A trans-Atlantic love story

For our last two nights in Deutschland, we’re paying homage to the old stomping grounds where hubby used to live six years ago.

Hubby and I dated for the summer of 2004, but broke things off when I took a job in Chicago. He subsequently took a new job himself and moved to Germany. Touche. We reconnected to say goodbye just before he left the country and decided to keep in touch. Several months later, I took him up on an invitation to visit (i.e. “stalked” him, as he likes to tell the story) and ended up staying in Germany with him for five weeks, during which time it became clear that 1) we were back together and 2) things were pretty serious. (Ironic that although distance was a big factor in our Chicago-Indy breakup, we somehow found a way to make things work between America and Europe.) In a fortuitous stroke of timing, the company hubby was working for disbanded in March, he ended up returning to the U.S. and, four months later, we were married. The rest, as they say, is history.

My fateful overseas flight on New Year’s Eve 2004 was only my second trip to Europe, the first being a fever-pitched high school bus tour that covered four countries in a week. Hubby was making his home in a small village called Ginsheim-Gustavsburg just outside Frankfurt, and that’s where we’re staying right now.

Ginsheim is totally different from Cologne. Much smaller, for starters, and more charming with half-timbered houses, a picturesque canal full of boats next to a walking trail, and a handful of local businesses and restaurants. You can easily catch the bus into nearby Mainz for shopping and a little excitement, but Ginsheim itself is a quiet, traditional German town in every way. Many of the homes and buildings have been here forever, passed down through families from one generation to the next.

Tomas, the hotel owner, REALLY did us a solid. Hubby booked lodging at Hotel Schafer, Tomas’ lovely establishment in Ginsheim, and when we arrived, explained that we had a little boy in tow.  In addition to the hotel rooms, there are also several apartments available to rent on the premises, so Tomas let hubby take a look at the two that were open this weekend and he settled on the larger.

Compared to some of the places we’ve stayed throughout this trip, these luxurious digs are damn near palatial! There’s a huge living room/sitting area, half sectioned off by fabric curtains to hide a double bed; a separate big bedroom with another double bed and a single bed; a small but nicely appointed full kitchen; a modern bathroom; two TVs; and tons of closets. AND, the whole suite costs about half of what we were paying for the expanded closet we’ve been sleeping in back in Cologne!

After checking in last night and making ourselves quite at home for a relaxing few hours, we tore ourselves away from our cushy pleasure palace in search of some dinner. During our previous time here in Ginsheim, hubby and I liked to frequent a small pub just down the street called Der Kleine Hexe; translation,“the little witch.” It’s a cozy little joint, full of cutesy witch dolls flying from the ceiling and old-school dark wood décor. The beer is cold, the food is great, and everything is super cheap.

Der Kleine Hexe

In fact, Hexe is where I spent that first New Year’s Eve with hubby all those years ago. The staff had prepared a feast and simply opened up the kitchen to let guests serve themselves from all manner of hearty German fare like gulaschesuppe, roast pork, sauerkraut, fish, toothsome breads, etc. For me, it was a fabulous introduction to German cuisine and hospitality. I remember standing in the street at midnight as 2005 rolled in, kissing my now-husband and watching the locals detonate enough fireworks to choke off the fresh air supply for the rest of the week.

So, last night, there wasn’t any question about where we’d have dinner. Hubby and I sandwiched the wee lad into a corner booth in the hopes of keeping his realm of destruction somewhat contained, and sipped away huge-ass mugs of cold Jever beer (three euros a pop – SCORE!)

The menu at Hexe hasn’t changed in six years. Hubby’s go-to order is something called “Sombrero Schnitzel,” a massive breaded pork cutlet topped with a German interpretation of Mexican ingredients — cheese, spicy tomato sauce and peppers, I believe. However, he passed it up in favor of spaghetti Bolognese. I sought out something I could share with the toddler and settled on a bowl of kasespatzle, a macaroni-and-cheese-type concoction of homemade noodles with a creamy sauce. I also got a small house salad on the side. The serving sizes were ginormous. Hubby made an admirable effort to finish his dinner and almost succeeded. I knew there was no way for me, and ended up bringing a bunch home in a to-go container.

The spatzle was yummy and soft, cooked just beyond al dente, exactly the way I like it. Even the toddler chowed down, and if that’s not a stamp of approval, I don’t know what is. Hubby snagged the first bite when the plate arrived at the table, thinking that the crispy bits on top were bacon. I was shocked he swallowed the mouthful after he realized that they were actually French-fried onions.

