The view from our breakfast table at Azure.

-

Food on Hayman Island was absurdly expensive. I plan on writing an entire post about it, but it actually causes me physical pain to think about the prices of our meals there, so I’m procrastinating on that.

Breakfast, however, was included with our stay, so we gorged ourselves every morning. The buffet was expansive, and beautifully laid out.

-

They even had a honeycomb in a wooden frame, from which you could get honey. This was all a bit showy for me (I prefer my honey is a little plastic bear, thank you very much), but I appreciated it nevertheless.

-

The restaurant, Azure, was right on the beach, with massive glass doors that could be opened up entirely. Every morning, we’d sit and look at the water as the sun began to creep over the hill, and eat pancakes with butterscotch syrup (whoever came up with the idea to pass dessert off as breakfast food is a friggin genius).

I added some blueberries in a half-hearted attempt to be healthy.

-

We’d sip our cappuccino and tea on the beachfront deck and talk about what we wanted to do that day. Things were very nearly perfect.

And he was stupidly handsome.

-

Except for the goddamn birds.

-

When we first saw them, we were somewhat delighted. Look! Cockatoos! And they come right up to you!

-

Soon, though, their fearlessness became unsettling. They’d land on tables, swiping sugar packets and little plastic containers of jam.

-

-

If you turned your head away from your food for just a few seconds, your croissant or slice of toast would suddenly take flight in the beak of one of these winged thieves.

-

Sometimes, they’d leave you something in return.

Awww! A pile of crap! How’d you know?

-

“Careful,” one of the staff warned. “They have the intelligence of a four-year-old human.”

She offered no follow-up to this comment. I was suitably terrified (the birds were each roughly as long as my arm). Another explained that since the birds were swiping sugar packets out of the porcelain bowls on the tables, the management decided to order lids for the bowls.

“What happened?” I asked.

“One bird figured out how to get the lid off in about two minutes. Now they can all do it.”

I shuddered. Looking around, I realized we were outnumbered.

-

It was like … (crap, I hate to draw such an obvious parallel, but …) it was like a scene from The Birds.

-

You could tell how long a guest had been at Hayman by their reaction to the birds. Delight and amusement? Usually no more than 1 day. Slight annoyance?2-3 days. Crazed horror or on the brink of avian homicide? 4 days and up.

After a while, we simply tried ignoring our feathered nuisances. We ate our breakfast and pretended that everything was fine. And most of the time, it was.

-

But every now and then, I’d get the creepy feeling that I was being watched …

-

In the end, the birds managed to steal their fill of breakfast. It seemed only fair – they were on the island first, after all. We’d invaded their home. We’d no right to complain, to wave our arms at them, screaming “SHOO! SHOO!”. Though in fairness, whenever anyone did that, the birds sat, unperturbed, and continued munching on pilfered pastries.

Still, we figured we were entitled to a little peace, given how much we were shelling out to stay on Hayman. So you can imagine my relief when we returned to our little cabana room and found that there were no birds there.

-

Until one morning …

-

Goddamn birds. I should have made them pitch in on the nightly rate.

-

Do you remember the interstitial sketch from Monty Python where John Cleese would say, “And now for something completely different?”

That seems like the perfect way to start off today’s post. Because today I am moving away from South Africa to tell you about the few brief days we spent in London. And I am not going to talk about the very important but nevertheless depressing things that I have talked about for the last few weeks. No mention of rape, or murder, or bombings, or anything like that.

No. Today’s post will about something completely different: bagels.

These weren’t ordinary bagels, though. They weren’t even spelled normally.

Rand and I found ourselves in Brick Lane on a rainy Sunday. We’d just come from the Columbia Road Flower market and started walking, with no real idea where we were going, and that’s where we ended up.

-

The neighborhood feels a little like Brooklyn – it’s quirky and hip, with narrow alleyways and buildings constructed from – what else? – dark red bricks. Despite all our visits to London (we must be nearing a dozen now), we’d never been in this part of town.

There were murals all over the place.

-

We strolled, impervious to the rain (it’s one of the few superpowers granted to those who live in the northwest), passing shop after shop selling bagels, advertising them with the rarely-seen alternate spelling of “beigels.” Some of the signs made me giggle, because I am secretly 12 years old.

Hee.

-

-

I mean, come on: everything said “HOT SALT BEEF ALL NIGHT” in giant letters. I couldn’t not laugh at that, people. I’m not made of stone.

Rand noticed a large line gathered outside one of the shops – the very alliteratively named Beigel Bake Brick Lane Bakery –  and gravitated towards it.

-

“I need to check that out,” he said, and promptly got in line.

The place seemed to sell only one thing – fresh bagels, sliced open and filled with “hot salt beef” (which turned out to be what we would call corned beef. If that’s something you’ve never had, think of it as being like pastrami, but moister, sliced thickly, and minus spices like peppercorn), and a slap of tangy yellow mustard.

