I’ve always been fascinated with small things – anything smaller than its usual size. When I was young, Life put out a commemorative issue of their first magazine, a miniature edition that would’ve measured 2″ x 3″.  Reading it as a child, I felt like a giant. The Collosal Man.

When I was a teenager, I had a girlfriend with a charm bracelet upon which hung a tiny silver church. When you held it up to the light and looked into the tiny window, you could see (and read) the entire text of the Lord’s Prayer. It was almost enough to make one religious. I jest.

I suppose my fascination really started in earnest when I was five and was given an electric train set. Well, it was more than “a set”.  Alot more. My father must’ve laboured for weeks constructing the entirely naturalistic landscape, complete with buidlings and roads and water towers and three trains that would zoom through the surrounding countryside and into Plasticville.  He even put lights inside all the buildings as well as street lights along all the streets. There was a beacon out at the airport, too, so that at night the whole thing lit up, including all the windows in the silver passenger train, through which you could see the silhouettes of all the travellers.  It became a kind of retreat, a constrained universe all its own, a virtual world where I could lose myself. And this, in 1951, before the concept of virtual worlds had even been invented.

I loved everything about it – the engineering of the locomotive, the sound of the trains traveling round the tracks, the cataclysms caused from running too fast, the whistle, the smoke erratically puffing out of a small smokestack, even the strange electrical smell the transformer gave off. But I also loved the little buildings and their accompaniments and the fantasies they permitted.

As an teenager and young adult my fascination for small was transformed. I found myself becoming, among other things, a connoisseur of unusual places, as well as unusual people. One of the more unusual places was a restaurant – long gone now – that used to eat at in Paris, just round the corner from Shakespeare and Co. The Vietnamese woman that owned and ran the place kept a very intimate establishment: two tables, five chairs, lots of old newspapers and magazines. One of the tables was for her customers that were coming in to eat; the other was for her sewing machine, on which she did alteration work, the earnings from which subsidized the restaurant.

For those of you that find such things interesting, then you might – if you happen to be in the area – feel like visiting any one of these places. They are among my favorites, and they are open for business, even as I write. 

BTW, I’m still looking for one in Australia, so let me know if you have knowledge of a tiny out-the-way eatery somewhere in Oz, and I’ll post it here. In the meantime, wny not enjoy these:  

SOLO PER DUE – or “Just for Two” – is the smallest restaurant in the world: it has only one table and it takes just two people at a time. So there are no queues, no turns, and no waiting; all our attention is dedicated to the two people who have booked. This singular characteristic has made SOLO PER DUE world famous, and it has become an unmissable experience for visitors to Italy, and particularly for the romantically inclined!

The building which houses SOLO PER DUE dates from the nineteenth century and is situated in a very evocative historical location; in the grounds there are the remains of a Roman villa. Carlo Bartolomeo Piazza (1703) identified them as the country villa belonging to the Latin poet HORACE, given to him by MECENATE. As well as admiring the mosaic floors and the portico of the villa, you can also visit the nearby Bandusia Fountain, close to the ruins, to which Horace dedicated one of his most celebrated poems.

When you pass through the gates of the restaurant you are surrounded by the garden which houses a magnificent collection of palms from all over the world, such as Trachycarpus fortunei, Trachycarpus martianus, Phoenix canariensis, Phoenix dactylifera, Phoenix reclinata, Butia capitata, Bhaea armata, Washingtonnia filifera, Sabal mexicana, Chamaerops humilis and several varieties of Cycas revoluta.

KUAPPI

The origins of ice cream can be traced back to at least the 4th century B.C. Early references include the Roman emperor Nero (A.D. 37-68) who ordered ice to be brought from the mountains and combined with fruit toppings, and King Tang (A.D. 618-97) of Shang, China who had a method of creating ice and milk concoctions. Ice cream was likely brought from China back to Europe. Over time, recipes for ices, sherbets, and milk ices evolved and served in the fashionable Italian and French royal courts.

After the dessert was imported to the United States, it was served by several famous Americans. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson served it to their guests. In 1700, Governor Bladen of Maryland was recorded as having served it to his guests. In 1774, a London caterer named Philip Lenzi announced in a New York newspaper that he would be offering for sale various confections, including ice cream. Dolly Madison served it in 1812.

FACT: The first ice cream parlor in America opened in New York City in 1776. American colonists were the first to use the term “ice cream”. The name came from the phrase “iced cream” that was similar to “iced tea”. The name was later abbreviated to “ice cream” the name we know today.

KLAVON’S ICE CREAM PARLOUR   phone(412) 434-0451     

Strip District
2801 Penn Ave 
Pittsburgh, PA 15222

Klavon’s Ice Cream Parlor in the Strip District of Pittsburgh is an old-fashioned gem, the kind of place that makes you feel like you’ve taken a big step back in time. Most of the decor is original: woodwork, soda fountain, the flooring, light fixtures and even the banana split dishes! Old apothecary bottles and other antique pharmacy items still line the old shelves, which only stands to reason because  Klavon’s started life as a pharmacy in 1923, and eventually transformed itself into the home of Pittsburgh’s own Reinhold’s Ice Cream.  But the really good news is that even the service is old-fashioned!  When you step up to the counter to place your order, there is none of this ‘hurry up and order so I can get back to texting someone on my phone’  vibe. The server takes yours orders and chats about the ice cream like some expert tour guide.

Klavon’s serves its ice cream the way ice cream should be; simple and delicious. Single or double scooped cones, Banana Splits, Tin Ceiling Sundaes, Egg Cremes, Milkshakes, and Root Beer Floats are just a few of the old-time treasures you will find there. The ice cream they still use is Reinhold’s, and it’s still made locally.

Klavon’s Ice Cream Parlor has its own parking lot which my West Virginia relatives find a relief.  And Klavon’s does serve soups, salads and sandwiches, just in case you’re not up to a sundae. If you are, then don’t pass up the experience of their Super Bowl Sundae for dinner. You might want to bring seven or eight of your closest friends to help you out it.

FACT: In 1846, Nancy Johnson patented a hand-cranked freezer that established the basic method of making ice cream still used today. William Young patented the similar “Johnson Patent Ice-Cream Freezer” in 1848.

LARRY’S OLD FASHIONED ICE CREAM PARLOR    ph. 727.360.4259  

6595 Gulf Boulevard, Saint Pete Beach, FL

Ask anyone who’s been here and they’ll tell you if you love ice cream and you’re ever in Florida you’ve got to visit Larry’s Ice Cream Parlour on St. Pete Beach. They reputedly have the best ice cream in America if not the world.  And if your nose is anything to go by, when you first walk inside Larry’s , and smell the homemade waffles cones being made, and tried their homemade free waffle cone special with their Italian gelato flavors (Tiramsui and Italian Pistachio), you’ll be more than ready to agree. They certainly have the best gelato this side of Fierenza, and at Larry’s one is almost always in two-, three- or four-minds as to which flavor to choose. They have over 100 flavors .

The staff is always helpful and friendly as well, and will go out of its way to suggest soemthing that will hit the spot. 

FACT: The idea for the Eskimo Pie bar was created by Chris Nelson, a ice cream shop owner from Onawa, Iowa. He thought up the idea in the spring of 1920, after he saw a young customer called Douglas Ressenden having difficulty choosing between ordering an ice cream sandwich and a chocolate bar. Nelson created the solution, a chocolate covered ice cream bar. The first Eskimo Pie chocolate covered ice cream bar on a stick was created in 1934.

