Euro Trip Toilet Tips (and more!)

(A head and ass-scratcher)

I’ve learned a few things.

I’m no Rick Steves, but I probably eat a lot better than he does when I travel across the pond. Sightseeing and history are secondary, even tertiary, to my gustatory pursuits in Europe, but having been there five times in the past three years, I know a thing or two about what makes a successful vacation when you’re traipsing around France, Germany and Italy. Some of the following tips will be obvious, others will be old hat to seasoned travelers, but all of them will make the ride a lot smoother, and leave you more time for whatever fun you’re seeking in a foreign country.

The Bare Necessities:

Speaking of smooth…take your own toilet paper. We’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say there isn’t a worse-designed personal product in the world than European toilet paper. Imagine a razor without a blade; Kleenex that doesn’t kleen; moisturizer that isn’t moist….that’s Euro hotel t-p. Plus it’s scratchy; plus it takes twice as much to do half the job. Plus, they give it to you in barely-there rolls designed to last maybe a day (see above), and since you have to use so much of it, you’re constantly in the position of having to ask the never-there staff for more. Needless to say, this never happens at a convenient time.
The bottom line is Euro t-p is designed to do one thing: dissolve in water as quickly as possible. This does not make for a good human/toilet paper relationship. What it makes is a mess. So wipe the slate clean, and save yourself a lot of unpleasant agitate — take a big, fat roll of Charmin, remove the center cardboard, smash it down, and stuff it somewhere. Your ass will thank you. No ifs, ands or buts about it.
Pack a pair of sturdy, heavy-soled shoes. The heavier the better — think Doc Martens — unless you enjoy having the bottoms of your feet to be turned into steak hâche on the sharp and cobbled streets you will inevitably encounter…everywhere.

Get a portable wi-fi. I always have my webspot waiting for me at my hotel when I first get to the continent. It costs about 10 euros a day and are more than worth it if you plan to be on your phone a lot. (And who isn’t on their phone a lot these days?) Portable wi-fi may be heavy (it’s about the size of a pack of cards and weighs as much as a small hand grenade), but it saves on roaming charges and makes accessing all your platforms and apps a breeze.

Don’t bother converting your currency into euros over here before you go over there. Use cash as little as possible. Get off the plane, clear customs, and find an ATM in the airport, and get a few euros for walking around money. Pay with your credit card as much as possible — that’s where you’ll get your best exchange rate.

One of those electric current converters is also essential. Pack two of them if you use a lot of electronic devices, but know that electrical outlets in European hotels are scarcer than washcloths, bar soap, and fluffy pillows.

(The dreaded 3-S bathroom)

Speaking of which — if you like to use a real bar of soap and a wash cloth when you bathe, pack those too. How an entire continent can clean itself in shoulder-width showers with minuscule water applied at awkward angles without much suds is a mystery that may never be solved. European bathrooms are marvels of reverse-engineering — designed with the opposite of comfort,  convenience and efficiency mind.

They’re also allergic to shower curtains – see above. The contortions you will employ to get yourself clean from head to butt cheeks would impress a yoga instructor. On the plus side, you can shave, shower and s____ without moving an inch.

Go online and arrange for Global Entry — it makes clearing customs a breeze, unless you enjoy waiting behind a thousand people to get your passport stamped after a 9 hour flight.

Sign up for Uber and Lyft, but know that in some cities they are ubiquitous (Paris), and  in others, it’s easier (and almost as cheap) to take taxis (Milan). Also know that in many small towns, rideshare companies have yet to make any inroads. In Venice, for example, because there are no roads in Venice.

Optional Observations:

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Consider taking the train between cities rather than flying. Flying around Europe is as much a pain in the ass there as it is here. The airports are huge and located far away from most Euro cities. (The Milan to Malpensa ride can easily take 90 minutes.) And nothing gets better when you arrive. The airports are a slog from the moment you hit the curb until you find your plane. Then, it’s an easy 1+ hour hike to or from your gate, and then to a car or taxi that will charge you an arm and a leg to get to your destination city. (We’re talking $100-200 cab rides here, folks, with Uber being cheaper….but not by much.)