(Note: further research suggests they also serve cream cheese and lox on their beigels, but the salt beef seems to be their most popular seller.)

A few minutes later, he emerged, bagel in hand.

It wasn’t entirely dissimilar to a New York bagel, though there were differences. The center hole was virtually non-existent, and the bagel looked softer and lighter. More like a very fresh roll.

Rand took a tentative bite.

“Oh, my god,” he muttered, in such a tone that I was unable to tell if his reaction was positive or negative.

“What? Oh-my-god good or oh-my-god terrible?”

“This … this might be the best bagel I’ve ever had.”

Rand took a bite. And then he took another. And another.

-

I ripped it from his hands and examined it. Theoretically, I should have hated it. I take my bagels with cream cheese and some smoked salmon; they are not to be used as sandwich bread, ever. I didn’t know what hot salt beef was at the moment, but was fairly certain I wouldn’t like it. And I generally hate yellow mustard.

But … the best bagel my Jersey-born husband had ever had? I had to take a bite.

And … holy cats, you guys. The bread was soft and chewy and absurdly fresh, but the exterior had a nice sheen and a bit of resistance. The meat was moist but not soggy, flavorful, and the tangy mustard cut into it perfectly.

I took another bite, before relinquishing it to my husband.  The line out the front now made perfect sense.

“So?” Rand asked. “Isn’t it the best bagel you’ve ever had?”

Maybe. I don’t know. Like I said, bagels, for me, are best served with a light smear of cream cheese, and a bit of ice cold lox on top. This sandwich of his absurdly good – that was indisputable. But was it a bagel?

-

I’d have to say no. It was something completely different. But still pretty damn great.

-

Whenever I see someone who has succumbed to something incredibly touristy – whether it be the people running around Disney World with those invisible dogs on leashes, or anyone drinking beer out of a boot – two things go through my head:

• That is so incredibly cheesy.
• I … I kind of want in on that.

The only exception is when I see white, middle-aged women returning from the Caribbean with dreadlocks. I want no part of that, except to possibly pull them aside and, as I vigorously try to unplait their hair, counsel them against whatever other bad decisions they are about to make.

“Not even Bo Derek could pull this off,” I’d hiss. “AND SHE’S BO-FRIGGIN’-DEREK.”

It would be a public service.

But other than that exception, I find myself torn between being annoyed by the gimmick while I’m simultaneously seduced by it. And sometimes, despite my reservations, I fall for it.

I realize it’s silly. I’m sure more seasoned travelers and locals will roll their eyes. But for just a little bit, I’m having fun.

Which is how I justify walking around with what appears to be typewriter correction fluid on my face.

-

Moyo restaurant has several locations throughout South Africa. Which means, as much as I’d like to think otherwise, it is a chain. But it’s a lovely chain, and the mood of the restaurant, while clearly catering to tourists, isn’t unpleasant.

The day was hot, the sun searing everything it touched, and the shade offered by Moyo’s covered deck pulled us in.

We sat, drinking cocktails and sharing photos, perusing the menu and offering suggestions to one another. Two women who worked at the restaurant approached, and asked us if we wanted face paint.

We stared, looking at one another, trying to figure out if it was okay. Earlier, I’d seen tourists walking around the waterfront with similar patterned dots painted on their faces. And my usual reaction – that mix of judgement and envy – came to the surface.

Was this allowable? Was it somehow offensive? I stared at Rand, looking for an answer. He shrugged.

“Sure, why not?” he said, finally. 

-

The result. Personally, I think he should rock this look every single day.

-

And so we all did it.

 -

Moments later, a gentleman came by with a pitcher of water and a large bowl, so we could wash our hands.

-

And we all did that, too, albeit self-consciously, and with some trepidation.

Some of us wondered aloud, as we saw servers walking around in traditional clothing, with white paint dotting their faces, if we weren’t on the verge of exoticism, of turning the peoples and cultures of Africa into something trivial and digestible.

Then our food came, and those deeper questions were forgotten, at least momentarily.

-

Despite all the touristy accouterments, Moyo has a pretty solid menu.

-

-

-

I know, I know. I not only went to a chain restaurant, but I got my face painted, too. We didn’t kid ourselves. We realized it was silly and touristy.

The awesome company I had for lunch. It’s cool to be jealous.

-

But you know what? Sometimes, we’re silly tourists. And I think that’s okay, every now and then, as long as we acknowledge it. As long as we appreciate it for what it is, and don’t try to make more out of it than that.

Still, if you find me contemplating dreadlocks, please intervene.

So he let me bite his arm. 

I’m still kind of out of it, but I’m pleased to say that the attempts at spousal cannibalism have become far more infrequent since that episode. I’m going to try and get my bearings over the next few days. In the meantime, I’ll be posting about a few trips that we had prior to South Africa, that I haven’t gotten around to telling you about. Enjoy.)