SCOOP

40 Short’s Gardens, Covent Garden, WC2H 9AB

It’s a shame that this excellent Covent Garden gelateria doesn’t feature outdoor seating to complete the Italian picture, but the ice cream more than makes up for it, and the Covent Garden piazza and Seven Dials are only a short walk away. Purchase a cone and enjoy it while perched on hot cobblestones. Owner, Matteo Pantani’s sheer enthusiasm for his frankly superior product is contagious – and justified. Many of the ingredients for his frequently changing palette of gelati are imported from esteemed suppliers in Italy. The pistachio is one of our perennial favourites, thanks to the distinctive smoky, creamy flavour of nuts from Bronte, a Sicilian village known for its pistachios. There’s also an outlet on Soho’s Brewer Street, and a third one is planned to open soon in Kensington. Other branch: 53 Brewer Street, W1F 9UJ

EGGER’S ICE CREAM PARLOR    phone (718) 981-2110     

1194 Forest Ave Ste B
Staten Island, NY 10310 40.6263 -74.1296

Egger’s definitely hands down has the Best ice cream on Staten Island. I love bringing my kids in there since they have such a lovely selection of candies for  The staff is beyond friendly, even though the wait may be long at times to sit It’s worth it because the ice cream is all homemade and made on the premises. This truly is a wonderful place. At peak times this place is swarming with families and friends of all ages. They have enough staff to handle it as long as you dont mind waiting a minute or two. In all of the best restaurants, doctors offices, shopping centers etc. there will always be a wait, but in return will be well worth it. Once you are seated the flow of service is practically perfection and if its not there will always be someone else nearby that can help you out. I highly reccommend visiting Eggers so you can experience the joy yourself. Splurge with some extra toppings and chocolates and maybe even grap a couple of pieces of your favorite candy on the way out! Enjoy your visit, I’m sure you will.

ANNIE’S ICE CREAM PARLOUR (Above)

(aka Annie’s Old Fashioned Ice Cream Parlour) This place is located in Bathurst, over the mountains from Sydney, Australia, and is a MUST visit. Right on the corner of George and Church St, the bright pink signage of Annie’s is hard to be missed. The outdoor tables shaded with baby pink and green sun umbrellas are occupied with children, licking colorful ice creams. But once inside one is overwhelmed with the PINK.

All the ice cream at Annie’s is home made, the old fashioned way; with flavours cleverly named after some local locations, eg. Sofala Gold (named after nearby Sofala, a town where gold was found) which is vanilla ice cream with honeycomb through it; and Bridle Track (a rocky road track runs from Duramana, northwest of Bathurst, to the old mining town of Hill End) which is a delicious rocky road chocolate ice cream with marshmallow, turkish delight and choc chip in it.

IN FLORENCE

Gelato, or Italian ice cream, is a top treat in Florence, Italy. I’ve eaten gelato myself at the first four and the other two are highly recommended.

Gelateria La Carraia

When I first arrived in Florence in 1997, this was my first stop, one of Florence’s best-loved ice cream shops. They serve excellent homemade gelato in a large variety of flavors. My cone with two flavors cost one euro. Located in Piazza N. Sauro near Ponte Carraia, in the Oltrano area (across the river). They also have another shop, Gelateria La Carraia 2, at Via Benci 24/r.

Vivoli

Vivoli is highly recommended by Joe Palisi, an Italy traveler who has contributed photos to this site. He says it’s his favorite gelateria and he’s been there several times. Vivoli gelato is made fresh daily with natural ingredients and costs a little more than average. Vivoli is at Via Isola delle Stinche 7, about a block off Piazza Santa Croce.

Grom

Grom says they make “Il Gelato Come Una Volta”, Italian ice cream as it was once made. They use high quality ingredients and have a long list of flavors with additional flavors of the month. Grom is of Piazza del Duomo on via del Campanile at the corner of via delle Oche. It opens every day at 10:30 and closes at midnight during the summer season and at 11pm during the winter season. Grom can also be found in other northern Italian cities and Perugia as well as in Paris, Tokyo, and New York City.

Have you ever thought of making fortune cookies like the ones you find in your local Chinese restaurant, but with something more interesting than the usually stale and/or cliched messages they contain?  Then follow the recipe and directions on this page and use the haiku poems provided here (courtesy of J Kerouac), or write your own. 

Begin by gathering together all your ingredients and equipment, then check out the haiku samples below and the link. Amaze your friends and dinner guests with miniature poems. Make up your own. 

GETTING STARTED

Ingredients:

• 2 eggs
• 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract
• 1/2 teaspoon of almond extract
• 3 tablespoons of vegetable oil
• 8 tablespoons of white flour
• 1 1/2 teaspoons of cornstarch
• 1/4 teaspoon of salt
• 8 tablespoons of sugar
• 4 teaspoons of water

Equipment:

• 2 mixing bowls
• Balloon whisk
• Electric beater
• Teaspoon measure
• Tablespoon measure
• 2 Cookie sheets
• Muffin tray
• Print Haiku 
• Scissors

Preheat your oven to 300 degrees F (150 degrees C) and grease the cookie sheets. It is better to have 2 cookie sheets so that you can have a batch of cookies baking in the oven while you are working on forming the ones that are newly cooked.

Separate eggs as you will only be using the white in this recipe.

Place the egg white in a bowl and beat with balloon whisk.

Add the vanilla and almond extracts and the vegetable oil and whisk again until the mixture becomes a little foamy.

Place the flour, cornstarch, salt and sugar into a mixing bowl and stir in the water.

You may find it easier to do use an electric beater to get this mixture fully combined and resembles a thick paste.

Now take your egg mixture and add small amounts to the flour mixture and combine together using electric beaters.

Continue adding egg mixture until there is none left and you have a smooth batter, runny batter.

Place tablespoons of batter onto a greased cookie sheet making sure to space each one about 2 inches apart. Tilt the cookie sheet back and forth and from side to side so that the batter spreads out evenly into a fairly large circle.

Don’t worry too much about trying to get perfect circles as the heat from the oven will help to spread the batter before they start to cook. (You may want to start by only baking a couple of cookies before you become familiar with the process).

Bake for 10 – 15 minutes, or until the edges of the cookies start to turn a golden brown color and they start to come away from the cookie sheet. 

Remove the cookie tray from the oven, remove a cookie using a spatula and place it on the palm of your hand (use caution as the cookies will be very hot so gloves should be used to protect your hands).

You will need to work quickly! Place a pre-cut fortune on to the middle of the cookie.

 

Now form the cookie shape by folding the cookie in half and then pulling the 2 outer points together.

Place the folded cookie into one of the cavities on your muffin tray and leave to cool.

As the cookie cools it will harden and keep the classic fortune cookie shape.

“This time is the time when
the things we love are dying
and the things we do not love
are rushing to replace them”

Rainier Maria Rilke, “The Ninth Elegy” from The Duino Elegies

I left Australia in 1997, a virtual exile. I was soul-sick, at the end of a twenty-year marriage, and in great need of a change. The cozy confines of inner-city Sydney no longer nourished me, not to mention the fact that the arbiters of taste and culture had grown decidedly hostile towards the kinds of plays I was writing.

An isolated farmhouse in the middle of Tuscany was a curious place to take my body. The sweltering heat of midsummer slapped me in the face as I stepped off the train onto the platform in Sinalunga, and looked for a taxi in a seemingly taxi-less world. Sinalunga was small and ugly; not the kind of place tourists visit with alacrity, if at all, despite the fact Garibaldi had once fought a battle there.

In the park across the street, a gaggle of old men lounged in the shade, gossiping regally without so much as a nod in my direction as I crossed the park to where several pay-phones stood resolute and mostly out-of-order. A young man with a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth was hanging onto the only phone that still worked. His words oozed seductively like warm dough on a summer night. He had no idea I was waiting, nor would he have cared had he known. The only other living creature in his universe was the woman he was talking to – his lover, I imagined – and that’s the way it remained all the way to the end of his cigarette, which he finally disposed of with a flourish before making the usual kissing sounds into the receiver and hanging up.

I scooped up the phone, coins in hand, only to discover I needed a phone card. A phone card, I thought; where in hell am I gonna get a phone card? A passerby read my mind. Or maybe I wasn’t Sinalunga’s first tourist after all. He directed me towards the railway station, saying I should try the kiosk.

In the café, I made hand-signs and spoke baby Italian to a skeptical, middle-aged woman behind the counter. In desperation, I reached for my phrase book, but she waved it away with a brief remark before commenting loudly to a rather sporty, coffee-drinking couple at the other end of bar. The man replied in Italian, then all of them laughed uproariously. I smiled as if I understood, and tried my best not to look entirely helpless. The woman behind the counter pushed a 10.000 lire phone card towards me, then took my money and rang it up in one seamless motion. You can make your call now, she said in perfect English.