Between the traffic, and the cab expense, and the hour-long airport walks, inspections, etc., a train is often the better option. We took a 6 hour train ride from Paris to Milan and it was fabulous. When you calculate all the to and fro time a flight would cost, we probably spent an extra hour or two on the train, but the comfort, relaxation and spectacular views made it more than worth it.

(My buddy Bruce is a first-class train station navigator)

I won’t deny it: there’s something vaguely scary about European train stations, They’re always mobbed (except in the early morning hours), and the foreign language and pandemonium can be intimidating. But if you book your tickets on-line (which everyone does these days), the only real issue is fighting the crowds and finding which platform your train leaves from. Once you’re on board, it’s smooth sailing in comfortable seats that allow you to arrive refreshed….not worn out by the fourteen different steps it takes before you can board a fucking airplane.

The only real downside to train travel is lugging your suitcase up and down those steps. Soooo….pack light. And by “pack light” I mean a single suitcase you can sling up a flight of stairs without breaking your back. No one helps you with your luggage on a train. The schlepping is all you, so consider how many times you’ll be lifting your bag about four feet off the ground when you pack it.

How to Dress:

(On fleek, Italian-style)

Jackets and ties are optional. Yes, even in stuffy old Europe, men are going to dinner in fine restaurants in nothing but a shirt and slacks. (Shorts and t-shirts, however, might get you turned away at the door in some establishments.) Even an old suit/sports coat guy like me has gotten with the program. I no longer constrain my throat with the inhibiting lashings of formal neck wear. Instead, I’ve decided to wear nothing but ascots.

Seriously, it is a major sartorial faux pas to enter certain restaurants in London or Paris without a jacket on, but unless we’re talking about a haute cuisine palace, you can get away with a nice shirt these days.

Unless you’re headed to the beach, leave your shorts at home. (I’m talking to the men here.) Ditto your open-toed sandals. You might enjoy looking like shit in your hometown, where, no doubt, all the men look like shit, but shorts on a man in Europe peg you as an ugly American, or, even worse, a German.

This is the first part of a two-part article about my recent trip to Europe. Part 2 – How to Eat in France and Italy – will appear later this week.

(One thing I’ll never figure out is why do they put their drinking fountains so close to the floor?)

 

Paris (et Italia) Je t’aime!

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I may have grown to loathe Michelin and all that it stands for, but France will always have a special place in my heart. As will Italy.

That’s where I’ll be for the next two weeks (after a weekend in D.C.) because that’s where I go when I want great food with no attendant bullshit…bullshit being the main thing defining restaurant culture in America these days.

Whether it’s Michelin, the James Beard Foundation, Instagram, or Yelp, the restaurants throughout America have become like a bunch of slobbering dogs barking for attention. Everyone’s on the make; everyone wants “recognition,” and simply cooking good food for clients who enjoy it has become secondary to the endless chase for publicity.

And it’s exhausting (even for an old pro like me) to see the constant social media bombardment.

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So I’m off to Paris and northern Italy for a while, and here’s why I’m going:

the food is better

the wine is better

the great wines are cheaper

the great restaurants have become a bargain

almost everyone speaks at least a little English these days

people are friendly, even in Paris (the supposed snootiness of the French is a relic of the 1950s)

Google maps makes navigation (by car or foot) a breeze

you can sit all day in a cafe and no one bothers you

every chef in the country isn’t trying to be famous

wine bars are everywhere

drinking coffee in Italy is one of life’s great pleasures

eating pastries in France is almost better than sex

two words: unpasteurized cheese

the people-watching in both is spectacular

most of the great restaurants (and many casual ones) are not allergic to linens

you can spend a three hour lunch debating where you’re going to have a four hour dinner and no one looks twice at you

in between meals you can take a two hour walk that seems like 20 minutes

there’s always something to see

there’s never any music in restaurants

and did I mention the salumi and charcuterie?

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Europeans have a closer connection to their food — a passionate relationship that Americans can only dream of.

You can feel it when you walk the streets, you can smell it everywhere.

America was, and always will be, about chasing a buck. The artisanal dedication of European chefs may be fading in the digital age, but the cultures (of Italy and France) still revere food and cooking on a much deeper level than we do. Here, it’s all about getting an award, or getting on TV so you won’t have to slave away at the stoves anymore. In other countries, slaving away at the stoves is a lifelong calling. They don’t have the luxury of a (potential) escape hatch and empire-building like America affords its success stories, so people spend a lifetime perfecting a dish, or a sushi slice, or creating a quintessential experience. It’s drudgery sure, but it’s also pure.