-

-

Like any good alchemist, I spend a lot of time at home trying to turn lead into gold. Or, more precisely, flour, sugar, butter, eggs, and a bit of vanilla into cake.

Same thing, basically.

I usually have more than a modicum of success at it. I’ve become a pretty accomplished baker over the years (and an even more accomplished eater).

But every now and then, I have a misstep. Last weekend, I attempted to make some oatmeal butterscotch cookies. And while the chemistry behind my error eludes me, I will say this: they did not turn out as planned. Rather than form anything remotely resembling a cookie, they spread out and fused together into a thin lattice.

I pulled the cookie tray out of the oven and stared at my failure. I poked at it feebly with a fork.

And then I figured, what the hell, I might as well try a bite. It was either that or the trash. I gently forked up a morsel. Then another.

By the time that Rand came into the kitchen and found me there, the pan was already half consumed.

He stared at me for a moment. I opened my mouth to say something. To try to explain to him that contrary to appearances, I did have some degree of willpower. That I was better than this. Really.

But before anything came out (remember, my mouth was full of butterscotch-flavored failure), Rand grabbed a fork and polished off the rest of the tray.

God, I adore him.

The point is this: in my love life, I am discerning. In the world of baked goods, I am not always so.

The cupcakes at Georgetown Cupcake in Boston, are on the opposite end of the spectrum as my cookies. The bakery started in D.C., and has several locations, including one on Newbury Street.

-

Their confections are pretty to look at, and hold together nicely. But they aren’t so good as to justify frenzied eating right out of the figurative pan. You will not find yourself, after you’ve finished your cake, pressing your finger against any crumbs that may remain at the bottom of the box.

-

-

Look, none of this stopped me from eating three of them, but I think I’ve made it clear that sometimes I can’t be trusted.

The shop is adorable, nestled in the row of brick buildings that line Newbury street, blending in so well that the storefront would be easy to miss. The line is formidable, and it’s best to get the cakes to go, since there’s not much seating inside.

-

The cakes have a dense, grainy crumb (think cornbread), a feature which I’m not opposed to. They aren’t terribly large, but are on the expensive side. Half a dozen cupcakes set me back about $20. The frosting was thick and almost gummy – many of the vanilla variants were cream-cheese based.

I wasn’t thoroughly impressed, but a friend who managed to rifle a mocha cupcake away from me declared it one of the best she’d ever had.

Like someone in a doomed relationship, I stuck with it, hoping things would improve. I took bite after bite, thinking, “This next one will be better.”

It wasn’t.

It’s not that I would advise you to steer clear of Georgetown cupcake – it’s just that I felt somewhat let down. The cute storefront, the adorable boxes … all of that built me up, while the cupcakes themselves fell flat.

There was a lesson to be learned here – within a few days, it was practically screaming at me. We were in Chinatown, and Rand told me that he’d heard there was a good cake shop nearby (I know I said it before in this post, but it bears repeating: I adore him).

The facade of Eldo Cake House was not particularly noticeable. The interior was equally forgettable.

-

The desserts were simple, and ridiculously cheap. $2.00 for a generous slice of spongy cake, filled with fruits and cream. $0.80 for a rolled slice of cake with cream filling.

-

Having been burned before by Boston’s dessert scene, I took a tentative taste. Yes. Yes, this was going to work.

“Do you want a bite?” I said to Rand, though I made no move to offer him one.

He nodded. “It’s cool,” he said. I’ll grab my own fork. A wise decision, as I showed no signs of relinquishing mine.

-

He wasn’t gone long. Perhaps a 10 seconds. Maybe 15. And while it was not my intention, by the time he returned, the cake was gone.

“Should we get another slice?” I asked, somewhat guiltily. Rand merely smiled and shook his head. He knew as well as I, that had we ordered another piece, he probably wouldn’t get to try that one, either.

Because sometimes it’s now how your dessert looks. It’s how it tastes, as you quickly mash it down your gullet, in moves so quick, they look like a blur.

-

In truth, it was both – that blissful mix of homey and familiar, strange and exotic. Plus, there were cookies topped with bacon.

Rand had already left Milwaukee – he needed to catch an earlier flight for a board meeting in San Francisco later that day (I wouldn’t seen him again until we were both in Seattle, each of us confused and jet-lagged, our bodies struggling to keep pace with our travel itineraries).

It was a shame, too, because Rand would have loved Blue’s. He embodies those same mix of incongruent elements, of things that shouldn’t go together but do. My husband is a blend of classy and casual. It’s one of the things I like about him.

And it was one of the many things I liked about Blue’s.

-

There is a large pastry case upon entry. I didn’t hesitate to order the sugar cookies laden with maple frosting and specs of crisp bacon. I’d seen them when we walked in, and instantly declared them mine.

They were a wise choice.

“For the table,” I said, thus absolving myself of any guilt.