Someone else was on the phone when I got back – a small man occupying a very large conversation that went on for at least ten or fifteen minutes, despite audible sighs, groans and glowering looks from my side of the glass. When he was done, I inserted the card, and carefully dialed the number Ugo had written on a scrap of paper before I’d left Sydney – the number for Gianna, the cab driver.

The phone rang… and rang… and then it rang some more. Maybe it was the wrong number. Or maybe the cab company had gone out of business. Moments before, I’d been hoping that whoever answered the phone would speak English; now all I wanted was for someone to answer the damn thing. I was on the verge of hanging up when I heard a woman’s voice. “You speak English?” I asked. No, no English,” she said, and remained stony, mute, while I struggled to explain my need. Her silence was broken at the mention of Gianna. No, nooooo, she said, Gianna not here. Is he coming back, I stammered. But it was useless. Where Gianna was I have no idea, though I’m sure she must’ve told me. He might as well have been dead for all the good my Italian was doing me. With false conviction in my mastery of the language, I set about trying to explain my predicament – enough to express my dismay at the lack of  cabs. I’m not sure it was so much what I said as how I said it that made the difference – a slight quavering in the voice which spoke volumes of dread and uncertainty. People usually respond to expressions of fear, and my friend on the other end didn’t let me down. My howling lament set her to speaking, more quickly now, nervously, as if there was some urgency that I not be left to my own devices in the middle of Sinalunga with nothing more than sunset to look forward to. Pressing the receiver closer to my ear, I gathered together enough key phrases to imagine she was telling me to wait, someone would come.

In the park, the old men went on gossiping and fanning themselves with folded newspapers, oblivious to my plight. 

At the side of the station – which had been built during Mussolini’s reign – I discovered a card game in progress. Four men sitting around a portable card table were playing pinochle, surrounded by twelve or fifteen other men who followed the throw of cards with an intense and shrewd expressiveness. The players, themselves, never changed expression, but the ones who were watching them “spoke” silently, showing their approval or disapproval with a uplifted eyebrow or an almost imperceptible nod. I have no idea what the stakes might’ve been, but I began to surmise in the game itself a complicated dialogue with all the gravity of life and death. In short, I became engrossed, watching the players and the watchers with equal interest, long enough to be surprised by the young man shouting through the open car window, asking me I wanted a taxi. Yes, it’s me, I said. I hurried over to the curb and collected my bags. Petroio? I said. Si, si, he said. Trove? I said. Si, si, si, he said impatiently, climbing from the taxi to help me with my luggage. We threw the suitcases into the back, and I climbed in next to the driver.

Bertoli was a would-be Andretti in a clapped-out Chevy. Seconds later, we were flying out of Sinalunga, whizzing past olive groves and 500-year-old farmhouses, communication reduced to little more than place names and finger pointing. Here, the road to Trequanda. Over there, Pienza. This place – this is where the big pots are made for the world. Buongiorno, Buongiorno, with eyes and the flick of a wrist towards those at the side of the road. My country – very beautiful, he beamed, his white teeth flashing. Up, up into the hills – an almost-voiceless passage into the dawning of the Holocene. For an eternity we drove.

Just before the hill town of Petroio, we veered to the right, then went another kilometer before making an abrupt left onto a narrow, gravel track full of pot-holes. I gazed from my window, peering down into a deep ravine, as the car plunged on. In the distance, through the blue haze of late afternoon, the village of Castelmuzio reached ambitiously towards heaven. Beyond that, one could just make out the bell-tower of the monastery where The English Patient had been filmed.

Slowly, slowly, we drove, past the farmhouse of the Bindi, down the windy, rutted road into the enclosed valley where the red, roof-tiles of Trove floated in a sea of green, surrounded by an ocean of sunflowers five weeks short of harvesting.

Nothing was exactly as I imagined it, yet everything was strangely familiar. High up on a high ridge, fifteen erect cypresses stood in one long row; and behind them – maybe fifteen miles away – the extinct volcano of Mt Amiata, Toscana’s highest peak – towered over the Cassia.  

I paid the driver and watched forlornly as my last link with civilization disappeared in a cloud of dust. Not yellow as I had imagined, but a volcanic grey. After all these years, I was finally alone.

Looking up at the empty house, I could see it wasn’t as dilapidated as I had thought. In fact, it had a curious nobility about it. And it was much grander than I would’ve dreamed. Tall weeds grew on either side of the path leading up to the front door, and plaster had fallen from the outside walls, revealing the ancient brickwork underneath. All this only added to its charm.

The ground floor had been set aside for horses and farm equipment, but it didn’t look as if either had inhabited this place since the end of the war. Somewhere down here was the toilet I’d been told about, and the bucket of sawdust one used to cover the evidence. Too many snakes, I thought, and decided I’d use the woods at the back of the house.

I climbed the steps to the second floor, unlocked the double-doors, and pushed inside. It was cool, dark. The living room and kitchen shared one vast space. Kitchen on the left, living room on the right, and a rough-hewn, wooden dining table in between. Trove, I said under my breath. Trove… Trove… as if the sound possessed some kind of magical power; as if by merely uttering it I could conjure the company of spirits, good spirits I hoped, who might well inhabit the shadows which fell about me in a room of brick and slate and stone. I was alone. And yet there was a presence here; invisible forces dwelled within these walls and I knew almost at once that I’d have to make a some sort of peace with them if I was to survive the isolation.

I dropped my bags and breathed in the deep silence, an engulfing, claustrophobic silence. Trove. What place was this? What was it I had hoped to find here – without telephone or electricity, three kilometers from the nearest village? Trove… Trove.

The house seemed to go on forever. It had a roominess I had often longed for, having been forced to live for so many years to live in tight quarters with no space to move. There were two large rooms off of the kitchen – one for storage, the other a bedroom. From the living room, a long, narrow corridor led to three more bedrooms, lavishly furnished in antique Italian wardrobes, dressers and beds. I selected the room closest to the kitchen for my bedroom, and the one furthest from the kitchen for my study.

Looking from my bedroom window, I gazed out on a sea of sunflowers; golden heads dipping in the wind, rolling in great waves as far as the eye could see. I threw open the window, and breathed in the exotic perfume of earth and growing things. Within arms’ reach, little green figs hung from a tree. I would take these figs as my calendar. Instead of counting the days I would watch them as they softened and changed color, knowing that September had passed into October by the taste of ripened fruit. After all these months, I was finally here, or least my body was.

I unpacked my bags, placing socks and underwear neatly in the dresser drawers, hanging my shirts in the wardrobe. My commitment to the place growing evermore certain with each action. This was going to be my home.I set up the portable CD player I’d bought in Vienna. The tiny musical library I had with me was a rather strange mix of blues, pop, jazz and classical. I selected Vivaldi and cranked up the volume.

How like desire! I mused. How the reality of what one has hoped for settles into one’s being. I’d come seeking solitude, and now that I was here I was surprised and a little dismayed there was no one to greet me. Nor was there anything to do, other than get on with my writing – a new play about Soutine and Utrillo, and whatever else was thrown up by the extraordinary adventure upon which I had embarked.

At the end of Vivaldi’s last season, the silence was still there. Nothing but the ticking of my watch and my heart’s own gravity. Then I heard another sound. A kind of knocking on glass. It became more violent, as if someone or something was pounding on a window at the other end of the house. I went to investigate. A strange, mad bird was smashing up against the window pane in the store room, as if he might be trying to break in, or break me out. I tried to shoo him away, but he kept coming back, like a warning: bird’s bones on glass and feathers everywhere. I closed the door, hoping to muffle the sound and, after a while, put it out of my mind.

Next morning he was back, body crashing so forcefully it woke me up just after sunrise. It was so damn insistent; and me, not knowing the habits of birds, I became a little frightened. Perhaps it was a sign, an omen, a messenger with a message I was incapable of deciphering.

