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 It seems that, to help stimulate Parisian shoppers, that the government has exceptionally allowed certain department stores to hold sales, aka Les Soldes, just for one week (April 22-28).

In Paris, these stores include BHV, Galeries Lafayette, Printemps, C&A, Virgin, and Habitat, but I also saw soldes signs on other shops, such as the Benetton on the Champs Elysées.

Normally, there are only two sales periods in France: summer (July) and winter (January). They last five weeks and while mostly targeting the clothing and accessories stores, pretty much extends to all shops. Will France soon be like the US, where there are "sales" all of the time? 

Read more on Heather…

Cultural differences…

What would you say if you saw someone in your piazza with a card around their neck saying “Free Hugs”?    Well, I decided to find out on Valentines Day this year.   The movement called Free Hugs was the brainchild of Australian Juan Mann in 2004 who simply wanted to “share the love” with the world.  

I thought, what better day to do “free hugs” than February 14^th?  I told a few friends and I got an enthusiastic response.    I had it in my mind to do it, but there was always some little reason why I didn’t start organizing it. (One key reason was feeling foolish). Days and weeks passed, while I thought of the best place to hold the happening.  Certainly not in my own town, that would be embarrassing… maybe a nearby village.   

Finally, on the morning February 14^th, I happened to run into a friend that knew about my plans, but had to work that day.  “Yes, I’ll be doing free hugs this afternoon”, I told her. When I say something, I do it.  I might as well do it in Bassano. Now I was hooked.   I sent out a few e-mails to friends in Bassano, hoping at least one person would have nothing better to do this afternoon.  I made a central meeting point on the bridge at 3:30 PM, made up a few signs saying “abbracci gratis” (“free hugs” in Italian); put them around my neck and under my red parka.    

Then I donned my red beret at set out to meet any potential huggers. After a half hour, no sign of anyone.  I had set the starting time for 4:00 PM so I headed out to the piazza, alone.    

Luckily a couple of friends happened to be in town with their baby son so I told them about my plan and asked if they would take a few pictures with my camera.   They would also be nearby to give me courage. 

Then I took a deep breath, opened my jacket, showed my sign, and held open my arms.  A few seconds later a woman ran up to me and gave me a big hug!   My first one!  A second later number two, this one a man, then a minute later a group of teenagers.  My face was lit up with a huge smile as I hugged more and more people.  

I hugged men, women and children, black and white, weak and strong, rich and poor. I hugged two women with minks. One nun (after I insisted). A group of mentally challenged (aren’t we all?).  All told, about 100 hugs in one hour.    

When they asked me why my answer was: Universal love.  Sometimes I added, “for Valentine’s day”.  

I guess it was a crazy/courageous thing to do, and the people in my town must have thought I was nuts.  But this was my best Valentine’s day ever… except for one side effect– my mouth hurt from smiling so much!   

www.freehugscampaign.org.

I love salami.. but sometimes I wonder what’s in it  and how its made.  When  I got an invitation to to go to Tarsillo’s house  in the Veneto Region of Italy  and make salumi-  I jumped at the chance. Salumi is the generic word for all those things that you make from a pig and stuff in a casing.    

“Eww!  It’s still warm!”   

When we got there  the pig was already quartered and sans head, laying on the big wooden cutting board while Gigio (Luigi)  was working quickly at cutting up the pink beast.  I touched the skin and it really was warm to the touch. 

My morbid curiosity got the best of me and I asked when our friend met his maker.  “This morning, Gigio replied. “ It’s important to cut it up very quickly.  The meat is very perishable”.  

In just over an hour this little piggy—actually quite a big pig-  all  200 kilos of it… had turned into so many pieces of meat, ready for the grinder.  

Out spews the meat and out squirts the fat, making rude little spurting sounds.  The ground meat had quickly become a mountain on the cutting table- a homemade wood  contraption with raised sides.   Four of us, eight hands, all pushed to amalgamate the mixture.  Some salt, pepper and a liberal sprinkling of Nardini grappa — Mario takes a bit in hand and tastes it, and I do too-  its taste is similar to steak tartare… but then it dawns on me—this is PORK!  What about all those things we know about  the dangers of raw pork?   The fact that I am still here writing  this has assuaged my doubts considerably. 

Next, the  casings; they are extremely long and they are carefully turned inside out, because, even though they are perfectly cleaned,   the internal part of the intestine is considered  the “dirty” part  and must face outside.   The casings are slid down to the base of the  steel nozzle just like a …  ( oh, never mind…)   

All in all it took just over five hours, with four men (and me, slowing them down).  The salumi is then transferred to the  cellar for ageing from two months to up to a year.   