-

Not for the faint of heart, or the congested of heart, or really anyone with any heart condition whatsoever. You should be forced to pass a physical before noshing on these. (We split two between the four of us.)

As we waited for our food, our waitress brought us jam, butter, and red grapes – a rather befuddling combination. I looked around to see if we were supposed to eat them together, but the other tables around us gave no indication of what to do. 

-

I will say this: butter doesn’t stick very well to grapes.

The menu was full of tempting options, but I finally decided on the crispy blue crab cake with toast and poached eggs. It arrived resting atop a salad of mixed greens, and managed to be both hearty and delicate. The waitress lauded my choice, explaining that it was one of her favorites.

-

But it was Rand’s colleague, Jamie, who may have ordered best: A toasted peanut butter, banana, and bacon sandwich on brioche bread, accompanied by a pile of golden fries and a frosty Bloody Mary.

-

Take note, kids: this is how to do breakfast.

He let me try a bite and it tasted … well, exactly as you would expect. Salty and sweet and gooey and peanut-buttery. The sort of homey, heart-stopping thing you’d imagine Elvis eating for breakfast, elevated slightly by the soft, airy bread upon which it came.

Whenever I visit a place without my husband (one that I know he would love), I start to miss him acutely. As we heaved ourselves out of Blue’s Egg, he was on my mind. I imagined him raving about the food (he’d get the corned beef hash. No question.), sipping on a Bloody Mary, and saying something like, “Milwaukee – who knew?”

-

The thought of him, as we left the restaurant, made my heart hurt just a little bit. Or maybe the sugar cookies with bacon and maple frosting are to blame for that. Either way, I need to head back to Blue’s Egg. And I need to take Rand.

—————

If you go …

Blue Egg is a good spot, but be warned: it is no secret, and they don’t take reservations. Even on a Friday morning, it was packed (though we only had to wait a few minutes for a table for four); on weekends, the line is rumored to be downright painful.

Make sure to save room for the pastries in the case or (since that is profoundly hard to d0), get some to go.

Once again, I wax poetic about baked goods.

-

Do you ever have moments of extreme clarity?

I’m not referring to those times when the skies above you are cloud free, or when your skin is looking absent of blemishes, almost to the point of vulnerability. No. I live in Seattle, and I eat lots of cake. My clarity does not manifest itself in those terms.

I speak instead of those moments where you realize precisely how you feel about the world around and your role in it. There’s no ambiguity, there’s no confusion.

I see it happen every day, in ways small and large. Regulars ordering lunch or a drink without missing a beat. Couples running to meet each other in the airport without a second of hesitation – nary a flicker of doubt flashes across their faces (which admittedly, are obscured by the ensuing making out).

Moments of clarity.

“Yes, I’d like dessert.”

“Yes, I want to marry you.”

“Yes, I’d like more dessert.”

And,

“Yes, I’d marry you again.”

I had a lot of those moments in Milwaukee. I can’t really say why. Perhaps it was something about the place – a sort of lovely, down-to-earth American town that showed little sign of avarice or pretension. It exuded a kind of quiet confidence.

“Here I am, this is what I have to offer. Like it, or don’t. Either way, I’ll be fine.”

It was easy to have moments of clarity in a setting like that.

And so when I first heard of The Milwaukee Cupcake Company, there was no hesitation. No second-guessing.

“We are going there,” I told my husband.

-

The facade to The MCC isn’t fancy or elaborate. It’s a storefront inside a large brick building, amongst several others. The cafe is massive – it also seems to serve as the unofficial lobby for the rest of the building – and in one corner is the cupcake kiosk, offering full and miniature versions of the desserts.

The lobby-like interior.

-

The gentleman working there was surprisingly grumpy for someone who spent his days surrounded by cake. I’m unsure if he is a proprietor, or a manager, or just some poor lost soul who was unhappy with how his life turned out. In any case, he surely was surly.

It was actually quite comical, given how counter-intuitive it was. Like seeing a cranky circus clown or a super ill-tempered cheerleader.

I wanted to grab him by the front of the shirt and hiss, “Why are you so irritable? You have the best job on the planet. DO YOU HEAR ME? YOUR EXISTENCE IS ENVIABLE.”

Then I realized that Rand says that same phrase to me on a daily basis, and I’m as crotchety as ever. So I kept my mouth shut and surveyed my options.

Also pictured: some primitive precursor to a cell phone.

-

In those spheres of life that rotate without connection to sugary confections or my beloved, I tend to take longer to make a decision. Shopping for clothing requires several long hours of research online before I even set foot in a store. Ask me to make dinner plans, and you’ve basically agreed to starvation. And I won’t even speak of what happens when Rand tells me to pick something to watch on TV.

But when I looked at those treats? Clarity.

“I’ll take a miniature red velvet and a pumpkin,” I cheerily told the grumpy gentleman behind the counter (He’d started to grow on me. I wanted to befriend him. His new nickname would be “Chuckles.”)