Later, I went outside to investigate the old, stone well by the side of the house. Peering down its throat, I could see the silhouette of my head back-lit by sky, thirty feet below me. I pulled on the rope tied to the cross-beam, and a blue plastic bucket, half full of water, rose from the darkness. The water was undrinkable – only for bathing and washing clothes I’d been told. And it was freezing. Something I’d have to bear. After the train trip from Florence and the drive from Sinalunga, I needed a wash, so I stripped off, and ladled the water over my body, naked in the heavy, warm air, attuned to every sound and movement, ready to make a mad dash to my towel in the event of any uninvited passersby, but there were none. The only people who came down this road were the Bindis, to attend to their sunflowers, and sometimes you wouldn’t see them for days.

Near the well, the flowers droned with large black and yellow bees, and a persistent march fly, not easily discouraged by my waving hands, dive-bombed for blood. I lifted my face to the sky, feeling the sun on my face and chest, water streaming down my legs. In future I’d fill containers and let the water warm itself in the rays of the sun before using it to wash with. There was something delicious and sensual about being naked and unashamed in the full-bodied heat of the Tuscan light, the sound of summer buzzing in the air.

The house hadn’t been inhabited for quite some time and I could see right away there were a number of provisions I’d need, quite apart from some good vino. I’d need candles and food, and some paper and pens. Petroio wasn’t that far away that I couldn’t walk there, so next morning I set out on foot, back along the route the taxi had taken – a long three kilometers, mostly uphill. On my way, I called in at the Bindi’s farmhouse and introduced myself. The Bindis, I’d been told, were the most marvelous people on the face of the earth. And this may have been true, though I never found out, as they spoke no English and my Italian was still at the stage of baby talk. Most of our “conversations” were composed of head shaking, shrugging, and nervous laughter, though their eldest daughter, Mikalia, and I did manage a fairly lengthy discussion about the occult once, with the help of my pocket phrase book and a lot of mental telepathy.

The store in Petroio was small but had everything I needed. Wine, wurst, candle and cannelloni. I bought as much as I could stuff into my backpack and headed down to the village’s small piazza to rest before the long trek back. I was in terrible physical condition at the start of my time in Italy, but would soon become quite fit owing to all the walking I’d be doing. The complete journey from Trove to Petroio and back again took nearly three hours. Had the store opened early, I could’ve left in early morning before it was so hot, but I usually left at about nine when the heat was already quite intense, and by the time I returned it was nearly 100.

After the first couple of weeks, I began to enjoy my sojourns into Petroio. By the bridge at the foot of the town, there was always an old man, leaning against the bridge, cane in hand, taking the air. We got into the habit of nodding to one another and saying Buongiorno whenever we’d meet. It was always a highlight of the trip, finding him there. I often wondered what he thought about me – who I was and what I was doing there. I seemed so out of place, as though some big, omnipotent hand had stuck me, willy-nilly, into the landscape.

If nothing else, walking gave me time to think, and what I kept thinking was “what the hell am I doing here”… staying wasn’t going to be easy, yet the idea of retreat was worse than surrender; to leave without giving it a chance seemed weak and cowardly.

How I survived… hour by hour, day by day, week by week, has been lost to me. I spent much of my time naked, indoors and out, reading as much as I could – Moby Dick, Antigone and Dante Aligheri. But mostly, I sat and thought about my life and busied myself with the little things, completely conscious of each movement – how a jug is filled, or a stove is lit – appreciating in these simple actions life’s fragility as well as the endurance required simply to be present.

Eventually, I settled into a kind of life. Though my loneliness was always with me, I discovered I could hold it at bay through a kind of inspired diligence to routine. Outside, I washed all my clothes by hand and pegged them up to dry, marvelling at how quickly and easily the task was done. Trips into the village were best when commenced early, and the return trip was made easier after a spell under the trees in Petroio’s small park. On Thursdays, I’d walk up to the main road and flag the bus to Sinalunga and spend the day at the outdoor markets. Amazing how much can be done when there is nothing to do!  Some evenings, coming back from a walk, I’d spy one of the Bindi brothers on a tractor and we’d wave or nod to one another, and I’d think of his life and of his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, who had been nourished by this land, and how much richer their lives had been because of their essential connection to the earth.  And I felt blind and helpless and ashamed, that I – who had learned so much – was unable to be simply be happy, to take delight in my own nothingness.

Some days, having completed all my tasks, I would seek escape in long walks. Every day I managed to walk somewhere. Every second or third day I’d walk into Petroio to replenish supplies. By now my body had become lean and stronger than it had been in years. No more panting and struggling for breath. Five miles was nothing. Walking uphill was just as easy as walking down. My mind seemed clearer too.

One morning, I woke up and went to the kitchen to brush my teeth. I turned the tap, the same as I’d done every morning, but nothing came out, only a distant sigh, as if dust had grown a throat and was trying to clear it. 

I dressed and walked up to Senor Bindi’s place and told him I had no drinking water. He frowned and went to investigate. I went with him. Halfway between his place and mine, on a flat plateau a hundred feet higher than the roof of my house, we unbolted the trapdoor that covered the cistern, and flung it open. The cistern was dry. Senor Bindi sighed, and scratched his head. Then he shrugged. This had never happened before. Maybe a blockage, maybe a pump somewhere. He had no idea. He’d ring the Commune. He couldn’t tell me when I would have water again.

Thus began several weeks of me carrying water from the village to my house. A daily event. I thought of Jean de Florette, and suddenly understood what he had been faced with. It was so hot, I usually ended up drinking half the water before I got home. Next morning, it was all gone, and I’d have to make the trip again.

Poetry, as much as anything, was what had led me here, but it was pure stubbornness that kept me pinned.  Later, I would buy a cheap Vespa, and explore some of Dante’s country more fully. The landscape near Sovana, which had provided inspiration for Dante’s concept of the Inferno, is one of the places that will always remain in my memory. Sheer cliffs fall on all sides into a tangle of dark ravines and crevasses. It was while Dante had been journeying on this road that he had had chanced upon this image of Hell. The volcanic rocks and escarpments present a cruel, unrelenting aspect that is only neutralized by one’s arrival in the village at the top. But whose Hell was it really?

I re-read Dante during my time at Trove, and imagined that what had led him to write The Divine Comedy was not so very different from what had led me to seek refuge in the wilds of the Italian countryside. Both of us had felt thwarted, both had fallen from grace, both had come to a “pathless wood”, and the empyrean plain, which all true poets have some inkling of, seemed unreachable. Caught in the suspense of Limbo, stuck between torment and bliss, I could only marvel at his words, standing on the brink of the very cliffs where he had dreamed his great poem, seen visions and heard voices. “Why harbourest cowardice in thy heart? Why act thou not bold and free…?”

Poetry is always more than the poet, always more than method and technique; and never a matter of what one learns or knows, but what one is. More than a way of saying – it is Being itself; and the Etruscan hills were no less a part of this epic – my epic – than they had been his. They were as true or false a sounding board as what I had left behind in Australia, because the voice is not OUT THERE, but always lurking inside, making the soundless sound in the interior landscape of the human heart – the source of all those sounds that make up humanity’s endless howl.

Dante speaks of a way out, but it is not a way one buys for the price of a map. If one must speak of ways, it is the quiet inner-looking by which the poet, Virgil, guides Dante in his migration from the labyrinth of the “littleness of soul”.

I had come to the beginning of the civilized world to forget the crassness of civilization, and what I found was history, the crassiest invention of all in the absence of love. A weighty history of done things without vitality for change.  Could I write in this place? Could I live here without the torment of the darkness within? 

Some nights I’d lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, illuminated by candlelight, imagining I’d fallen into a huge grave. In my notebook, I wrote things like:

Coming back from the village
I spy two stag deer grazing
Raising their heads
catching my scent
they bolt
leaping into the woods,
becoming invisible -
like those Etruscans
barely hidden by the trees…

And in the evenings I drank good wine and made myself dinner, all with fresh, locally bought ingredients. Here is one I often made – a pasta with Sausage and Cream – a hearty, substantial dish for anyone in exile (or not). Best of all it is quick and easy enough to make and will provide a gustatory taste of that part of Italy where I beat out my exile. 

