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The past week has been a whirlwind of adventures. The noise and dust from the road repairs to the flood damage in front of our little cottage has driven us out, over the mountain and down to the Southern most tip of Africa, Cape Agulhas. Dry and hot in summer and windswept and cold in winter. We are drawn here by a new wine area Elim, L’Agulhas. We rent a house in Pearly Beach. It overlooks a rugged coastline and the cold Atlantic. The days are long and filled with sunshine, perfect for slow ripening grapes. Also for walking the beach checking out the tidepools and finding treasures. Today the treasure is in the form of shells, in particular the intriguing  flat white spiral Ndoro. These are detached bottom sections of conus shells.  Used as currency in Zimbabwe since the 17th century they are still worn by spirit mediums and considered to bring fortune and longevity to those who find them. We visit Struisbaai, a color filled fishing village and watch the days catch of yellowtail ( Amberjack) being unloaded. It’s a busy place with fish being gutted on the boat ramp, clouds of noisy gulls and traders haggling over prices.  As each boat is offloaded small pickup trucks rush the fish to Cape Town restaurants. Prices are just under $10 for a large fish. We breakfast in a small padstall.  The food and service are excellent. Polite smiling people serve homemade breads and preserves with our morning eggs, bacon and boerwors. I had the kippers, Christina says no Smooches for me. The preserves here at the roadside stalls are simply fantastic. Green or brandied figs anyone? Fresh watermelon, orange skin confit and a host of others.  We are now near Bot River and are on our way back through Heaven and Earth wine route for more ‘research’!  Cheers…

Whew!  It’s tough drinking and eating fresh seafood – take a look!

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Much has happened since we landed in CPT, but our internet is sketchy at best.  For now, some pictures…

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New Years Eve in Amsterdam.

 

We woke to another chilly morning, but were spared the rain so we decided walking off some of our calories was in order.  First on our list was getting to the Rijksmuseum. We walked there briskly noting all the storefronts. En route to the museum and outside a bakery door a very long line of people stood patiently waiting.  Unusual we thought.  A little further down the street a young man balancing a tray of small paper cups full of hot chocolate approached us shyly.  “Would you like some hot chocolate and cookies? I made them myself.”   Of course we would and I fumbled for some coins. He smiled and hustled back to the waiting queue.  Payment was not required. We never asked he why he did this simple act of kindness.

Entry into the Museum was simple with almost no queuing. Unlike the lady waiting with us, who had tried to enter the museum on a day earlier; she and her husband had arrived at noon and waited for 3 hours in the cold. The museum was full to capacity and the museum staff were only allowing 100 people in every hour . We simply checked our coats and spent a happy two hours viewing the best that the museum had to offer. Rembrandt’s painting of  “ The Night Watch” was very crowded but we were able to get very close to all of his other paintings.

We left as the crowds arrived but prior to true congestion.

Retracing our steps back to the apartment we walked passed the bakery with it’s long line of customers. I asked a lady who was part of the crowd what the fuss was about , “Olibollies” she replied.  “This is where the Royal Family get their Olibollies, they’re the best in Holland.”  For those unfortunate mortals out there who have never experienced an Olibollie they are small fist size Dutch pastries deep fried,  sweet, raisin filled doughy treats that are similar to a doughnut, but different.  Amsterdamer’s usually eat them on New Years Day, serving them warm with a sprinkling of powered sugar. Danger warning, they are very addictive!

 

Toward midday we started hearing some pretty intense explosions…not huge but certainly louder than gunfire. It turns out that the Dutch like their fireworks. The law allows city residents to use fireworks from 10 am on New Years Eve to 2 am on New Years Day. That law didn’t work so well.  The fireworks started at about 10 am and were still going strong at seven am the following day.  At about 8pm I’m shattered, feeling the effect of jetlag, a power nap is in order. Christina is made of sterner stuff and after a glass of wine or two she braves the crowds and the cold and goes in search of beer.  She fights her way through a packed bar, orders a beer but on delivery is told,  cash only tonight …no cards. She elbows her way out and walks back to the apartment. I wake at 11.50 to a roar from the street below our apartment, a cacophony of yells, whoops, whistles, fireworks and the snarl of traffic whose drivers honked their horns from 11.30 pm  to four am. I watched as a man steps into the road and stops the traffic. He calmly places a very large box of mixed rockets in the very center of the road.  He lights the fuse and steps back onto the pavement. We are entertained by star bursts, bangs and flashes that explode just above roof level.  After sharing a bottle of Champagne we hang out of the window and try to capture the chaos on camera. At one am Christina heads to bed and I sit watching the New Year arrive on a night sky filled, with sky rocket bursts in every color, shape and form. The stink of the smoke and gunpowder and the sound of the various crackers and extreme cherry bombs went on continuously. All bloody night. The money spent on fireworks that night must have been be the total income of a large African Country.  For lack of a better phrase, It Was A Blast!

