food – is nothing new here. Expect to linger over your meal, enjoying every bite. I wanted most of my leisurely bites to be shellfish.

When I got to the Altamer Restaurant I was in the mood for something cold. The tropical lobster salad, tossed with fresh papaya, mango, pineapple and kiwi, was just perfect for a sultry noon meal. I especially savored the hand-made mango sorbet for dessert.

At Pimm’s, one of the restaurants at Cap Juluca, I started with an Anguilla Crayfish Dumpling, nestled against carrots, and enoki mushrooms in hon dashi broth before plunging into my main course. I selected the island’s other signature seafood, red snapper, this time steamed and served on a bed of curried cabbage and jasmine-scented rice with a sizzling oriental sauce flavored with teriyaki and soy. The setting was perfect for fish – if my table had been any closer to the edge of the porch, I would have been in the Caribbean myself.

Dinner took almost three hours, but – what the heck! The golden full moon reflected in the water, and the canvas-draped ceilings rippled in the sea breeze. Fans whirled noiselessly overhead.

My last dinner on the island was at Cedar Grove Restaurant in the Rendezvous Bay Hotel. The Anguilla Lobster Cakes were a delectable finale to my seafood feeding frenzy.

GlobalFoodie Details:

Scilly Cay, Island Harbor; (264) 497-5123 or www.anguillaguide.com/scilly

Altamer, Shoal Bay West; (264) 498 4000 or www.altamer.com

Pimm’s, Cap Juluca, Maundays Bay; (264) 497-6666 or www.capjuluca.com/

Cedar Grove Café, Rendezvous Bay, (264) 497-6549 or www.rendezvousbay.com/

The Anguilla Tourist Board, Coronation Avenue, The Valley; (800) 553-4939 or (264) 497-2759

Susan can be reached at: Susan@globalfoodie.com.

By Keith Kellett

I often take part in Spain’s Vaughantown English-language programs. They usually start with a get-to-know-you tapas party on Saturday night. For first-timers, it’s an introduction to a Spanish custom, where your beer or wine is often served with a little nibble.

It’s difficult, if not impossible, to translate the word tapas concisely into English. Originally, the word meant “lids,” and was assigned to the pieces of bread or slices of cheese or ham that covered drinks to ensure the drink wasn’t contaminated by insects, leaves or bird droppings when it was consumed outside.

As time went on, the pieces of bread became little open sandwiches, and nowadays, the term has come to mean any little snacks served with a drink. It’s even given rise to a verb … tapear … to partake of tapas.

There are some who say the practice came about as the result of the command of a King, one of the Alfonsos, I think who, concerned at instances of drunkenness among his army, decreed that no alcoholic liquor should be served unless food was also provided.

Tapas serves a multitude of purposes. Maybe it demonstrates the hospitality of the bar owner, or just encourages thirst to sell more beer or wine; maybe its eaten to fill the gap until dinner. Like most Mediterranean countries, the Spaniards dine late. Or, it could demonstrate the quality of the food, so the customer may return to eat more substantially later. Or, maybe a bit of all four!

There’s a multitude of places to enjoy tapas. In Madrid, there’s El Quinto Vino, in Calle Hernani , which is always crowded. I fought my way to the bar, and exhausted two thirds of my Spanish by saying ‘Una cerveza, por favor!’  Usually, I try to avoid too great a press of people in bars, but this was different. Anywhere else, I would dismiss the décor as “too Spanish” or “touristy.” But here, the mass of pictures, bits of wine boxes, photographs and wall souvenirs – with every spare bit of space taken up by bottles of all kinds – seems just right.

Just down the road is La Carihuela, which I like for its superb exterior tile work. The beer and the tapas aren’t bad, either. They brought me a sort of Cornish pasty, about the size of a 50 pence piece.

But, tapas bars aren’t only confined to the bigger towns. In a little town called Carriòn de los Condes, I found an excellent tapas called Chamffix. Although, I do wish Alberto had told me about the pigs’ ear before I’d eaten a piece.

For more information:
www.elquintovino.com (Spanish)
www.madridman.com

Keith Kellett is globalfoodie’s United Kingdom correspondent. His email is: Keith@globalfoodie.com.