Prep time: 5 min | Cook time: 20 min | Total time: 25 min

Serves 4

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 small yellow onion, sliced thin
1 pound crumbled sweet Italian sausage meat (stuffing from 4 links)
1 cup heavy cream
salt & pepper to taste
1 pound penne pasta
freshly grated Parmagianno-Reggiano cheese

1. Heat olive oil in a medium sauce pan over medium-high heat. Add onion and sautè, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon until softened and translucent, about 5 minutes.
2. Add sausage meat and cook, stirring occasionally until sausage is browned approximately 10 minutes.
3. Add the cream, salt and pepper, and cook until the sauce has thickened, 2-3 minutes. Take the sauce off the heat.
4. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and add the penne. Cook uncovered over high heat until al dente and drain.
5. Place the pan with the sauce back over medium heat, add the pasta to the pan and toss until well coated.
6. Serve with grated Parmagianno-Reggiano cheese on the side

Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, my partner and I used to do a lot of baking, bread in particular. One of our favorites was banana bread, which we’d make at least once or twice a week. 

After I moved to Australia, the baking became less frequent. And then it stopped altogether… until a few months ago. Remembering how much I enjoyed the “hippie” banana bread of my youth, I thought maybe I’d whip some up, then one thing led to another and before long, I’d come up with what I consider to be the world’s best recipe for banana cake. That’s right, cake!  It’s pretty simple, and cheap (now that the price of bananas has returned to what it was before the floods), so if ou have some nearly overripe bananas sitting around your joint that don’t look appetising enough to eat raw, you just might this cake a gustatory adventure too good to refuse. 

What I ‘ike about it is the lightness and fluffiness of the cake, despite the dense banana content. 

I suggest eating this cake warm. I know a lot of cakes require them to cool down, but this cake just tastes heaps better when it’s fresh from the oven. If you’re thinking of frosting it, I suggest either a plain buttercream, or a cream cheese frosting.

Why not give it a go?! 

RIGHTEOUS BANANA BREAD recipe

Ingredients

• 125g unsalted butter, chopped and softened
• 2/3 cup caster sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla essence
• 1 egg
• 3 medium-large ripe bananas, mashed
• 1 1/2 cups self-raising flour
• 1/4 cup milk

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 160C. Line a 20cm x 30cm slab cake with non-stick baking paper.
2. Cream together butter and sugar in a large bowl of an electric mixer and beat until combined. Beat in vanilla essence, and then egg.
3. Fold in the mashed banana, followed by flour and milk. Fold together until all ingredients are combined.
4. Pour into prepared baking pan and bake in the oven for 40 minutes or until cake is golden brown and a skewer inserted in the cake comes out clean. Remove from oven, allow to cool for 5 minutes, then remove from pan and serve warm.

I was different,  one of those curious, keen observers that asked too many questions, whose size made me look three years older than the kids my age and  separated me from the herd. All of my senses were tuned in, from the smell of raked leaves in autumn, to the aromatic scents that drifted through the neighbourhood at dinner time. There was an absurd quality to everything, though I didn’t have the wrods then to artilate it. It was all around me, particularly in the weird advertisements with their odd characters – Buster Brown and his dog who lived in my shoes, Teddy Snowcrop lodged in the family’s icebox keeping company with the strange little man that turned off the light, and Bosco the Bear and his Liquid Milk Amplifier (chocolate syrup) – I thought it was some kind of medicine when I first saw the ad. It was frightening, the way the milk apmplifier turned the white liquid brown. A colour imagination in a black’n'white world. The first film I ever saw was Peter Pan shortly after it opened in the Roxy Theatre in NYC, so naturally the only peanut butter for me was Peter Pan. And even as I ate it I mused at the cheap make-believe; we were at the mercy of Mad Men, but how could a five-year-old know that?

Actually, the real “mad” ones were all around us. In time,I began to realise just how close they were, a realisation that came later rather than sooner. I was a late bloomer.

So what was the 1950s exactly?

It’s a complex and difficult question – one that has an infinite number of possible answers.  But if you look at one aspect of it – the food that was considered “normal” and “good’ and nourishing, that was served up on a weekly basis on the tables of my friends and family, you might get some idea of the way we lived and the distance we think we have travelled since Truman stepped down and Ike took over.

Here is a selection of recipes and oddments from the archives of my mother’s and aunt’s recipe boxes. Not just their own recipes, but recipes that they must’ve liked well enough to request copies. If you want a fleeting insight into what life was like in those days, rustle up just one of these recipes and try it. It will tell you heaps about the life, the yearnings, and the naiveity of those of us that lived through it.

And, if you’re planning a 50′s party, you can’t get food that’s any more fifties than this.  Just don’t overdo it.

Mom’s Meatloaf

This is one of those dishes that I had to endure throughout the 1950s. Mercifully it wasn’t a weekly event, and I could never understand why my mother persisted in making it when she knew that the mere thought of it filled me with horror. Why? I hated onions. I was a very finicky eater.

Ingredients:

• 1-1/2 pounds ground beef (chuck is best)
• 1/2 pound ground pork sausage (seasoned or not)
• 2 eggs, lightly beaten
• 1 cup cubed bits of stale bread
• 1 to 2 large cloves of garlic, pressed
• 1 cup diced sweet onion
• 1/4 cup diced green bell pepper (sweet capsicum)
• 1 teaspoon dried oregano, crushed
• Freshly ground pepper to taste
• 1 Tablespoon Worchestershire sauce
• 1 package dry onion soup mix
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1 (6-ounce) can tomato paste, divided use
• 2 to 4 strips bacon, cut in half (optional)

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Combine ground beef, pork sausage, eggs, bread, garlic, sweet onion,  bell pepper, oregano, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, onion soup mix (most impotant), milk, and half of the tomato paste. Gently mix only until combined. Do not overwork the meat or it will become tough. Form into a loaf. Cover with the remaining half can of tomato paste. Weave the bacon strips over the top.

Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes. Let meatloaf rest 15 minutes before cutting to serve.   Yield: 8 servings

Orange Upsidedown Muffins ala Fort Slocum

• 2 teaspoons grated orange peel
• 1/4 cup of orange juice
• ¼ cup butter
• 1/2 cup sliced almonds
• ½ cup sugar
• Muffin batter

Preparation Instructions

Combine one fourth cup orange juice, two teaspoons grated orange peel one fourth cup butter, one half cup sugar,  1/2 cup sliced almonds and cook for five minutes.

Divide glaze equally into ten muffin cups.

Add favorite muffin batter and bake. Turn pan upside down on rack and let stand for a few minutes before removing muffins.

Bing Cherry Salad Mold with Coke

1 can Bing Cherries
1 can crushed pineapple
1 package cherry Jell-O
1 package cream cheese – about 3 ounces
1 Coke
chopped nuts (about 1/3 cup)

Drain juice from fruit, add water to make one cup.  Heat and dissolve Jell-O.  Mash cream cheese and beat into Jell-O.  Put into refrigerator.  When starting to set, beat with egg beater.  Add Coke, pineapple and nuts.  Arrange cherries around the bottom of individual molds and pour mixture over all.  Then return to the refrigerator.

Cold Cut Pie
My mother notes – next to the recipe writer’s handwritten instructions: “Make ahead of time. All you need to complete the menu is a tossed salad or some sliced tomatoes, a basket of bread or rolls, a pitcher of ice tea and dill pickles.”

Prepare the filling:

1 pound potatoes (about 3 medium)
1/3 cup vinegar
1 tablespoon prepared mustard
1 teaspoon seasoning salt
1/2 cup sliced celery
1/2 cup diced green pepper
1/4 cup minced onion
1/4 cup pickle relish
3 hard cooked eggs, diced
1/2 pound boiled ham or 1 can (12 oz.) luncheon meat, diced
1/2 pound salami, diced.

Cook the potatoes in boiling salted water until barely tender – still firm in the center.

Meanwhile, combine remaining ingredients.  Then potatoes are ready, peel, dice; add to filling mixture. Chill for 2 hours.