I know what you’re thinking: Girl, miniature? Seriously? But there were TWO of them, so please do relax. I’m still the woman I was, I promise.

Plus, as you can see, two miniature cupcakes just about equal one big cupcake, but you can get twice as many flavors. TWICE. AS. MANY.

-

The cakes were moist and spongy – I’d even go so far as to say delicate. They tasted incredibly fresh – I suspected barely more than a few hours old. My red velvet was on the bland side (and rather forgettable), but the pumpkin was perfect. Inexplicably called the “pumpkin spice latte” (Really? Whither the latte?), it was gently spiced and the ideal accompaniment to the dollop of cream cheese frosting and wedge of pie crust on top.

It looked like it was wearing a small hat. This pleased me.

-

Rand got a peanut butter and chocolate cupcake: diabetic shock in a little paper liner. There was even half a full-sized Reese’s pressed into the top.

-

I took a tiny nibble, and it was rich and flavorful – I’m not a chocolate lover, but this would do just fine.

Rand liked it, too.

- 

We left the shop, and I already knew where we were going next.

See, just prior to getting cupcakes, I had one of those moments of clarity I mentioned. We were walking down the street and I spotted a shop filled with delightful treasures: shoes and boots and handmade jewelry.

“I want to go there,” I said, pointing across the way.

“The shoe-store?” Rand asked.

I nodded.

“We’ll go there in a minute,” he said, gesturing to the cupcake shop, which was just a little further down the road. “First cupcakes, then we’ll get you some new shoes.”

I stared at him, and before I was able to blink even once, the words left my mouth: “I’ve never loved you more.”

Without a second of hesitation, without a moment of thinking about it. Just clarity.

And cupcakes.

And Rand.

-

Holy crap, do I make good decisions.

Our lunch at Queen of Tarts. Notice the conspicuous absence of actual tarts.

-

After my brain surgery, I had trouble accepting that I was unchanged.

“Do I seem different?” I would ask Rand, time and again.

“No,” he’d reply. “Baby, you are exactly the same.”

And I’d stare at my reflection in the mirror, at my steroid-induced moonface, and say, “But I look different.”

“It’s not how you look,” he’d remind me. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

“BUT MY INSIDES FEEL DIFFERENT,” I’d yell.

I could not grasp that my brain had been operated on and I had emerged more or less the same. It was weird to me that all my memories remained: the time I broke my arm when I was 8; the first time I got dumped (brutally and over the phone) when I was 15; the ill-advised turquoise blouse I had on the night I met Rand. All the things that had been imprinted on that pink squishy mass over the last (ahem) TWO AND A HALF DECADES (okay, fine. Three decades.) were still there.

That was hard for me to get. As was the realization that I hadn’t attained any superpowers (seriously, what’s it take for a gal to become telekinetic?).

I began hyper-scrutinizing my behavior for a while, to see if I noticed any difference. I listened to my own voice more carefully than I ever have in my life. Did I always sound this way? (It was the inexplicable combination of Valley Girl and Mid-Atlantic WASP.) Did my gait look the same? My makeup? My penmanship?

My husbands, my friends, and my family all insisted – and still insist – that yes, yes, everything was the same. Even my constant questioning confirmed that I was my old, neurotic self. Had I been carefree and unconcerned, they might start to worry.

But even now, months later, I still occasionally insist that I am different. Certain things I say or do surprise me. Indeed, when I try recounting them back to myself, I hardly believe it.

If you told me six months ago that I walk into to a pastry shop with the delightful name “Queen of Tarts” (heh) and not get dessert, that would be simply incomprehensible. I would insist that the only way such a thing could be true would be if the shop was closed. And even then, I don’t know if that would dissuade me. I’d likely bang on the door for a few frantic minutes before wisening up and circling around the back, in hopes that I’d find a window partially open (or, failing that, DUMPSTER PASTRIES!).

But folks, I have to tell you: it happened. We walked into Queen of Tarts, and only had lunch. And lunch did not consist of cake. I repeat: LUNCH DID NOT INVOLVE CAKE.

Strange. Like, parallel universe strange. Like, man bites dog strange.

But hey, in the words of Vanessa Williams, sometimes the sun goes round the moon, right?

(Except that, you know, it doesn’t. It never has. If it ever did, we’d probably get incinerated instantly.)

Queen of Tarts is a rather unassuming spot. They have two locations, and both were packed – the only indication that something very special was going on inside.

Something very special, indeed.

-

Their focus is on desserts, obviously, and though I can only judge by appearances, they seem to do them exceptionally well.

-

-

I checked out the case – which was positively packed with goodies – before we even sat down. This is something I often do at places that specialize in sweets. If quantities are limited (and if we’re talking me and desserts, they always are), I’ve been known to tell our server to put a slice or three aside for me.