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Despite the plethora of Dutch snacks,  a nice Pino Noir and comfortable flannel pajama’s, Christina got restless at about 7.30 pm.  “Let’s step out for a beer” she said. My alarm bells didn’t ring.  “Just one beer” she reiterated…”sure ,” I said, oh foolish man.   We found an Irish Pub where they poured a very respectable Guinness and a reasonable red wine.  Christina was looking for something with a little muscle something like a Martini, perhaps.  Christina approached the bartender, did they know how to mix a martini? Umm… that would be, not really.  So Christina talked them through the process. Do you have a cocktail shaker? In an Irish Pub? Umm…that would be no. Christina returns to our table with a very insipid drink, too little Vodka too much Vermouth not enough ice and not enough “bite”. Conversation ensues. This is Amsterdam. A very important city. We are in a tourist area full of Americans.  Why can’t they make Martinis here? Christina is clearly unhappy.  I will help ‘fix’ the problem. I add a double shot of Absolute vodka and some ice to her existing drink and stir gently. Yes! Christina is happy. The drink is very fine.  We have another two, very fine, very double drinks.  Christina is approaching the point of no return and suggests visiting a Dutch coffee shop. Who’s ubiquitous presence is made obvious by the strong aroma of  MJ. I know now that I’m in deep trouble. We pick a place off Van Rjin Square with loud techno-crap music and flashing purple neon lights that announces we are entering Club Smokey. Two more very double, very fine vodka’s and we need to get back home.  We are within stumbling distance but I have to distract Christina who is by now intent on visiting every dive bar we pass. We stop to listen to a harpist play. Christina thinks her playing is divine and wants to linger,  not me I’m freezing my ass off sitting on a cold granite bench in 36 degree weather. What was in store for NYE at this rate!?  We will post our crazy New Year’s night soon!  Ps. The draft horses pulling the trailer full of beer is headed to our apartment – yes!

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We are back in Amsterdam eating, drinking & trying to get in a bit of culture.  Today was much more about eating and drinking, but we promised ourselves to ‘culturized right proper like’ tomorrow.  We are headed to the Rijksmuseum via a canal boat as it is the safest means of travel at this point… the endless speedy cyclists, mopeds, vehicles & trams are ping-pong-processing in our brains like a pachinko machine.  Just when you think it’s safe to cross a street – blamo!  It’s kinda like Frogger on crack or at least level 38.

Riding the canals was beautiful.  It was wonderful to see older buildings still in place and noting when the were erected, most before America was firmly established.  The first stock market was formed in 1611 here – that’s amazing!  What’s even more amazing is that it’s still such a crap shoot, unless of course you’re Warren Buffet.

Some of the restaurants have come of age and are making delicious dishes.  We had a great dinner at Van Rijn last night and were delighted that everything that we ordered exceeded our expectations.  Steve chose the venison-freaking fantastic; it’s a shame we don’t see venison as much in the states.  I had a delicious oxtail consume with truffled ravioli, yes please!  We tried to order martinis after our meal aaaand that’s the only time Van Rijn missed the mark.  The place has a WALL of liquor so I just assumed we could order a classic cocktail.  Even getting an olive or a lemon twist sent the barmen on a futile scavenger hunt that ended in a glass with an abundance of sweet vermouth, a bit of gin and a scant twist of thread like lemon zest. A for effort! Tonight we are eating in at our apartment.  We have a fantastic view of the Amstel River and a plethora of snack foods, some of them classically Dutch.  We’ve just devoured half a smoked mackerel (packaged in it’s mandatory anti-stink cre-o-pack sack) and half a block of hard Oude Kaase with beautiful salty crystals and funky monkey turned butter kind of taste. Prost! Until tomorrow.