I have found those quintessential experiences many times in western Europe — sometimes in a cathedral of fine dining, and sometimes in a dark little wine bar — and I’m going back in search of more.

So I’ll see you in a few weeks.

In the meantime, feel free to follow me on Twitter or Instagram if you have a hankering to see what I’m up to across the pond.

Bon appetit!

Buon gusto!

And remember: Michelin is bullshit.

San Francisco

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The coldest winter of my life was the summer I spent in San Francisco – Mark Twain

Isn’t it nice that people who prefer Los Angeles to San Francisco live there? – Herb Caen

Is there anyone who doesn’t love San Francisco?

Yes, but most of them live in Los Angeles.

Los Angelenos hate ‘Frisco because San Franciscans have spent the last 150 years looking down the state and their noses at them.

San Franciscans see their bigger, richer, more politically powerful younger sibling the way a Boston Brahmin sees a Jewish mobster: tacky and money-grubbing, bereft of class.

Angelenos think of their northern relatives as a bunch of cloistered snobs.

Both have a point.

I’ve spent so much time in each city that I feel a kinship with these two Californios with nothing in common. Next to New York City, they  are where most of my urban education has taken place, and after dozens of trips to both (for business and pleasure), I feel comfortable walking or driving the streets like a native. (Driving in ‘Frisco is not for the faint of heart; driving in L.A. causes afflictions still being catalogued by mental health professionals.)

(BTW: I call it ‘Frisco, especially when I’m in ‘Frisco, because San Franciscans are a bunch of insufferable elitists who hate their precious city being referred to with a slang term.)

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My memories of San Fran go back to 1960, when we froze our asses off on Fisherman’s Wharf ….in July. We ate Dungeness crabs out of little paper cups and went to DiMaggio’s (when Joe DiMaggio was still a big deal) and screamed as our dad navigated the steep hills in our three-seat Ford station wagon — like the one above, only in red. It had a seat in the way, way back that pointed backwards.

With every incline, we were sure our car was going to tip over backwards. To this day, it takes a bit of trust in the laws of physics to point the nose of your sedan straight up Hyde and gun it…when the only thing(s) you can see is blue sky and the nose of your car.

Then, there was the walking, up and down Powell, Mason, and Taylor streets: trekking so angled it felt like we could touch our noses to the pavement while standing up. I have no idea how many precipitous hikes we took that first day, but I’ve taken many since, and these elevations still fascinate me. The only other city I’ve seen with such abrupt ascensions is Lausanne, Switzerland.

The Food Gal® and I will be taking off for San Francisco this morning. We’re going there for a day trip to celebrate our birthdays. (It’s a big one for her, just another in a long march towards oblivion for moi.)

It will be 12 hours of walking in the fog and rain and straining our calves and trying to touch our noses to the pavement, and no doubt freezing our asses off the whole time.

We’re going to love every minute of it.

A Random List of Favorite ‘Frisco Food Memories

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That crab meat in 1960.

DiMaggio’s – sadly Joe was nowhere to be seen. Like Joltin’ Joe, it’s long gone.

Fournou’s Ovens – shuttered in 2008, it was way ahead of its time in 1981.

The Mandarin – Celia Chiang’s seminal restaurant taught America there was more to Chinese food than chop suey and egg foo yung.

Fleur de Lys – being wined and dined by Hubert and Chantal Keller – when this place was at the top of its game – is a food memory I will never forget. Closed in 2014.

StarsJeremiah Tower: The Last Magnificent. What a crock of shit.

Chez Panisse – the first time (in 1983), it was a study in simplified perfection; by meal #3 (two decades later) the place bored me to death. Alice Waters is still boring me to death.

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Tadich Grill – Calvin Trillin sent me here in the late 70s; I’ve been a dozen times since. “The Original Cold Day Restaurant,” serving the best sand dabs and tartare sauce on the planet.

Jack’s – best sourdough ever. The place made you feel like a Barbary Coast freebooter.

