Bad gnocchi is like (fill in the blank)

According to my boyfriend, bad gnocchi is like Play Doh at the bottom of a pool. I don't even know what that means, but it certainly sounds disgusting, slippery and heavy. And yet it is an apt description of the gnocchi I had the other night at a restaurant that shall remain nameless. Venturing off the regular menu, I took a chance and ordered the special; never before have I been so deceived by a chalkboard! Expecting a pillowy plate of potato dumplings in a light sauce of wine and mushrooms, I was presented with a plate drenched in chunky tomato sauce. Ignoring my initial reaction, I thought perhaps this was one of those dishes that made up in flavor what it lacked in looks. Sigh. Sadly the presentation spoke volumes about the dish. The gnocchi themselves were large and perfectly formed, yet glutinous and chewy on the tongue. The sauce was way too heavy and seemed to be the kitchen's admonition, "Yes this dish sucks, but we hope you won't be able to tell." Adding to the general heaviness, was a large portobello cap placed lackadaisically on top of the meal.

One bite of this sad large gnocchi had me instantly wishing for a certain Italian kitchen and a bowl of its chef's pillowy soft gnocchi. Claudio's gnocchi was the stuff of dreams; supple potato-ey and tiny. He wasn't focused on size or aesthetics so much as taste. There would be no drowning of his dumplings in red sauce, no sirree. Melting a stick of butter infused with sage, Claudio served up a delicious and delicate sauce. After coating the gnocchi in the sage butter, the Italian chef then added a generous helping of Parmesan and announced with childlike wonder, "No cream!" Smiling, Claudio handed out the finished gnocchi to his eager pupils. It was easily dispatched.

Back in the States, staring at the offensive red gnocchi plate, I longed for Claudio and his potato dumplings. Then and there I decided if revenge is a dish best served cold, well then gnocchi is a dish best served with butter. And serve it I shall in all its buttery sage glory.

gnocchi with butter sage sauce
Adapted from Claudio's Figline Valdarno Kitchen

Boil 9 small potatoes in their skins for 45 minutes or until soft. (You can use golden or white but do not mix; white takes longer to cook.) Peel off skins and place potatoes in bowl. Mash with fork until smooth. Add 150 grams (3/4 cup) flour, 2 egg yolks and a pinch of salt. Incorporate with fork. Continue to mix dough by hand. Flour a hard surface as well as your hands. Roll dough into log & chop into gnocchi. Boil in salted water for 30 seconds. Remove and place on oiled surface.

Butter-Sage Sauce
Add ½ stick butter, ½ c. water and a few sage leaves to pot. Add gnocchi and cook until butter melts. Boil down until creamy and add a big helping of Parmesan cheese at the end.

Lost in the Luberon

On our trip to France, my boyfriend and I spent a fair amount of time exploring Provence. We discovered a fantastic cheese shop in Arles, as well as a great restaurant entitled Le Cilantro, drank a lot of wine, and realized that despite name recognition, Orange is a town best skipped. But perhaps our most interesting story involves the day we decided to let Peter Mayle dictate our activities. What can I say? We didn't have a year, but the Luberon sounded like a great area to explore.

We decided to venture to Bonnieux, the capital of the Luberon, and so on what would turn out to be a very warm day, we boarded a train from Arles to Avignon. Once in Avignon, we learned that we could take a bus to Bonnieux. After waiting forty-five minutes in a dirty bus station more reminiscent of New York than Provence, we boarded the bus that would eventually take us to our destination. We passed through beautiful countryside and one town that was having a lovely Sunday market, but as we continued on, town activity seemed to stall. We'd drop a passenger off into a quiet town and move on. When the bus driver announced Bonnieux and we were the only ones exiting, I should have realized what was in store. Sadly there was no Sunday market awaiting us, only a desolate little covered bench on the side of a French highway, no town in sight.

Scanning our surroundings, we decided the actual town couldn't be too far, so we did the only thing we could- we started walking. The first few minutes were fine; cars seemed to be heading in the same direction and things hadn't yet turned uphill. However, after walking five kilometers on the side of an empty road in blaring sunlight with no town in sight, things had started to look bleak… until we saw a sign for Bonnieux! Although when it informed us that the actual town was still eight kilometers away, things weren't exactly looking up. We mustered our tourist’s enthusiasm and the promise of a good meal, and continued walking. While trudging along, I focused on the delightfully satisfying crunch I made as I walked through the roadside white flowers. Well that is, it was satisfying until I realized I was crushing thousands of tiny white snails attached to blades of grass. After that, I took to walking in the road with my shirt off, avoiding passing cars while Mark and I discussed how amazing it would be if some French villa/vineyard owner decided to give us his home-- unlikely, I know, but we may have been suffering from heatstroke at that point.

The final uphill push into the town was sweaty and brutal, but led us into a beautiful hill town. Starving, we explored the winding streets looking for a place to eat. A sunny, flowering vine enclosed restaurant patio beckoned us in. Just as I was salivating over the rabbit preparation, a server informed us that if we didn't have a reservation he couldn't accommodate us. Sadly this reaction met us at every other restaurant we tried to wander into. Rejection had forced our hands. If we couldn't eat, well then, damn it we would drink! Just as we were about to purchase a bottle of warm wine, a beam of light must have fallen upon us because we passed an emptier outdoor restaurant. Mark asked if they had an open table and cue the Hallelujah chorus, they did.