But Queen of Tarts showed no sign of running out of anything, even in the face of a threat like myself, so instead Rand and I sat down to a leisurely lunch first. Mostly because my tyrannical husband suggested I provide my body with energy that hasn’t been derived from cane sugar.

HE IS A MONSTER. Don’t forget that, folks.

I must begrudgingly admit, though, that the non-sugary offerings at Queen of Tarts are quite satisfying. The menu is full of all kinds of salads and sandwiches, quiches and soups. Practically everything comes with some sort of savory baked good, a subtle, salty foreshadowing of the treats that (hopefully) lie in your future.

Coupled with a nice cup of tea in floral china, it’s the lovely, high-brow-yet-hearty sort of lunch that you’d expect from a cafe in central Dublin.

-

Rand got a colorful veggie quiche and an array of salads that were in no way dessert-like whatsoever.

-

And I had this fresh and healthy-looking salad, topped with lentils, feta, and couscous. I took to calling it my “non-cake.” As in, “Rand, take a bite of my non-cake. It’s pretty good DESPITE THE LACK OF CAKE.”

-

As we finished our entrees, we noticed the time – we were running late for another appointment. We had lunched at Queen of Tarts, but there was no time for an actual tart. I inhaled sharply at this realization. Rand took my hand.

“We’ll come back later and get dessert,” he promised. But then that day, and those following it, slipped away from us, as did the opportunity to return to the cafe.

In somewhat related news, I am pleased to announce that Rand and I will likely be heading back to Dublin again this spring. Someone warn the carrot cake: I haven’t changed that much at all.

The easily missed facade of Skinflint.

-

I’d never heard the term “skinflint” before visiting Dublin.

Truth be told, it sounds rather dirty. Like, “Did you hear about Janine? She caught skinflint while riding on the subway.” Or, “I’ve heard he’s done a lot of things in the past that he’s not proud of. Like, you know … skinflint.” Or, “Be sure to scrub between your genitals and your leg.”

I realize I forgot to use “skinflint” in that last sentence. But I left it there, because it’s just sound advice.

Skinflint, as it turns out, means cheap or miserly, and is a more commonly used piece of slang in Ireland than it is over here in the states (where I’ve heard it approximately never). Regardless, though, it seems to serve as a rather odd, and faintly unappetizing name for a pizza restaurant (does ‘skinflint’ refer to the patrons or to the proprietors? Is the chef delivering an inferior product in order to cut costs? Or accusing us of being lousy tippers before we’ve had a chance to prove otherwise?) and for us Americans, we’d the added problem of struggling to remember the name.

“Was it Skin … something?”

“Was it? That seems like a terrible word to have in the name of restaurant.”

“I know, but I think it was. Skin something. Skinflack? Is that a thing?”

“I think that’s an old-timey ailment.”

“Skinsnack?”

“No. No. NO.”

“I think it could be Skinsnack.”

“It very well may be, but if it is, we aren’t eating there.”

We eventually did make it to Skinflint, a dark and hip little restaurant that had come recommended to us by several Dubliners. It’s run by the same folks behind Crackbird, and while the experience was strange and fun, I don’t know if we enjoyed the food quite as much as we had at the other establishment.

Behold the hip and blurry Dubliners at Skinflint.

-

The lighting is such that everything looks like it’s been through an Instagram filter.

-

They serve flatbread pizza, as well as a variety of starters that don’t seem to really go with pizza (slow-cooked ribs? Hummus? Pate?).

Rand and I decided to go forgo the appetizers and went straight for the pizza. Mine was one that doesn’t seem to appear on the menu all the time (unlike the Vonie, which is a popular choice, though some say it is merely meh. The tomato sauce has been replaced with harissa) – a mushroom pizza (porcini, I think) dusted with truffles.

-

Rand’s had chorizo and pecorino.

-

Each one arrived at the table in one long piece, atop a large slab of wood. Our waitress then  deftly pulled out a seesaw like knife and rocked it back and forth along our pizzas, quickly dividing them into pieces. A bit unnecessary, perhaps, but ever suckers for tableside service, we loved it.

The pizza itself was good, but not great. It arrived at our table lukewarm, which is fine, if you consider that this is a food that can acceptably be eaten cold (though I never have, and never will). But I prefer my cheese to be oozy and runny, and not slightly congealed.

The crust was thin and crisp – near the edges, it shattered like a cracker. Towards the inside, the pizza was softer, which would have been fine had the dishes been hotter. Given that they were room temperature, the contrast between the center and edge of a the crust made it seem like it had grown unpleasantly soggy.

The flavors on each of ours were excellent. Mine was surprisingly mild, Rand’s delicately spicy. I couldn’t help but think that had the execution been slightly better, or had we been hungrier, or perhaps drunker, the pizza would have been nothing short of superb.

And perhaps that’s Skinflint’s target demographic. Stoned hipsters who’ve wandered in from the many pubs of Dublin, looking for a bite, but refusing to get kabobs. They flock to Skinflint, delighted to find something both highbrow and trashy.