Fix the dressing and crust:

1 envelope unflavored gelatine
1/2 cup water
1 pound sliced bologna
1 cup mayonnaise
1/2 cup commercial sour cream

Place gelatine and water in small sauce pan and let stand two minutes, then heat to the boiling point, stirring until gelatin is dissolved.  Remove from heat.  While it cools a bit, line a ten inch pie plate with bologna, overlapping the slices. Now, using rotary beater, combine the gelatin mixture, mayonnaise, and sourcream.   Chill till gelatin is just slightly thickened – about 20 minutes.  Fold in filling mixture; spoon into bologna “crust”.  Chill at least 3 hours.  (Store in refrigerator up to two days if you wish.)  Serves six as a main dish. 

Coffee Gel

Add one envelope unflavored gelatin to 1/4 cup cold coffee and let stand 5 minutes.  Stir into 2 cups scalding hot coffee.  Add 1/2 cups sugar and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla.  Cool.  Refrigerate about 4 hours or until firm.  To serve, spoon into deep sherbet cups.  Pour over each serving one tablespoon sweet cream or whipped cream.
 
“P.S. Substitute Irish Whiskey for the vanilla (sometimes).  Just any measurement will do.”

The Burrows
1 1/2 block butter
2 or 3 medium onions
1/2 bell pepper
2 or 3 ribs of celery
1 can tomatoes

Sauté above ingredients about 4 hours. Do no Add any water
Add 1/2 lemon
dash Worcestershire  sauce
Parsley and 2 buttons squeezed garlic
Add: 1/2 to 2/3 cans mushrooms soup
Lastly add 1 quart and 1 pint – cleaned – shrimp or crawfish

There are some things you carry with you from childhood, memories of specific places and events, of things once loved then lost, the smell of the neighbour’s house, or one’s clothes. It’s strange – the things you remember, or choose to forget. Even as a 5 year-old everything in my environment seemed to emphasize that we were Americans, and that we lived in the greatest country on Earth. The flag was the embodiment of heroism and goodness. We weren’t simply one nation among many nations. We existed at the centre of the Universe. America was IT, and somehow and in some way levery other place was less important, less real, less human. It was a childhood fraught with unwitting danger, a danger I was not altogether unaware of. How was one to match wits the the Yankee ingenuity with which even one’s own being was imbued? This self-reliance was much more obvious in the 1950s than now, and is attested to by any number of home cures that many American families firmly believed. The pharmacy had not yet replaced the folk remedy, at least not in the homes of many of my friends. Here is a sample my aunt collected:

Invalid Cookery

Rice Gruel
If disease is contagious, before removing the try from the room wrap all left-over food in paper and burn as soon as possible.  Put the dishes in a pan large enough so they can be completely covered with cold water.  Boil for 15 minutes.
1 tablespoon rice
1 cup milk
Wash rice, cover with cold water and let stand two hours.  Drain, add milk and cook one and one-half hours in double boiler.  Strain and season.  Serve hot or cold.

Peptonized Milk
1 tube Peptonizing Powder
1/2 cup cold water
1 pint fresh milk
Put powder into a sterilized quart bottle, add water, and shake until powder is dissolved; add milk, shake and place on ice.  Use as needed, always keeping remainder covered on ice.  Peptonized milk may be served warm by putting bottle in vessel of water (115 degrees F.) and keeping at the same temperature 10 minutes.  Serve immediately.

Irish Moss Lemonade
1/4 cup Irish Moss
Lemon Juice
Syrup
1 1/2 cups cold water

Soak Irish Moss in cold water, drain and pick over.  Add 1 1/2 cups cold water, cook 30 minutes in double boiler and strain.  Add lemon juice and syrup to taste to 1/2 cup liquid and serve.

Albumen Beverages
White 1 egg
1/2 cup orange or lemon juice
Syrup to taste
Beat egg white to a froth, add fruit juice, strain, sweeten.  Serve cold.  Syrup for fruit beverages can be made by cooking 1 cup sugar and 1 cup of water twelve minutes.  Albumen water is made by adding 1/2 cup water to the egg white, omitting the fruit juice and syrup.  Albumenized milk is made by using 1/2 cup milk with egg white.  Fruit drinks are made by combining sugar syrup, plain or carbonated water, and fruit juice.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,800 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

My mother always told me to clean up my plate, which meant eating everything that was on it.  But there were some things I could never eat,  like wax beans,  and cauliflower, and certain species of meat loaf. Yuck.  When my mother was particularly cranky she wouldn’t allow me to leave the table til I’d cleaned my plate. I spent lots of time at the table, moving the uneaten food round my plate in the dim hope that this might make it disappear, but it never did;  and after awhile my mother realised that I could be even more stubborn than she was, at which point I was usually sent to my room, without the beans.

My mother had strange ideas about food. Most of the fruit and vegetables we ate came out of jars or tins. Peanut butter, spread on slices of bananas was a side dish with filet of sole, usually served on a Friday, though we were Methodists, not Catholics.

My mother never prided herself on being a cook, and I didn’t know any better. It wasn’t until the late 50s when my father discovered barbeques and steaks that my mother finally broke free of the monotony of cans.

Looking back on it, I realise she was probably the product of parents and grandparents that had no better food sense than she did. I don’t have any proof of this, but in my various trips back to visit the family in West Virginia, I have noticed that their diet generally leaves a lot to be desired. I should talk!  Luckily, there are plenty of places to eat in the State, and not all of them are hot dog joints. A number of them  serve a combo of both healthy and not-so-healthy food, so at least you’ve got a choice if you want one.  West Virginia has never been recognised for much other than roadkill and ramps, so I am pleased to report that there are some eateries that are worth a visit, if any of you decide to drive through or visit West Virgina.

My son, the musician CW Stoneking, once booked a national tour  in the States so that he could intersect with all the best barbeque joints in America – including one in Grafton West Virginia.  But rather than go national, let’s have a look at my top five West Virgina restaurants/cafes –  in no particular order.

BLUES BBQ – South Charleston, West Virginia

 This joint has a loyal following, and great barbeque. However, it is definitely not for vegetarians. Blues is your cutting edge, West Virginia “BBQ Joint”. It’s noteriety as a “joint” stems only from the fact that it is so small. It has five booths, a six top and a counter. The decor is mostly muscian and movie posters from the Jimmy Hendrix era.

To say that this place is broken would be an understatment, but one isn’t eating the decor, and there are many that would  it downright intriguing. I do. The main thing is it is clean, and the food is fabulous. 

The menu is also very simple. IAs a rule of thumb, if a BBQ joint has more than 10 entrees don’t trust it. Making good pulled pork and ribs takes time, and that doesn’t leave time for other non-BBQ items like veggie burgers. Blues has several varieties of pulled pork sandwiches, but the locals love the Blues Original. It’s sweet and spicy with a thick consistency that closely resembles a Kansas City BBQ style. The Carolina sauce is a light vinegar-based sauce and it is good if you like that style. They also have a Williamsburg style – think molasses. Ribs and burgers round out the menu with some munchies to go with the good selection of bottled beer. Their chicken is fall off the bone tender and spicy. Speaking of which…

the Jamaican Jerked Chicken Sandwich is brow sweatin’ spicy and the kraut is really good. This is a big sandwich for big eaters, a bit pricey – by West Virginia standards – at  $6.99 with no sides, but it’ll fill you up. Add the battered onion rings and baked beans for an addtional $2.59.  The onion rings rock!  And the beans in true montaineer tradition are some of the best you’ll ever chow down on. They are rich and thick with pulled pork added for flavor. And be sure to wash it all down with a Great Lakes – Dortmunder

Gold. Blues has always had a nice selection of microbrews. 

SIRIANNI’S PIZZA – Davis, West Virginia

Sirianni’s pizza is some of the best I’ve ever eaten, and a lot of folks’ll go a long way out of their way for the experience. They also have great salads, fresh even in the winter. There are now two locations, one in “downtown” Davis and one in the valley, which only seems to be open on the weekends as overflow from the original location. Both spots are tiny, which means you’ll practically be sitting with your table neighbors, but that only adds to the charm. In typical West Virginia style, both spots only accept cash or check.  They also offer take-out (takeaway)  Just ring (304) 866-3388 for the Canaan Valley location. It’s next door to Big John’s Family Fixins restaurant, located beneath a realty office. Amazing pizza!