Finally seated and enjoying a pitcher of cold white wine and lunch, we took to people watching. There was the child who ordered a plate of snails (only in France) and "le petit gourmand," the little dog that would beg for food, but refuse to eat anything other than steak (again, only in France). Sated, we ordered another pitcher of wine determined to enjoy the fruits of our walking. However it eventually dawned on us that we had no idea how we were going to get back to our hotel in Arles. Did the bus pick up at the same highway bench it dropped us off? Were there more pickups? Would we be stuck in this town for the night? Conveniently at this time we noticed a couple clutching a Rick Steves book like the bible. They had to be American! We asked to borrow their book and got a little more out of the deal. It turned out the couple was from our college town and had a car. They offered at first to drive us back to the bus stop (?) but then said they could drop us off at the train station in Aix-en-Provence if we didn't mind making a small detour to Buoux. Score.

On the way to our new friends' car, we passed a parade of bikers tossing hard candy into the streets. I was nearly clocked in the eye by a piece of rogue candy and decide candy tossing is better in theory than practice. Yet it was no matter because we had a ride! Distracted by passing vineyards and blue sky, we realized that we'd been driving twenty minutes in the wrong direction. I didn't care because I was full and buzzed and avoiding snail roads; it was all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows to me.

After a mutual group decision, we bypassed Buoux and were dropped off at the Aix train station. There we learned that we had to take a bus to Marseilles and from there we could take a train back to Arles. Sold the tickets at 5:14pm, we walked out to the bus platform only to see a bus pulling away. Cue the dust clouds. Ok, perhaps a little dramatic, but you get the picture. Mark and I looked at each other and then down at our tickets for the 5:15 bus. Luckily the station told us to just jump on the next bus.

We waited an hour for the bus to Marseilles and were greeted by the world's most aggressive bus driver. Thankfully his road rage was not directed at us. Although when he pulled out his finger gun and started shooting at other drivers and yelling at them in French, I didn't know whether to laugh or worry. I was just happy we weren't in Detroit. While slightly erratic, our bus driver did get us to Marseilles safely. From there we stocked up on "Hit mini" cookies and caught the train back to Arles.

Exhausted and trailing crumbs of cookies, we finally made it back to our hotel and the only thing I could manage to do was laugh.

My latest travel companion is not Rick Steves

On my European travels, I discovered how much relative reading material could add to the traveling experience. A reading of Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence inspired a rather under planned excursion through the Luberon resulting in the European equivalent of trains, planes and automobiles. While Bill Bryson’s Neither Here nor There didn't inspire any cross country treks, it kept me laughing at his generalizations, only to discover the truth days later. He’s often right; I still agree that Europeans really don’t understand the concept of a line.

When I exhausted all my paperbacks, I moved on to my ipod and Under the Tuscan Sun. Sadly, my exploration of Tuscany really didn't benefit from the labored reading. After suffering through five minutes of Francis Mays reading her own prose, I was ready to give up on audio books and podcasts as they related to traveling, relegating my ipod to music.

However, a recent discovery will soon put my ipod back to full use. iToors.com is the website for the curious traveler, providing free informative podcast tours as well as book, movie and music suggestions to fully round out your travels. It says it is “the confluence of a passion for music, conversation, travel, storytelling AND the desire to give people what they want—the ability to download content for free without ethical or legal repercussions.” My favorite podcast is “A Moveable Feast: The Hemingway in Paris Rough Guides iToor.” Starting in Paris’ Left Bank, it explores Hemingway’s and other ex-pats’ literary past. Some highlights include meeting the proprietor and founder of the Shakespeare & Company bookstore, as well as a visit to the site where Hemingway helped Fitzgerald measure his manhood--not something usually mentioned in tour groups, I’m sure.

iToors podcasts are currently limited to Paris, New York, California, Glasgow, Prague, and London, but the suggestions for relative films, books and music remain more expansive. If you happen to be traveling to any of these locations, I highly recommend downloading the podcasts. While the programs do contain “relevant messaging” in order to keep them free, the information provided is well worth the short interruptions. Informative and convenient, iToors is a wonderful travel companion that's hardly as ubiquitous as Rick Steves.

Hotel Le Sainte-Beuve

Ah yes, Paris... The city of love, the city of light, the city of one of the world’s most expensive hotel suites??? If you’re there for the third, then the Belle Etoile Suite at Paris’ Hotel Meurice could be yours for a mere $7,300 a night. Have fun! Personally I’ll take the love and light seeing as though I’m not Donald Trump and don’t consider a personal elevator to be a necessity. While I don’t need a hotel room made entirely out of gold, I hardly relish lugging a heavy suitcase up six flights of narrow stairs in a hotel without air conditioning. I prefer to find a happy medium, and Paris’ Hotel Le Sainte-Beuve is just that.

Located in the 6th Arrondissement, the Hotel Le Sainte-Beuve is a small, but welcoming hotel. This is not the Sofitel, but a hotel for traditionalists. I could spend a pleasant morning sitting in the red and cream lobby drinking coffee and reading by the fireplace. It is cozy and full of antique accents and each of the 22 rooms is decorated differently. My room was a tranquil white with a bathtub that just begged for a bubble bath. The bed was comfortable and even came with the “good” pillows, ensuring a perfect night’s rest and the energy to enjoy “La Ville-lumiere” to the fullest.

Hotel Le Sainte-Beuve
9 Rue Ste.-Beuve, 6th Arr.
33-1/45-48-20-07
www.hotel-sainte-beuve.fr
Rooms run around $216