How else can anyone explain the logic behind keeping a small pot of honey on every table, so that diners can drizzle some onto their pizzas?

-

Of course, despite being sober, we had to try it.

-

“It … it kind of works!” Rand said. I nodded.

Really, the same could be said of our entire experience at Skinflint. It all kind of worked, but fell just short of the mark. Perhaps they will iron out the details (and our food will be served hot, our drinks will arrive at the same time as our meal, and we won’t need to tackle a passing server for a bill). Or perhaps it will remain as it is, catering to those slightly too buzzed to notice the imperfections, who only see the brilliance of the place, from the lighting to the honey to the signs on the bathroom doors:

There were three stalls in all.

-

-

Guess which one I used.

-
If only the pizzas had been executed so well.

—————

Skinflint

19 Crane Lane

Dublin 2

If you go:

• Get the lemonade. It’s the same one they serve at Crackbird, and altogether excellent.
  - 
• Be patient. Service was a wee bit slow, and it took a while for our food to come out. We went late in the day, so we were seated right away, but I’ve heard that this place can get very crowded and doesn’t take reservations.
  -
• Try drizzling honey a slice. It’s weird. And weirdly good.

Some of the fowl offerings at Crackbird.

-

I walked into Crackbird with a bit of trepidation.

It’s an immensely popular restaurant in Dublin, and they specialize in fried chicken – as well as grilled and roasted – but fried is their signature, and the name of the restaurant is a play on its apparently addictive qualities.

They want you to describe the birds they cook as being like crack. And, frankly, that’s not how I would put it.

Despite my family’s European roots, I grew up on fried chicken. It wasn’t that we ate it all that often, and it was rarely store bought (though occasionally, on days when my mother had class, or my grandparents had to be driven to doctor’s appointments, or when no one could be bothered, it was). My mom while away an afternoon dredging and battering chicken, and gingerly placing it into a cast-iron pot filled with oil.

The stove top would bubble and foam and splatter, eventually yielding gorgeous, golden-brown pieces of chicken.

I remember it, because despite the garlic powder present in the coating, and the fact that it was often cooked alongside a pot of pasta, it was one of the truly, quintessentially American parts of my upbringing. We’d tear into pieces while they were still scalding hot, so that we were immediately forced to leave our mouths half open, frantically waving our hands to cool down the bites we’d taken.

God, we were dumb. But it was because we truly, genuinely could not wait a second before eating that damn chicken. It was delicious. And every now and then my mother would pop in from the kitchen, grab a piece from our hands (claiming that she needed to see if it was cooked) and would steal a bite or three, at which point we’d yell, “HEY!” despite there being plenty more pieces on the table.

I remember it fondly. And even if I manage to wipe away some of the nostalgia and try to see that chicken for what it was, I can still tell you – it was damn good.

Crackbird does not compare to that chicken. There is no way it ever could, and it is perhaps unfair to expect it to. The chicken is decent, and available in a myriad of preparations, and served with your choice of a half-dozen sauces.

But to an American, to anyone who regards fried chicken as part of their cultural identity, it lacks something. It might be buttermilk biscuits. It might a legacy of cooking this meal for generations. It might be salt.

But something is missing.

-

I walked in suspecting this would be the case, treading warily to our table, and perhaps this was why Crackbird didn’t quite measure up – my expectations had already made doing so nearly impossible.

Hell, they’ve named the restaurant Crackbird – they’re sort of asking for trouble.

The soy garlic marinated chicken was good, but it was (proverbially at least) another animal entirely.

-

Seeing the fowl cornucopia that had been ordered by our group (“For the table”, Rand and others kept saying, so much that I’ve started wonder if that phrase wards off calories. I’ve whispered it to myself before eating a large bowl of gelato, and the results thus far are inconclusive. I will keep you posted.) I was able to convince the waiter I was responsible by ordering the spinach and pomegranate salad, topped with the chicken brochettes.

-

And in the interest of honesty, I will tell you: I didn’t know what brochettes were when I ordered them. But the word sounded a bit like “briquettes” so I figured they would be approximately the size and shape of those pre-pressed pieces of charcoal that we used to buy before the Fourth of July every year.

Incidentally, they were, but this was purely by a stroke of luck. Brochettes actually have little to do with briquettes. It comes from the French word for skewer, and refers to meat that is cooked in that manner.

The salad was overdressed and not quite acidic enough. The brochettes were a tiny bit dry – easy remediable by the small tub of burned-lemon and feta dip that I had ordered. The combo was nice, and satisfying.

But it was not my mom’s fried chicken.

Indeed, the best part about Crackbird turned out to be the company and the conversation we had with the locals who had led us there. It was splendid and animated, full of stories that you wish were your own to tell.

-

-

And when I think of our talks and that night? I remember the chicken tasting better than it was. And I start wondering if that had been my mom’s secret, too.