Full and happy, we rolled back to our expansive room and got a great night of shut-eye on the gloriously firm and comfortable beds.

Continuing our living large in Ginsheim, the hotel breakfast buffet was extensive. Europeans don’t do boring old rolls-and-coffee continental breakfasts. Ho ho ho, no! At nicer establishments like this one, you find a dizzying selection of options, many often surprising for American palates. In addition to the more conventional cold cereal, fresh fruit, juices, breads and pastries; our hotel sets out platters of German sausages, cheeses and cold cuts; a variety of spreadable toppings and accompaniments like tiny shrimp in a mayonnaisey sauce, veggies and pickles; and indigenously flavored jams (red currant? sultana?). There are also bowls full of whole nuts for the cracking and a mini-fridge of flavored yogurt cups. The only complaint was the coffee, kinda stale and not so great.

No matter, though. We would find our fix later at the Mainz food market. Every Saturday, the public space in the shadow of the imposing Mainz Dom cathedral shapeshifts into a teeming open-air market every bit as impressive as the ones in France. Stand after stand of beautiful produce, meats, eggs, cheeses, olives, breads, flowers, honey, oils — if they don’t have it, you don’t need it. The Christkindl market booths and decorations are also taking shape, lending an added sense of ceremony and joyous overtone. Many of the flower vendors are selling fragrant branches and wreathes made from seasonal greenery, bunches of fresh mistletoe, and festive arrangements of red and green blossoms.

Mainz market

We wandered through the bustling crowds, taking in all the sights, sounds and smells, and finally stopped to warm up with a coffee from a vendor operating out of the shell of an old French mini bus.

the kick-ass coffee bus

We took the huge line to be a good sign, and we were right. Coffee-snob hubby gave his double espresso the highest marks, declaring it the best java he’s ever had in Germany, and my cappuccino was delicious.

coffee bus wares

After a pleasant drive north past scenic vineyards (this is prime-time riesling/gewurztraminer production territory), we crossed over the Rhine on a ferryboat at the ridiculously quaint town of Rudesheim, much to the delight of the squealing toddler. The riverside villages are like something out of a fairytale with spired churches, crumbling stone castles and half-timbered homes. You half expect Hansel and Gretel to come bounding out around the corner at any moment.

Rudesheim on the Rhine

The toddler seems to have invented his own pseudo-Germanic dialect over the past week or so. We’ve been treated to verbal gems that crack us up, like “Where’s mein teddy?” and “Hold mein hand!” The wee dude also spontaneously gave the Hexe barman an enthusiastic and unprompted “Danke!” after being handed a glass of sparkling water. The barman seemed pleased, but lost patience and ignored us after the little guy thanked him for fourth time.

Sadly, the no-children-in-restaurants attitude has followed us south, I fear. We stopped into Hexe this afternoon for a beer and found half dozen or so people sitting around watching a football match on the TV in the corner. In utter silence. This was such a foreign concept, pun intended, I couldn’t get over it. And here we come, barging in with a noisy two-year-old. The reception was not warm. We managed to sit fairly quietly in a corner, nursing our beers, until the toddler tripped on a step and fell, letting loose with an ear-shattering wail. Every pair of eyes in the place was upon us instantly. I could sense the bad vibes shooting our way as hubby snatched the little guy up and hightailed it outside to finish his sobfest there without judgment. We left shortly thereafter.

Our last night in Germany — dinner in the hotel restaurant was the same old story, although the staff and diners seemed a little more forgiving than the Hexe crowd. This was a pretty upscale place, and the food was worth the trouble – schnitzel topped with pears and brie and served with potato croquettes for hubby, and scrumptiously tender pork medallions in a mushroom-cream sauce over spinach and linguine for me. Tasty, tasty stuff. Now if only the toddler had let us actually enjoy our dinners without insisting on running riot around the restaurant… Sigh. Dining out en masse is just not fun these days. Hubby does much better at chasing in these instances, namely because he eats so much faster than I do. I took the toddler back up to the room for his bath and hubby followed after paying the bill, thoughtfully bringing along a two-scoop serving of vanilla bean ice cream with a decadent chocolate sauce to pour over. That’s my guy!