Aqua – where the world, and yours truly, first discovered a young Egyptian-American chef named Michael Mina.

Michael Mina – where that not-so-young Egyptian chef still rules the waves.

Le Centralcassoulet to die for; it’s been bubbling since 1974.

Postrio – my very nice, very good, very not-heterosexual waiter tried to pick me up here. Not many men have tried to pick me up, but when it’s happened (the attempt, not the pick-up) it’s happened in San Francisco. Closed in 2009.

Sam’s Seafood Grill – like Tadich, a classic. Get the petrale sole.

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Trader Vic’s (above) – long before anyone had heard of Asian fusion, Vic Bergeron was mixing and matching his food metaphors.

Mike’s Cantonese Cuisine – back in the day, New York and San Fran were the only places in America where you could find anything approaching real Chinese food.

Campton Place HotelBradley Ogden single-handedly rejuvenated hotel dining back in the 80s with his destination restaurant here.

Masa’s – ruled the roost of San Francisco dining in the 80s and early 90s. The founding chef —  Masa Kobayashi — was murdered. I’m not sure the crime was ever solved. Julian Serrano took over the kitchen and was considered San Fran’s best chef until he was lured to Sin City by Steve Wynn in 1997. The restaurant adjoined the Vintage Court hotel. It was way better than the hotel.

Nob Hill Restaurant – the first place I ever had nouvelle cuisine. In the Mark Hopkins Hotel. Salmon with vanilla sauce anyone? Anyone?

Cafe Mozart – tiny and exquisite. Sadly, gone.

Caffé Sport and Trattoria – loud and colorful….and apparently still in business serving food I fear I have long outgrown.

JardinièreTraci Des Jardins blew me away, back in the day. Two lesbians (at the adjoining table) wanted me to go home with them. I was either too drunk or too sober to go along with the plan.

Greens at Fort Mason – America’s first famous vegetarian restaurant, staffed by real cooks, not people with fear of food.

Boulevard – I’ve never had a bad meal here, and I’ve had lots of meals here.

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Pabu – Mina does Japanese! And does it extremely well.

Acquerello – Italian food the way its supposed to taste. Fabulous wine list.

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State Bird Provisions (above) – an early acolyte of the small plates revolution.

Tartine Manufactory – good, but, like a lot of things these days, not as special as it thinks it is.

The Slanted Door – made Vietnamese food safe for white people. Which means it’s a lot more impressed with itself than it ought to be. They have threatened to come to Las Vegas. They were supposed to open 6 months ago. Yawn.

The Ferry Building – we were there when it first opened as a foodie mecca (in 2003), and have returned many times since. The last time (a couple of years ago) it was mobbed and filthy. I liked it a lot better when every tourist in the world didn’t want to be a food expert.

Swan Oyster Depot – no frills west coast seafood worth waiting in line for.

Farallon – stunning undersea fantasy decor; designed by Pat Kuleto; was there when it first opened (a client dinner if memory serves), haven’t been back since.

Kuleto’s – right off Union Square. Closed two years ago. Like all Pat Kuleto restaurants, it never disappointed.

John’s Grill – when I want to feel like Humphrey Bogart in the Maltese Falcon.

The Cliff House (below) – stunning views, lots of tourists, surprisingly good food. Literally perched at the far western tip of the United States. How cool is that?

And those are just some of my faves, pulled off the top of my head, after 5 decades of eating everything in sight. There are scores of bistros, bars, destinations and dives that have faded from memory. There’s one bachelor party in the early 80s I wish I didn’t remember, and birthday parties, a wedding or two, and multiple business meals forever suspended in the recesses of my taste memories, waiting to be revived as soon as I see those beautiful hills.

I love San Francisco the way some people love Las Vegas: as a playground, full of sights and sounds and tastes and smells no other city in America can match.

I love all of those taste memories, but what endears San Francisco to me most is what set it apart from other western cities a hundred years ago, and what sets it apart today: it is civilized. Existing in a very special sphere of its own sophistication that other western cities can only dream of.

‘Frisco may have a world of problems, and be filled with snobs and terrifying streets, but San Franciscans know how to live.

And they know how to eat.

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P.S. When we get off the plane tomorrow morning, we’re heading straight to Swan Oyster Depot. Happy Birthday Food Gal!
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