—————

Crackbird Restuarant

60 Dame Street

Dublin 2

If you go …

• Crackbird is a “pop-up” restaurant, which (I am very disappointed to say) has nothing to do with serving popovers or Pop Rocks, nor does it mean there is a guy named “Pop” who will greet you at the door. It simply refers to the fact that the restaurant’s location isn’t necessarily permanent. It might close down without warning. Fall in love with the staff at your own risk.
  - 
• The lemonade is excellent (and apparently one of the restaurateur’s signatures). And don’t forget to try the burned lemon feta dip.
  - 
• Reservations can apparently be made via Twitter (send them an @ reply, and they will DM you confirmation). Note: this doesn’t seem to work that often.
  -
• Expect service to be a little spotty. It took us a while to get our food, and our cutlery, and our bill. I’m fairly sure some stuff we ordered didn’t arrive at all. But whatever. It was nice. We had fun.

-

We walked right by Made in Belfast, and didn’t even realize it.

“I know exactly where it is,” Rand said confidently, as we walked across a pavement slick with the rain that seemed to fall pretty much constantly across Northern Ireland.

And even though it was the only lit facade on the street, we strode right passed it. Why?

To be painfully honest, it was because it looked just too hip for us. Despite the occasional feeble attempt, my husband and I are not all that cool.

When we have a free night to ourselves, we watch T.V. and go to bed early. We are not even remotely aware of what music the kids are listening to these days. We both wear glasses because we need to wear glasses.

So when we saw the restaurant (one of two locations in the city that share the same moniker), with its horsehead sconces and chic, thrift store decor, we just kept walking. We were far too square for a spot like that. It couldn’t have possibly been the place our friends had recommended.

We reached the end of the street, somewhat confused. The restaurant was supposed to be on that block. Rand asked a trio of nearby hipsters, if they had heard of it.

They looked at us as though we were slightly insane (and yet they were the ones wearing leggings as pants), and pointed to the glowing restaurant just behind us.

“Oh”, we said. “Right.”

Inside, it was warm and noisy. Mismatched chairs surrounded polished metal tables. The elaborate menu was written on huge blackboards along the walls.

-

Even the light fixtures were cool: bare bulbs hung down, while chandelier decals adorned the ceiling above them.

-

I took a deep breath and decided to pretend that we belonged there. (Note: some of the following events may slightly dramatized.)

“So,” I said loudly, “How’s that new band that no one here has ever heard of? Still awesome?”

“What in god’s name are you talking about?” Rand replied.

“I HEAR THEIR NEW CD HAS A CELTIC INFLUENCE,” I continued, hoping someone would overhear. “WHICH IS INTERESTING SINCE THE ONLY INSTRUMENT THEY USE IS THE DIGERIDOO.”

Rand stared at me blankly before gently patting my head.

“Shhhh …” he said.

“I’m helping us fit in,” I whispered.

“Of course you are.”

And just as I was about to start making up fake American slang in a vain attempt to make us seem cutting edge (“Oh, you call those fried slivers of potatoes ‘chips’? That’s fascinating. We refer to them as ‘rhomboidal tubers.’”), I realized it was entirely unnecessary. Despite its hipster accouterments and locally-sourced, environmentally sustainable menu, Made in Belfast is shockingly unpretentious.

The tables were full of regular people. Some were well-dressed, others were not. Some were older, some were younger. Some sat in noisy groups, others dined alone. They all looked equally content.

We could be our normal, dorky selves.

The hostess seated us quickly (“Watch out for the wee step”, she said), and our server was delightfully, bitingly sarcastic.

We started with the chicken liver pate, which was served with spongy, toasted brioche and a jam made of shallots and oranges. It was smooth and light, and a bit milder than I would have liked (I rectified this with a quick sprinkling of salt).

-

Rand ordered an elderflower collins – a floral twist on the Tom Collins.

-

It went over well.

-

I got the mussels and rhomboidal tubers chips. I daintily dipped the potatoes into the milky sauce in the bottom of the pan (a mix of cream, cider, and juices from the shellfish), before finally diving straight in with a spoon.

 -

Rand got the duo of duck: a roasted breast, flavored with hints of anise, and a small cottage pie of duck, topped with whipped potatoes.

-

When we finished our meal, our server asked if we were interested in dessert. I contemplated this for a little while.

“Should we get two desserts, or five?”

-

“Ooooh … what’s that guy eating?”

-

We ended up going with the sticky toffee pudding, which came with a scoop of honeycomb ice cream.

-

It, too, went over well:

Don’t worry: I totally ate that last bite.-

-

“What was that you said earlier about digeridoos?” Rand asked, after we had finished our meal.

“Nothing.” I said. “Just that I hate them.”

“Oh,” he nodded. “Me too.”

And then we wandered out together, full and happy, and feeling utterly like ourselves.