After three weeks on the road, it’s time to pack it in and head to Frankfurt airport for our long haul home. Auf weidersehn and danke schoen, Deutschland.

Viva Milano

Here we are, back in Milan for the third time within a year. It’s funny how familiar you can become with a place after only visiting a couple of times. We stayed in the same hotel for our first two visits. We’re in a different hotel just across the street this time only because of an availability problem with our first choice. We know where the grocery stores are in the neighborhood, we know how to buy tickets and ride the trams downtown to the Duomo, and we eat at the same restaurant just down the street nearly every night. You know what they say – if it ain’t broke…

I must admit, Milan did not make a good first impression on me. I found it loud, abrasive and dirty. However, after a few days, its charms began to grow on me. Like, the way everyone (especially older women) fuss over my son. The simple beauty of the food. The gorgeous stands in the street markets and the impeccably dressed men and women everywhere you look. Seriously, I can amuse myself by checking out women’s footwear while riding on the trams. Milan may be an industrial city, but it’s definitely not without style. I find myself considering more closely what I wear here. I know I’ll never pass for a native Milano, but hopefully I’m not immediately labeling myself an American tourist.

Because I am such a terrible traveler when it comes to flying, I never take the risk to eat aboard a plane. Just in case. The last thing I want to do, in addition to desperately trying to divert a panic attack, is to end up making a fool of myself by accidentally blowing chunks all over the person seated next to me. This means that once the wheels of an overnight flight to Europe finally touch down, I am famished. Today was no exception. We landed in Milan around 9 a.m., and I realized the last solid food I’d had was a bowl of cereal prior to our original departure from Indy nearly 18 hours earlier.

After we’d grabbed a cab to our hotel and ditched our bags, we were off in search of sustenance. I’m not sure what the basic Italian breakfast is; we’ve only ever partaken of the luxurious hotel buffet for our morning meals. This standard European-model continental spread consists of all manner of pastries, yogurt, fruit, cold cereals, breads, and a selection of cold cuts and cheeses. This morning, we weren’t checked in in time to enjoy, so breakfast ended up being coffee and croissants at a café around the corner. The croissant could have been better, but it must be said:  When it comes to coffee, Italians know their shit. The cappuccinos, lattes and espressos here blow away anything you’ll find at Starbucks or anywhere else in America.

After that, we hit up the grocery to restash our toddler snacks. I love wandering the aisles of the Italian grocery stores checking out the endless varieties of pasta, olive oils and what have you. Still hungry, I ended up eating a few of Michael’s rice cakes and cheese back in the hotel room. My usual lunch when we’ve been here consists of a mozzarella and tomato sandwich. Again, when you’ve found something you like so much, why not stick with it?

Along those lines, we are loyal devotees of Il Pavone, a small and very pink pizzeria/pasta joint about two blocks away on Viale Certosa. Hubby got hooked on this place during his first trip to Milan a couple of years ago, and the toddler and I have come to adopt it as well. The hostess, a very attractive woman named Maria of an indeterminate age, recognizes us now, and she loooooooves  Michael.

The menu is pretty vast, and full of Italian cuisine’s greatest hits like tortellini pomodoro, grilled steaks, seafood, bruschetta, and a whole array of thin-crusted, wood-fired pizzas. I’ve tried a number of items on the menu during our visits, and my favorite meal remains a big plate of the lightly dressed fusilli della casa with a sumptuous tomato/pesto/cream sauce alongside an insalata mista (mixed salad) or perhaps a plate of steamed spinach. The salad is a bowl of fresh greens, tomato slices, shredded carrot and red cabbage. You’re left to your own devices to dude it up with the olive oil, balsamic, salt and pepper on every table. Same goes for the spinach, although I like to give it a liberal dusting of Parmesan cheese as well. With a quarter liter of the fizzy, citrusy house white wine for a ridiculously affordable two euros, it’s darn near the perfect dinner in my book.

We’re set to be here for three days before heading north on the train for France. The weather looks like it’s going to pour down rain the entire time we’re in Italy, but I’m determined not to let this curtail good eating. Buon appetito!

Buon giorno, Milano!

We’ve been in Milan for almost a day now, and here are some of my first impressions…

I must start by mentioning, the train ride here was HELLA long. Two transfers (Zurich, Switzerland and Lugano, Italy) and took about 10 hours start to finish. The scenery was beautiful – journeying through a portion of the Alps was particularly spectacular. Hubby is still fighting off a cold and tried to rest as much as possible; the toddler was a little super trooper and tolerated sitting on our laps, napping and looking out the windows for the most part of the trip. It was an exhausting day, and we were never so glad to pull into Milano Centrale at long last.