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We’ve been buzzing along here in ‘The Cap’ kind of like a plastic sac in a swirling wind.  Mostly due to the frequent swirling in our very own verre de vin (wine glass).  This weekend was the wine festival along the waterfront aptly named VinoCap, stumbling distance to our apartment.  There were close to 90 wine booths, each offering a white, a rose, and a few styles of red, so using new math, that’s about  450 dégustation de vin!  Hic!

French wine tasting is more of a family affair.  Even children were seen holding familiar looking stemware with the telltale logo of the event.  That may explain one sighting of a little person in a grey hoodie curled up like a koala on top of his father’s shoulders.  His bobbing head and rouge stained drool was a dead giveaway.  ‘A’ for effort little one, ‘A’ for effort.  Most people held their own.  There were no brawls or miss-stepping in to the quay.  Actually it was all very educational.  We tasted many varietals unfamiliar to us, such as pinot meunier, picquepoul, cot, and tibouren.  It all sounds made up.  It makes me wonder how wine varietal names come to be; I’ll have to look into that and get back to you.   Another discovery we enjoyed was smelling a wine and then tasting something completely unexpected.  There was a Muscat Sec at one booth.  It smelled…..well, ‘muscat-ty’.  It was floral and sweet smelling, but when we tasted it it was clean and dry and not sweet at all.  We have come to realize that we have many hours of homework ahead of us.  It’s all in the name of education.  My poor liver.

Cooking has been going well, although I may have dropped French at exactly the wrong time.  I was transferred to the morning cuisine group, a fairly amiable bunch and as luck would have it, mostly French.  I really wasn’t ready for emersion, but  that’s basically what’s happened.  My partner was a vociferous older mademoiselle, who felt if she spoke enough French eventually I would miraculously become bilingual.  Sadly, no.

To top it off, Chef tossed a blank piece of paper at each team and said, “Use these 4 ingredients minimum (basil, mozzarella, tomatoes, & vinegar) and I don’t want to see any caprese salad!! No traditional plates!  Allez!”

“Shit.” I said.

“What was that?” chef asked.

“Thank you, Chef.” I replied.  People sniggered behind me.

After copious gesticulations and rudimentary sketches, my teammate and I rallied together and started on a dish.  I tried to make basil alginate that was a complete flop.  Georgia, my teammate, attempted to sauté some tomatoes and then cut them into little circles; they weren’t going to cooperate.  Finally we plated some very attractive panko crusted deep fried mozzarella towers.  Chef gave us the thumbs up.  Whew!

Next week the chances of me teaming with another French cook are pretty high; I just might know a phrase or two before the end of the course…more than ‘ce goût de merde’ and baiser!

Truly, one of the reasons I left the French course was a crowning conversation that I’m still trying to see as amusing rather than beyond embarrassing.  My last day in French class…

What better way to learn more about all things French than from a Frenchman?

It went down something like this:

Me: Stephan, do you like putain?

Instructor: excuse me?  Can you say that again?

Me:  do you like putain, ya know, with the balls?  I’d like to learn about it. What are the rules?

Instructor:  I don’t think I understand you.

Me: You know PUTAIN!  You have balls and you take turns!  I’d like to learn about putain to play with my husband.

Instructor:  Do you mean petanque?

Me:  PUTAIN, PETANQUE?!  What’s the difference!

Instructor:  Well, a putain is a hooker.  Are you wanting to learn how to be a French hooker?

Hopefully Steve is having an easier time in pastry?

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Whew!  It’s a riotous time here in our little Gastronomicom World.  Many parties are taking place.  Some people have finished there allotted time and are having going away get togethers, others party because it is Friday after all…or is it Saturday.  Then there are the spring babies.  One of those celebrating a spring birthday was Steve.

We thought we’d be clever and have an afternoon party.  That way people would attend knowing that partying into the wee hours with a pig under one arm would be highly unlikely.  Yeah….right.   It started off quite civilized, but don’t all parties.  We had blinis with smoked salmon and caviar, seared duck breast with Dijon mustard of course, spicy hummus, a savory puff pastry and many bottles of champagne and wine.  Most people did what we so cleverly thought they would do, and left to go make their dinners and whatnot.  But then we were 6.  Six brave, hardy, energetic, loaded soles.  The sun came out.  That was in itself enough to spontaneously morph into yet another reason to celebrate.  MANGO’S!!  I remember yelling…like it was some kind of religious awakening.