Tradition has it that everyone involved in salumi making is invited to dinner.  The same tradition dictates that pork is never eaten, not out of respect for the pig as I had thought but in deference to the salumi expert-  the person invited to lead the job, since these men ate pork nearly every day of their lives.     

Afra, Tarsillo’s wife scurries up and down from the kitchen to the taverna-  the large room in the basement for informal meals like this-  and brings down  a feast—tortellini in broth, boiled tongue, boiled chicken, assorted greens, vegetables, salad from their garden, cheese  and pickled vegetables.  

I go away from this experience surprised at my reaction. Instead of  turning me off pork forever, it made me respect the pig a lot more. A truly efficient creature that eliminated our problems of waste in years gone by, we showed the same respect for him by not wasting a single part.    

A terribly hard job was made fun by working together in a spirit of teamwork, as it has always been done …. Looking to the next generation in line, I ask Tarsillos son  Paolo, who is learning his English idoims:  “When will you stop making salami?” “When pigs fly”, he winks.              

Learn more about Carla Cassano

I know…you might have been eating since Xmas and feeling pretty full by now, but…there’s always a reason to stop by at Josephine! Her creations are so enjoyable you won’t even feel guilty! Keep reading and you learn why……

Don’t believe those top-models that claim to eat chocolate all day! Josephine used to be a model herself, but she was always honest about her passion for baking - and enjoying - those generous jewels made of sugar, cream, chocolate and fruits we are used to called “cakes”. She was so good at it that she decided to step down the catwalks and start her own bakery business.

But don’t be fooled by the word “business”: for Josephine, in spite of her growing success, this is still a passion. And you can see it - and taste it! - in her sumptuous cakes which are a real feast for the eyes and for the mouth. Her creations recall the British and American baking tradition: fudge, carrot and almond, muffins, scones, and plenty of other delicacies are carefully prepared and beautifully decorated one by one.

Sometimes they may look not perfect, but that is when you realize they all are made personally by the loving hands of Josephine and her collaborators.

May you decide to get married in Rome, Josephine could be your wedding cake-queen!

Details: Josephine’s Bakery

Details on Barbara Marcotulli: Read on…  

My friend Carolyn and I both have UGC cinema cards that allow us to see as many films as we want in any UGC or MK2 theatre, as well as many independent cinemas. And since we're both freelancers, we can go when everyone else is at work. So yesterday we met up at the Cinéma du Panthéon to see the French film, Un Conte de Noël (which, strangely for a French film showing in Paris, had English subtitles…and thank goodness! The film is complicated enough even in one's native language).

Not only is Catherine Deneuve the star of the film, she also happened to be the main decorator for the tiny theatre's café on the top floor, aka Le Salon. We expected something cramped and dark, like in most theatre cafés, but this one is surprisingly bright, spacious, and cozy. If the weather is nice, you can even sit on the mini garden terrace. They serve lunch and afternoon meals from noon-7pm on weekdays only: soups, sandwiches, salads, cheese and meat platters, and desserts. We'll be back! 

Since 1955, Miami’s Seaquarium has attracted locals and tourists alike. Once it was a world class installation, far and away the most advanced of its time. Few were the package tours to Miami from abroad that did not include a visit to this venerable institution.  

But soon it was to be eclipsed by the super marine parks of Sea World and the rest of the Orlando area attractions. Now it mostly attracts a local market, albeit a market that has grown enormously since 1955. 

Having visited Seaquarium sporadically since 1965, it doesn’t seem to have changed all that much. In 1965 when Orlando was just beginning to chip away at it’s income base, it looked tired and in need of a slap of paint. It still looks the same way. The same old whale (there were two in 1965), almost the same dolphin families. There is actually one 36-year old performer, though you would never know, as dolphins don’t seem to age like we do. Have you ever seen a wrinkled dolphin?  

It isn’t a cheap day out. A hefty US$ 36.00 admission for adults and US$ 27.00 (plus tax) for children 9 and under (though that’s half of what you pay for Sea World). The cost is exacerbated by an annoying US$ 8.00 parking fee and US$ 4 Pepsis. Look on the web site for a US$ 2.00 to US$ 4.00 discount coupon per person. Being very careful, my grandson and I spent almost US$ 100.00 just on admission, parking, one drink, one hot dog and one chicken sandwich.   