I think the train station itself is probably a taste of what’s to come here in Italy. The place looks like a museum. Or a cathedral. I’m not sure which. It is gorgeous with a huge domed ceiling that belies something greater than just a commuter stop. We managed to lug all of our bags into a taxi and cabbed to the hotel.

Our hotel is perched on the corner of a busy street. The room is smaller than our digs in Cologne, but the bed and the pillows are more comfortable. It didn’t really matter much last night – after 10 hours on trains, I could have slept on the sidewalk. The toddler is enchanted with the bidet in our bathroom, which concerns me a little bit. We’re staying a ways out from the main city center in a more residential area of apartments. A quick glance around confirms that there may not be much to do within walking distance of the hotel, unlike in Cologne where everything you could possibly want or need was within a block or two. Salvation – there is a tram stop just outside the hotel that zips right downtown to the Duomo.

As it was getting on to 8 p.m. by the time we arrived at the inn, we quickly ditched the bags and walked down the street in search of food. Hubby has spent a little time in Milan and is sorta familiar with our area, so he’d already sussed out a small casual pizzeria-ristorante about two blocks away called Il Pavone. My first thought when we walked in was, “Wow, this place is pink.” The walls are a shockingly bright shade of Pepto Bismol. I guess I expected something more subdued for some reason. No matter, though.

A pretty, friendly hostess immediately squeezed us into some seats at the end of a six-top table. The place is small and tables are kinda jammed together. If you’re not careful, you could end up rubbing elbows unintentionally. To my relief, no one looked twice at us rolling in with the stroller. A big flat-screen television on the wall drew more attention from the diners. Honestly, it was sort of like eating in front of the TV at home. At one point, we were treated to what looked like an Italian game show hosted by a couple of old farts and featuring dance numbers by two scantily clad hotties.

There was a steady flow of customers in and out of the restaurant while we were there, which I took as a good sign, and the plates we saw coming out of the kitchen looked insanely tasty. Rustic, hearty, uncomplicated Italian food. I was excited. And starving.

My college Italian is really rusty, but I recognized most of the food items on the menu and ordered the fusilli della casa (the fusilli pasta of the house), a mixed veggie salad and a ½ liter of the house red wine, or as they called it, the “wine on tap.” Nice. Hubby got spaghetti bolognese and a beer. All of it was FABULOUS. My pasta was a huge plate of noodles dressed in a combination of tomato, pesto and cream. Mmm, mmm, good.

The salad was super fresh and unadorned with dressing, leaving me to dude it up myself with the table condiment bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar and a sprinkle of parmesan. Perfect, and so refreshing to get a salad with slices of really good juicy red tomato, as opposed to the tasteless crap variety you usually find back home. We also got a basket of bread to share. The wine was really light, VERY drinkable, and went down like water. I had to monitor my intake closely, lest I get completely smashed.

We also made the brilliant discovery that the toddler LOVES grissani, those long, thin, crunchy, crackery-type breadsticks. A couple packages of those kept him more than occupied enough for us to enjoy our meal at a relaxed pace. I couldn’t believe how many he ate. On the way out, I saw a plate pass by that contained gnocchi with gorgonzola, completely stopping me in my tracks. Guess we all know what I’ll be ordering on our next visit! We returned to the room where all three of us took baths and slept the sleep of the dead for about nine hours.

This morning, we enjoyed an impressive continental breakfast here at the hotel. They really do it right, I have to give credit where credit is due and this was some spread! Cold cereals, yogurts, breads and rolls of all sorts, cold cuts, cheese, boiled eggs, juice, fruit, you name it. And all included as part of our hotel package – yay! It’s rare to find inclusive breakfasts in European hotels, so this is something we’ll definitely make good use of.

I ate the chocolate croissant to end all chocolate croissants. This little gem was composed of a blend of regular pastry dough and chocolate pastry dough, all wrapped around a thick layer of chocolate baked inside. And I made it into a triple hit by eating a small single-serving size Nutella spread. I seriously thought for a minute I was going to lapse into a chocolate coma. The coffee was top-notch as well. I was thrilled to get a cafe latte in the truest sense — small, dual carafes of strong coffee and steamed milk poured simultaneously to create the perfect cup.