So off to Mango’s we went, some arm-in-arm to hold each other up.  The walk was indeed sunny and pleasant.  But sadly it wasn’t nearly long enough to sober us up in the slightest.  The proprietor at Mango’s graciously served us a few beers and tolerated our unnecessarily loud discussion about topics supremely hilarious that we can’t remember.  And why the hell were we so loud – there was no one else there; it wasn’t as if we were struggling to be heard over ambient noise.  That should have sealed it; a few beers at Mango’s and then to our respective houses.  But no.  We felt compelled to crank our old school playlist sporting numbers such as ‘Car Wash’ and ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ and dance like people possessed for hours back at the apartment!  I’m sure you have the imagery – air washing cars, and bizarre karate moves….you know….yeah, yikes.  We managed to only break the sofa and take a few incriminating photos, so the deposit is still in good standing.  As for our livers…

I have made an executive decision that my liver is indeed the enemy and must be punished.  So I have quit French (I can hear the sigh of relief from my instructor) and have signed up for the Sommelier course!  I actually talked Steve into joining me; I saw he was experiencing a moment of weakness and I took advantage.  So we will be swirling and sniffing quaffable French wines during the week and on Wednesdays we will have field trips to surrounding wineries.

Sounds far less painful than conjugating irregular reflexive verbs or putting my personal pronoun in the right place.  Swirling I can do.  Drinking…I think I have an MBA in that already.  So stay tuned for our reports on all things grape related here in the south of France.  Santé!

 

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The open-air markets, or les marches, are very popular throughout all of France.  Rain, sleet, hail and 30 mile an hour winds are no match for the social shopper.  Our assumption is that the weekly gatherings must be more for gossip than the necessity for cheap, tacky knock-offs from China.  Really, how many rhinestone studded belts does one person need….more on that later.

There are some products sold at the markets that are worth a look and a sniff.  Most stall owners encourage us to taste their produce. The stalls selling Fruits et Legumes have hiding among everyday greens, piles of sweet, orange melons and mounds of asparagus spears, both white and green. There are a few delicious looking cheese stalls, we stop at the first and walk away with two hunks of creamy well-aged cheese.  There is charcuterie for sale of all shapes and sizes. A simple sign above one charcuterie stall hints at the ingredients, Porć, Cepes, Herbes, Poiver, Fumè, Noir, (pork, mushrooms, herbs, pepper, smoked, nuts).  We purchase a fist size, firm, cured ham and a delectable lean salami.  There is also, a very popular butchery wagon that mysteriously has a queue feeding deep into the parking lot.  What IS that guy selling?!  How can it be any different from the stuff that’s sold in the ‘regular’ butchery or any other butcher shop?  We’ll have to investigate further next Saturday…when the weather is better.  Standing for an hour in line with frigid wind ripping at my scarf while waiting to ‘grunt- point’ at something I don’t know the name of, nor how to cook, does not excite.

Steve has managed to up the level of accessorizing his chef uniform with a little number from the marché in the form of the above mentioned belt – a big purchase.  It evolved out of necessity, really.  His pants didn’t fit properly ( Steve says because he’s is a Little Bit Fat) and the area in which we currently live isn’t spoiled for choice in Big and Tall men’s wear.  We went to a few shops looking for a long belt that was thin enough to go through the belt loops on Steve’s pants.  No luck.  While in the market, where apparently all the ladies don’t sport a 20 inch waist, we found thin LONG belts that would fit Steve.  None of them were understated, however.  We purchased the plainest one possible, which just happened to have two rows of very sparkly rhinestones the entire length of the belt!   Sexy.  Steve says in his defense; the belt is merely adding chef bling to what was otherwise a very boring uniform and I’m sure the stones are diamonds! Either that or I’ve been ripped off  €20.

Christina is besotted with fresh herbs. Wherever we are in the world, we try to have a constant, fresh supply immediately available. When we first arrived in Le Cap d’Agde she badgered me to visit a garden supply center where she made an armload of purchases. Our balcony now boasts a small herb garden complete with edible flowers and Christina’s tiny kitchen provides an endless stream of scrumptious meals.   Tonight’s dinner will be fresh shrimp from Les Halles with angle hair pasta with herbs from the garden.  Simple and tasty.  The wind has settled and the sun is shinning, so we are off now to shop and drink a few beers at Mango’s!  Santé!