 

THE CUSTARD STAND - Webster Springs and Flatwoods, West Virginia

One of the most successful businesses in the West Virginia Hot Dog industry, is this little gem, which has become the leading producer of store-bought hot dog chili in the entire region. Its chili, “Custard Stand Hot Dog Chili” is sold in stores like Kroger and Wal Mart thoughout the eastern US.  According to their Facebook page, the original restaurant “The Custard Stand” was actually named Elsie’s Dairy Bar – founded by Elsie Hamrick in 1960. The name was changed to The Custard Stand in 1991-and the chili began to be sold in retail stores in 2003.  In 2009, the second location of The Custard Stand in Flatwoods was opened. 

The Custard Stand has longer hours than your typical HDJ (hotdog joint) and is open 7 days a week. The Custard Stand in Webster Springs is easy to find : you know when people give you directions to a place and say “you can’t miss it”? Well, this is what they mean: The Custard Stand sits on the outside edge of a hairpin curve on the road that leads down into the Elk River Valley just before you get to Webster Springs, and if you didn’t negotiate the curve properly, you just might find yourself parked inside the place (which actually happened a few years ago when a truck lost its brakes and crashed into TCS’s warehouse). The place has two walk up ordering windows and the dining area is a picnic shelter across the parking lot. Periodically one of the two workers inside bellow an order number and a hungry looking customer will scamper over and get their food.

The dogs are nestled in paper boats and wrapped in wax paper. The consistency of the slaw and the careful wrapping job makes the hot dog an almost perfect specimen of a Utilitarian Dog: The slaw compacted nicely into the shape of the wrap is easy to eat without worry of spillage. The bun was soft and steamed. 

 

 

 

THE MEDITERRANEAN CAFE – Charleston, West Virginia

Unassuming and easy to miss, The Mediterranean Cafe offers one of the more unique menus you’ll ever see. The cozy restaurant on Washington Street features food from countries around the region including Greece, Italy, Spain, France, Lebanon, and Morocco. For fans of fresh tomato salads swimming in olive oil, feta cheese, and pine nuts, this is the place for you. Check out the menu at http://www.allworldmenu.com/4.html

The list of appetizers and salads was deep and varied. But I may have skipped them had I known how generous the complimentary plate of feta, hummus, pita, and salads would be.

The service was warm and inviting. Would you expect any less from the owner?

I recommend their simple vegetable kabob for the health conscious.  Perfectly grilled tomatoes, red onions, green peppers, and zucchini wrapped in a massive pita. The wrap was served with a side of mast o khiar, which is yogurt sauce flavored with mint. 

 

 

THE DOWNTOWNER – Ripley, West Virginia

If you’re passing through Ripley on a road trip at lunch time and looking for a restaurant that will give you a bit of local flavor. Virtually every small town in West Virginia has a place like that. In Ripleythere are at least two, side by side, right across the street from the courthouse. One of them looks like it’s trying to be trendy, which is fine, but you don’t come to a town like Ripley to be trendy. The other is called The Downtowner, which appears to be a bit more old fashioned, and turns out to be one of the better eateries in the state.  Try the Philly steak and cheeze sub with krinkle cut fries if you want something in keeping with the atmosphere. Not quite as good as those you get in Philadelphia, but still very tasty and satisfying.

Watering holes hidden down tiny alleys that come off little laneways, squirreled away from sight on rooftops or down in basements: welcome to Melbourne! where a bar crawl is more like a treasure hunt. And once you do find these colourful establishments (after asking directions from more than a few passersby) you’ll be rewarded with some superb drinks served by some of the country’s most talented mixologists. So put on your safari suit, and let’s descend into Melbourne’s top secret in-the-know drinking destinations.

Izayaka Den (see picture above)

The signage is barely visible, but once spotted head downstairs and through the heavy, black curtain to reach this hip, Japanese underground restaurant. On one side of the long, black enamel wood bar sits patrons, on the other young, good looking Japanese chefs cook up a storm (think succulent grilled chicken spare ribs with wasabi), while bartenders work their magic. Running through the drinks, food and interiors is a common theme: modern and inventive sophistication.

14 Russell Street. izakayaden.com.au

Drink of the house: Don’t pass up the Sake Mojito which refrains from over-sweetness, or the Umesoda No. 7 which is a dry ginger and cherry blossom concoction. The Den Negroni is also highly recommended.

Double Happiness

Head down the alley and look for the doors emblazoned with the Chinese characters for “double happiness” in red — and presto, you’ve transported yourself to a place that’s just as much a glorious storing house for Chinese Communist memorabilia as it is a bar. You can credit the bar’s distinctive look — dripping in Chinese knick knacks and retro posters — to Michael Anderson. The bar is small in size and intimate in feel, so pull up a chair and get chatting to the bartenders.

21 Liverpool Street. double-happiness.org

Drink of the house: The bar is famed for their lychee infused vodka, which pops up in their cocktail “The Great Leap Forward”. Also popular? The Espresso Martini.

Madame Brussels

You swear you’ve got the correct address but it’s only when the scruffy elevator doors open to reveal a city rooftop oasis that you can be certain you’ve indeed reached the infamous Madame Brussels. Named in honour of Melbourne’s first brothel proprietor, Madame Brussels is a two-level terrace, laid out with kitschy synthetic lawns and white garden furniture, featuring pretty-in-pink walls. The bar’s lady of the house is the dazzling Miss Pearls, who describes her establishment as “Hysteria Lane meets a Madhatter’s Tea Party meets a French tennis club”.

Level 3, 59-63 Bourke Street. madamebrussels.com

Drink of the house: Trying to cool down after a touch of sun on the deck? Put up the parasol and take a sip of The Pimm’s No. 1 Cup, or the Prussian Ice Tea.

Cookie & The Toff

The winding narrow stairs may give little indication you’re about to experience one of Melbourne’s true institutions, but be prepared to discover the wee hours here. Upstairs at The Toff is a live music venue, as well as a late night Thai food place with private, closed door booths. Downstairs Cookie, now in its 9th year, also offers excellent Thai food as well as over 200 beers, sourced from local boutiques and famed imports. From day to night the energy is buzzing, making this the perfect place for anyone looking to eat well and get their party shoes on.

252 Swanston Street. cookie.net.au

Drink of the house: While the Leffe Blonde — a classic Belgium ale — was divine when accompanied with a Thai Green Curry, we suggest you ask the super knowledgeable bartenders to match your dish with the right beer.

Section 8 Container Bar

When owner Maslyn Salt first took a small, carpark lot, two shipping containers, packing crates, and turned it into Section 8, it was only meant to be a pop-up bar. But five years on the bar still doesn’t appear to be leaving us anytime soon. The graffitied walls and makeshift roof lends the bar a gritty, ghetto feel but maintains a fashionable, inner-city sensibility. The crowd is an eclectic mix of students, media types and creatives, CBD suits and tourists. And don’t be scared off by the lack of walls in winter — they keep things cosy by adding more roofing and turning up the heaters.

27-29 Tattersalls Lane. section8.com.au

Drink of the house: Check the bartenders for current specials with spectacular names like “Gaga Scissors: A Massive Punjabi” — a chai, tequila, Framboise, fresh raspberries and pomegranates combination.

Murmur Bar

Blink and you’ll miss this bar, and what a shame that would be. This wee space was originally conceived as a rum bar (the bar’s name is “rum” twice, spelled backwards), and decorated accordingly with a Cuban theme. But since its inception seven years ago, while the empty rum bottles still adorn the ceiling beams, Murmur Bar has developed into one of the city’s finest cocktail bars, with patronage including many bartenders of the city’s other excellent cocktail bars.

Level 1/17 Warburton Lane. murmur.com.au

Drink of the house: There’s a delicious whiff of cinnamon from the off-the-menu lemon cheesecake martini. Otherwise describe what you like and the lovely bartenders can whip up something to suit your taste.

1806 Orchestra Bar

In a former life 1806 was a cabaret theatre, and with the red, velvet curtain still present a lot of the glitz and glamour continues in this incarnation. Since opening downstairs that magic is now found in Orchestra Bar (where the orchestra used to play). The menu and decor recalls the time of prohibition and speakeasies, and if you ask the bartender for the story behind the cocktail you may hear a tale that’s as good to hear as your drink is to taste. This is the bar for those who know their liquors and take their cocktails seriously — or at least like their bartenders to.