We took a stroll down the block to find a supermarket and stock up on some in-room supplies. It is Saturday morning, so I suppose we should have expected the store to be busy, but this was ridiculous. It was the biggest clusterfuck I’ve ever seen. Aggressive shoppers, practically rolling over you to get to what they want, no one gets out of your way or makes room for you to pass in the crowded aisles – and I’m talking about frail little old ladies and harmless-looking little old men! Sheer craziness.

The store stock was something else, though. The produce was absolutely beautiful – if peppers and eggplants can be sexy, these are some sexy vegetables. Tins of fresh olives, cheese, hanging salamis, yum, yum, yum. It was a feast for the senses. The butcher shop featured a whole row of huge cured hams hanging off the back wall; there was an entire aisle dedicated to pasta and another to wine. The baby food section made me smile – it was the first time I’d seen jars of baby food containing proscuitto and fresh mozzarella. We made our purchases and got out without losing any limbs or getting into any fistfights, then the toddler and I returned to the hotel so hubby could run a few errands for his upcoming trade show this week. He later came back saying he’d walked by another market during the course of his errands and realized that the store we went to was actually the “LoBills” of Milan. He’s promised to take me back later.

butcher counter at the supermarket

Italian baby food - proscuitto and mozzarella!

After the efficiency, cleanliness and formality of Germany, Italy is really something of a shock to the system. You just can’t get in a hurry here. If you do, you’re likely to find yourself cooling your heels while everyone else chills and takes things at their own speed, wondering what the hell your problem is.

Case in point – coming out of the train station last night, we were on the lookout for a taxi that could accommodate our bags, plus a carseat and collapsible stroller. Mind you, we’d gotten everything into a station wagon in Germany with no problem… the first driver who pulled over to attend to us got about half of our stuff in his car, which was plenty big, and then decided he didn’t have enough room. He unloaded our bags again and pulled off, no offer to wave over a fellow cabbie or anything, leaving us unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk and back to square one. Several cabs later, hubby finally spotted a mini-van and we were set. His attitude was like “yeah, whatever, I’ll give you a ride,” but at least he got us to our destination.

Hubby calls Italy “scrappy.” It’s not that it’s dirty exactly, it’s just that everything seems slightly worse for wear and outdated. This is odd to say in Milan, perhaps the fashion capital of the world, but it’s true. The buildings look dingy, the streets are dirty and things just have a dilapidated feel. It is what it is, but I’m not complaining! I’m anxious to get into the main city center and take it all in, I’m sure there’s MUCH more to see and be seen.

An apple(sauce) a day…

My fabulous friend Laura has recently hired me to cater some continental business breakfasts. For this morning’s event, I wanted to give her something a little more special and seasonal than boring old fruit cups and bagels. After some recipe surfing, I came up with the idea to do pumpkin chocolate chip mini-muffins (told you I was on a pumpkin kick!), and cups of chunky spiced ginger applesauce.

The muffins weren’t any problem, but the applesauce caused a little drama in my kitchen last night. I bought the wrong kind of apples, because once they simmered. they completely dissolved into an unattractive brown mush.

Off to the store to buy more apples, and some beer for hubby. I must have looked a little odd in the 15-items-or-less lane with my bag of green apples and a six-pack of Shinerbock. The guy in line behind me wondered what the heck I was doing with these unlikely ingredients. When I pondered the idea of combining the two into some sort of dessert — baked apples with a reduced sweet beer syrup, he said “Geez, if it were me, I’d just eat the apples and drink the beer!” Pfft. Neanderthal.

Granny Smiths proved the correct choice second time around. I cooked them just until softened along with some dried cranberries, fresh ginger, brown sugar and spices. It was like a chewable mulled cider; if I could only have added a little rum and flamed it, I would have!

I stirred the new apples into the previous mush and it all came together to create just the right degree of chunk. To serve, I put a big scoop of apples in the bottom of clear plastic cups, spread a thin layer of creamy vanilla yogurt over and scattered some toasted chopped pecans on top for crunch. I must say, they looked lovely in the end – like a healthy breakfast sundae, although if you replaced the yogurt with frozen custard or ice cream, it would make a great fall dessert now that I think about it…

See for yourself!

Spicy Applesauce Yogurt Parfaits

the single-serving size