That being said, you may ask is it worth it? I would say yes. I saw no long faces amongst the crowds. Children and adults all seemed to be having a good time. There is a remarkable amount to see in a relatively small area. It’s not as hard on the feet as Orlando attractions, and there are virtually no lines. That alone is worth the outing. 

My grandson refused to sit in the “splash area” at the whale show. He told me his Mum would not be pleased if he came home soaking wet! We then proceeded to get drenched at the upper-deck dolphin show. Until he dried off after about ten minutes, he was seriously thinking of not going home at all!     

As a young lad, he was fascinated to see sharks leap into the air and tear a dangling fish to pieces. My day was made when a daring great white heron stole a chicken leg from a crocodile, and swallowed it whole (the chicken leg, not the crocodile!). You could see the leg descending its throat. Awesome!  

It took us about four hours to see every show and visit every attraction, though if you are a little less organized, it will take longer. Not that there is anything wrong with that.  

The food offered at the attraction is somewhat basic. It will keep you alive, but not much else. At least they did not have grilled dolphin on the menu, an item that always distresses the uninitiated.  

All in all, it makes a great day out with the kids and remember to keep off those US$ 4 Pepsis! 

Miami by Martin 

October 15, 2008

Athens has been my home for more than three decades and yet it never ceases to surprise me. Even a stroll in a neighborhood I think I know well always stands my expectations on end. And I know there’s a lot more to it than antiquities, traffic jams, sidewalk cafes, museums and souvenir shops. How much more unpredictable might it seem to you, the visitor. Although you might not believe your eyes, all the photos below were taken in Athens.

You come to make a pilgrimage the Acropolis and at its foot you find a Cycladic village (1), with whitewashed houses, tiny flower-filled courtyards and straggly lanes going nowhere . . . until you spy a handwritten sign pointing to the Sacred Rock (2). 

You’ve been told that Athens lacks greenery and yet the Byzantine church dome below the village can scarcely be seen through the foliage (3).

Gods and goddesses still abound – on rooftops and sidewalks – at least as statues, like this terracotta Athena who guards a handsome neoclassical door (with only token help from the sleeping hound) (4).

And mythical allusions appear in many a taverna name: The sign here reads Sisyphus and you will have to climb some steep stairs to get to it, but at least you won’t be pushing a boulder at the same time (5).

This is Plaka, where anything is possible. Walk into a shoeshop and you may find a glass floor spanning ancient ceramic drainpipes. Enter the so-called Roman Agora or Forum, where Athenians shopped and traded until the 19th century, and you’ll confront a Turkish mosque, a multi-seated Roman lavatory and the legendary Tower of the Winds, which was also a water clock. Suddenly the trill of a solitary flute subdues all other sounds – for which I can provide no photo as proof.

This is one of the city’s most colorful districts, a mosaic of historical relics and contemporary kefi – the Greek equivalent of joie de vivre or zest for life. It doesn’t fit the stereotype of a pristine collection of monuments, but it is definitely more fun. The Parthenon inspires us as an example of what humankind is capable of, Plaka reminds us not to take ourselves too seriously — as in this piece of street art from a wall near the Roman Agora (6).

Sometimes you have to visit a place because of the person that is associated with it.   The Maglio of Breganze is such a place.   A maglio is a mechanical hammer used to temper hot  iron into different shapes, invented to save the human wear and tear caused by pounding on an anvil. 
 
Bruno Tamiello’s father had a shop, just like his ancestors before him, and Bruno has lovingly restored it and  brings history alive at this remarkable place.   As you walk through the wooden double doors, you are plunged into a world  of semi-darkness.  The walls are lined with old farm tools, all of which were forged by Bruno’s kin.  Tamiello’s blue eyes light up as he explains what it was like to be a boy at his father’s side, entranced by the open flame, never tiring of watching his father at work on the hot iron.
 
When Bruno yells:  “Via l’acqua”, loosely translated as “Pull out the stops” something amazing happens:  he pulls on a long wooden handle  and with a loud whoosh , water starts to flow through a canal, moving  water wheels both in and outside the building.  These in turn move a series of a half dozen long pulleys, used for operating a lathe and generating energy.  (imagine Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory..).  “ Now, stand back”, says Bruno, “we are working with really hot iron here-” as he moves to the open flame pulling out an iron rod that is red hot on one end. 
After cooling the shovel , Bruno goes to the next station, the grinding stone.  He uses a special stone found only in this area, and particularly adapted to this job.  When shovels started to become mass produced, Tamiello’s business faltered.  One trick of the trade he used to convince customers his shovels were superior was by clanging them against an anvil.  The mass produced shovels made a dull clang, while Tamiello’s rang like a bell.