169 Exhibition Street. 1806.com.au

Drink of the house: There’s no going past The Corpse Reviver No. 2, which is gin with Lillet vermouth, Cointreau and a dash of Absinthe.

Get your kicks on Route 66…

The ultimate American highway that became a legend is all but gone now, swept aside by the interstate system. My earliest memories of travelling cross-country are inextricably connected with it. As a child, I travelled with my family along a good portion of it, the first time in 1952, when I was six. My father, an Air Force officer,  was transferred from his duties at Fort Slocum NY to a posting in Korea, and together with my mother, sister and I we made the long journey out to California where we would rent an apartment to wait for my father’s return in one-and-a-half years time. It was on that drive that I first was encountered the magic and wonders of the road – the desert entered my consciousness and native Americans became a lot more than “the bad guys” in some B-grade Wetsern at a Saturday morning kiddie matinee. It was a journey that never really ended. The beginning of countless motels, diners, restaurants and tourist traps, and the seemingly endless hunt for vacancy signs late into the night… peering towards a dark and invisible horizon beyond the next car’s taillights. 

Route 66 has a special place in the hearts and memories of Americans across the country. It was driven by millions of people and made famous in John Steinbeck’s novel, The Grapes of Wrath, where he called it “The Mother Road.” During the Great Depression of the 1930s, thousands of poverty-stricken people migrated to California to escape the despair of the Dust Bowl (drought-stricken regions). Route 66 became the road of opportunity.

After the Great War, Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation of the 1950s made road trips a necessary rite of passage for thousands of young Americans. Route 66 became a historic road, a slice of American history, yet you won’t find it on any modern maps because the road was decommissioned in 1975.

Route 66 was the catalyst for the culture of fast food joints by the road, filling stations, and motels with a very particular architectural style, like the 1940s Streamline Moderne style (late Art Deco) of the Coral Court Motel in St. Louis, Missouri. Author Michael Wallis described Coral Court as “the proverbial ‘no-tell motel’ with a definite touch of class.”

One of the last operating roadhouses on Route 66 is in Gardner, Illinois (below). Guests eat in the basement and the food comes down on a dumbwaiter weighted down by a World War One artillery shell. Stalactites still hang from the ceiling above the bar. The owners, Bob and Peggy, are both in their 80s, and I wonder if they were there when I passed through in the early 1960s.  It’s rumored that Al Capone and his brother Ralph were frequent visitors here.

Years after my early first experiences of “the grand boulevard”,  I still look back with wonder, remembering the places and people, the smells of the various eateries, the crowds, the motel rooms, and I wonder what’s become of some of those places that lay sprawled along the edges of the highway.

A couple of times since moving to Australia, I’ve had a chance to revisit parts of the country through which the old highway ran. Most of it is gone, of course, but here and there one finds the over-grown two-lane blacktop and a rusty sign, or one suddenly comes across the remains of a once brightly lit truck stop that was surrounded by big rigs and full of hungry truckers. So many of these places have vanished completely, or fall to ruins in a sea of weeds – the images of one’s youth slowly decaying in some post-modernist landscape that lies just beyond the possibility of poignancy – a metaphor of sorts for the American Dream, come crashing to earth amidst the husks of diners, ghost, broken neons  and peeling signs.

Here are some of those places and the suggestion of the memories that still make me, me. 

Santa Rosa, New Mexico, was once home to the famous Club Cafe and its sourdough biscuits and gravy. Wow, I still remember the biscuits. I bought a postcard there - a picture of a boston bull in soapy water, called “Saturday Night Bath”. I also remember the picture of the fatman. Like many of the old road businesses that suffered when Route 66 was bypassed by the interstate. Alas, the Club Cafe (below) is no more.

The long stretches of straight highway made it difficult to keep awake and many miles were spent sleeping in the backseat of my parents Oldsmobile, or watching for billboards like the one below. “Here it is” was the final sign in a series of signs that began advertising The jackrabbit Trading Post hundreds of miles to the east. Black Rabbit 450 miles… Black Rabbit 300 miles… Black Rabbit Only 100 miles… etc etc . Located near Joseph City Arizona, and known officially as the Jackrabbit Trading Post, though the first time we passed by we didn’t stop. After seeing the signs for several hundred miles I was appalled when my Dad drove straight past. “Tourist trap,” he grunted. And that was that, until two years later on our way to Texas, when I made my father pull over. Turned out to be a snake farm with snakes you couldn’t see and gee-gaws you didn’t want.  

In 1938, founder Roy Crowl opened Roy’s, a gas and service station in Amboy, California. At the time, Route 66 was “The Mother Road” and “Main Street of America” – the primary east-west highway artery crossing the nation from Chicago through the southwest to Los Angeles. 

In the 1940s, Crowl teamed up with his son-in-law, Herman “Buster” Burris, and expanded the business as Roy’s Motel and Cafe, to include a cafe, an auto repair garage, and an auto court of small cabins for overnight rental. Buster Burris himself almost singlehandedly created the town’s infrastructure, some of which remains semi-functioning today. Burris even brought power to Amboy and Roy’s all the way from Barstow, erecting his own poles and wires alongside Route 66.^]

By the 1950s, when I first saw Roy’s, it was a going concern, employing 10 percent of the town’s population (according to the owner).

Some very significant and lasting aesthetic changes came to Roy’s Motel and Cafe in 1959: with the February 1 erection of the infamous towering neon. ”Roy’s “boomerang logo” sign was visible for miles approaching Amboy.

Oklahomans built serious gas stations along Route 66, possibly because they pumped so much oil, possibly because it was so hot in the summer. Big canopies over the pumping area were the rule.

This is one of Cities Service service stations I remember from my childhood, clearly Spanish in its design. it boasted two storefronts–enough room for a cafe and a gas station office. Tiny square rest rooms with over-scaled hipped roofs were added in adjacent buildings. And Cities Service provided living quarters  in the rear for the agent, who operated the station.

West of Rolla, Missouri 66 plunged into the Ozarks and into a vernacular architecture that was unique to the region, but shows up in the Rock Cafe (above). Ozark proprietors built stone cottages and log cabins using the local materials–oak logs cut from the forests and warm, rusty, Ozark sandstone cut from the hills. Slabstone or “giraffe-stone” construction was developed in the Teens and the Twenties in Thayer, Missouri near the Arkansas border, and carried north to Rolla. “Rock men” set flat slabs of sandstone on a concrete foundation and laid up stone as a veneer over a wood frame or a concrete wall. In Ozark lingo, they “rocked” the building.

In June 1906 President Theodore Roosevelt signed the Antiquities Act to preserve and protect places of scientific importance. Before the end of the year Congress set aside the Petrified Forest as a national monument. Route 66 went straight through the Petrified Forest, but for the truly curious, it was possible to turn right and travel south through the monument, including “the Painted Desert”, and then return to the highway through the southern end of Holbrook and the Brunswick Motel/Arizona Rancho Motor Lodge.

For more than a hundred years the pueblo/adobe image was successful in promoting tourism in Holbrook. The Brunswick Hotel served a series of businesses, and reflected Holbrook’s history as a rail center, a cow town, a highway center, and a tourist stop. Located a block from the railroad station, it served train travelers who stopped to visit the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest. The cattle barons of the Aztec Land and Cattle Company who drove their herds through town maintained an office in the hotel. In the 1930s Lloyd Taylor purchased the Brunswick and remodeled it into a motor lodge, adding a 12-unit motel wing on the west side of the hotel. In keeping with the pueblo/adobe tradition, Lloyd built the wing in stucco painted white and used vigas to support the roof of the motel and its verandah. In the 1980s, Lloyd’s eldest son, Tom, sold petrified rocks to folks returning to Holbrook from the Petrified Forest.

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For those that can’t get enough of “the old times_, you can purchase a vast range of original and replica items including petrol bowsers, pump globes, enamel signs, oil bottles and tops, oil bottle racks, decals, restoration items and literature, at the following site:   http://www.roadsiderelics.com.au/