Yet, modern technology was no match for slow craftsmanship, and the shop closed its doors in 1978.   Bruno  couldn’t bear to see the place deteriorate, so he began the long  task of restoration, doing much of the work himself, and the maglio was officially designated as a museum in  2001.
 
The shop is located in Breganze, just 20 minutes from Bassano del Grappa.  Bruno accepts groups
7 days a week, as long as you make a reservation. 
  

My mother-in-law found the first truffles of the season yesterday while out walking in the woods near the winery.  (At least that's what she claims because potential truffle locations are guarded like the families best jewels.)  She had already discovered a handful of girolles mushrooms and then she spotted them, a couple of flies hovering near the ground under an oak tree.  If you don't have a truffle pig or dog, that's the sign to look for, flies.  

Personally, I don't know what all the fuss is.  Sure they're rare.  They smell worse than some of the stinkiest French cheeses.  But the taste, in my opinion, is nothing special and you need a lot of truffle bits in an omelet (the preferred dish for eating this mushroom) to taste anything.  I actually prefer other types of mushrooms to truffles. 

As it's way too early in the season for the truffle market to be open, she is searching out one of her 'contacts' in the world of truffle trading to see if he's interested.  They weigh 300g (10.5 oz.) and they are white truffles.  Although, as you can see from the picture, this white truffle looks rather black to me.  This year's going rate is still unknown.  Last year a kilo of truffles went for 1000 euros, so maybe she'll get lucky and make 300 euros since it's early and there are not likely to be too many fresh truffles on the market yet.

A few years ago I accompanied Nini to a truffle market in a nearby village.  About the only thing it has in common with the regular fruit and vegetable marche is that it lines the main road. 

Basically, potential buyers park their white Renault trucks on the curb; open the back doors to display an old fashioned scale and a wicker basket.  A mis-matched jumble of people stroll, for all appearances, aimlessly up and down the street.  Some are typical Provencal farmers still wearing their blue zip up coveralls.  Others have come out in their Sunday best complete with beret and walking cane.  Then there's the housewife dressed to the 9's.  These are the sellers.  They have, hidden in their handbags and their jackets (the zip front jumper comes in handy in this case), their cache of truffles in all shapes and sizes.  They all seem to know one another and they slyly congregate by two's in storefronts and hidden corners to discuss what they've heard is the going rate of the day.   

The other group of truffle people are the buyers.  A mixture of city people, rather easy to spot in this country village; the elderly well to do couple with their tiny little dog in a Louis Vuitton carry case.  The man in the loafers and chinos lazily fingering his keys with the Porsche keychain.  The couple walking arm in arm, she carrying an expensive handbag and he a leather jacket.  These are truffle lovers hoping to get a deal by buying them directly from the finder thus avoiding the in between guy ie., the buyer hanging out in the back of his truck.

We stroll, like the others, seemingly on a Sunday outing.  My mother-in-law eventually crosses someone she knows.  They greet with air cheek kisses, "Et, alors?" she says leaving the question open.  "Ah, it's not good at all," he shakes his head despairingly.  I don't know whether he's referring to the price or the lack of quality truffles until he reaches inside his coat, pulls out a plastic grocery sack and opens it to a nice amount of black mushrooms.  "Oh," shes ays nodding and smiling pretending to be impressed.  He does have a bit more than her.  He jerks his head in the direction of a nearby vendor.  "He seems to have the best price but it's not good," he repeats: "Only 750 euros a kilo."

"The lady in the gray car is giving 800 a kilo," she replies and I think that's generous of her to be so honest.

When he walks away, my mother-in-law leans in and whispers, "Keep you eye on him.  See where he goes.  He knows of a higher bid.  What happens is that after they get enough, the price goes down.” 

We go back to the lady offering 800 euros a kilo.  Pretty good in my opinion.  We wait casually until the person ahead of us is done then my mother-in-law opens her sack and takes out her truffles.  The lady inspects them with a grunt or two and then places the biggest on the scale.  A couple hundred grams.  "In total there are 500 grams," my mother-in-law interjects.

"350 euros for all," the lady says.  "Merci."  We walk away.  We stop at a few more cars and even talk with the couple in leather until we end up behind the 'friend' of earlier.  After some whispered discussion, she finally sells her truffles for 400 euros.  Seemingly pleased she treats us all to a truffle omelet lunch.