Czot in Kashmir
It was my first time on a houseboat and my first trip to Kashmir. Standing on the deck of the boat, I was excited to start working on my first film when Ajaz, the owner of the houseboat, brought me a cup of tea. It was the first time I tasted Kashmiri nun chai. We Indians love our chai with milk, sugar, and, at times, I add a dash of cardamom seeds to make a Mumbai-style masala chai, but nun chai wasn’t like any other tea I’ve had. It was pink, and salty. (It’s usually served with milk, but I had it without.) I took a reluctant sip and was surprised to enjoy the unusual flavor. Over the three months we spent … Read the rest
I remember vividly the disturbing stories Sébastien Van Malleghem told me the last time we spoke, in 2015. He was getting ready to publish Prisons, his long-term photography project about the incarceration system in Belgium, and though his images were just as haunting as his words, there was also an unsettling, cinematographic beauty to them. They were unforgettable. After our hour-long interview, I still wondered how he had managed to make hell on earth look so good.
His distinctive aesthetic is as present as ever in his new book, Nordic Noir, for which he’s currently raising funds. The claustrophobic prison cells have given way to expansive Scandinavian landscapes, yet their beauty is still marked by a sense of foreboding.
Bagels in Auroville
With the blaze of the August sun in our eyes and yet a lightness to our step in Pondicherry, India’s beloved, dreamy beach town, and an erstwhile French colony, we set out for Auroville to have breakfast at the Auroville Bakery Café.
Our host—a dear friend who had grown up talking, breathing, and eating all things French in Pondy—had raved enough about it for us to want to sample the food there.
Auroville is an ambitious utopian living experiment, courtesy of the vision of philosopher-guru Sri Aurobindo and his colleague Mirra Alfassa, aka The Mother. Founded in 1968, it was designed as a village-for-all, governed by multicultural harmony, where people from all over the world are welcome.
The foundation for the bakery was … Read the rest
Ale in Oxford
The heart of scholarship in the Anglophone world, Oxford is host to the oldest and probably most renowned English-speaking university. For a thousand years, philosophers, scientists, literary types, and politicians have spent their formative years here, learning and researching and crafting ideas that have helped define the progress of the human species.
Inevitably, that involves drinking. And along with a millennium of scholarship comes a millennium of misbehavior. At the Turf Tavern—a hideaway watering hole that dates back to the 14th century—a blackboard hung up on the ancient stonework in the beer garden celebrates the spot where Bill Clinton did not inhale. Another commemorates the 1963 achievement of a Rhodes Scholar named Robert Hawke, who set a world record for downing a yard-glass … Read the rest
Ghee roast dosa in Chembur
I am at a table with three strangers. We don’t talk; our mouths are busy shoveling down idlis, wadas, and upma. The only sounds we make come from the cracking of a crisp dosa, and the slurp of hot filter coffee.
A waiter hovers, ready to refill our bowls with ladles of fragrant sambhar. The thin and tangy vegetable stew coats the idlis (steamed lentil rice cakes) on my plate, giving them an orange tint. In another bowl, the soup-like rasam, made with tamarind juice, tomato, chilies, and spices, soaks through the medu wada (crisp fritters made with urad dal), softening them up. I wipe both dishes clean, resisting the urge to lick my fingers.… Read the rest
Wine in Ubud
In Ubud, we drank when the clouds came in. Every afternoon of my stay in the hub of traditional Balinese arts and crafts, the skies became overcast around 4 p.m. Like cigarette smoke weaving a singular sheet of haze across a crowded room, the clouds steadily drew in, blotting out the sun. The threat of an imminent downpour wasn’t always real, but often persuaded me to postpone more cultural pursuits. There was always tomorrow.
Most days, that first afternoon drink was an ice-cold Bintang, the Indonesian beer that seems to feature on every drink list in Bali. On one particular day, though, we drank Indonesian wine. Specifically, a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, created in Bali by local producers Plaga Wines. I had spotted … Read the rest
Hickory syrup in Indiana
My drive to work in Indiana is mostly flat, mostly corn and soybeans, mostly uninterrupted. So when one of my co-workers mentions she’s made a locally foraged syrup, similar to maple but different, using the local hickory trees, I’m ready for it: I’m ready for change.
The bottle she gives me is lighter in color than most maple syrup; she explains that rather than tapping trees and letting sap drip out, foragers in Indiana collect naturally shed shagbark from hickory trees and steep it in a simple syrup—the sweetness comes from regular table sugar, but the thick, smoky, tree flavor comes from the hickory bark.
The syrup begins as fallen bark, which needs to be scrubbed to remove external dirt and growing … Read the rest
New Zealand Pale Ale in Moscow
Heavy, almost tropical late summer rain forced us to abandon our plans of meandering around Gorky Park. Still peaky from last night’s intake of Russian imperial stout, I feigned disappointment. It was my second-to-last day in Moscow, and as a first-time visitor, I had failed. Kremlin line—too long. Ostankino—turned away by grumbling guards for arriving late. Red Square—fenced off and full of scaffolding ahead of a military festival.
Antipodeans aren’t averse to day drinking. I needed only a gentle nudge from my friend Nikita to get us out of the downpour and into Vanya Nalyot, a craft beer bar hidden in the city’s former Red October compound. Now a red-brick maze of bars and galleries, the factory once churned out … Read the rest
Laksa in Sarawak
I had done a bit of research about Sarawak laksa before arriving. Not that I was any the wiser. Depending on who you believe, the most authentic pastes have 20, 30, 36 or even more components, among them garlic and lemongrass, as well as various spices.
It’s often said the first laksa vendor in Sarawak—a Malaysian state on the northwest coast of Borneo—was a Cantonese man who moved to Kuching from Indonesia at the end of World War II. He gave or sold his recipe to a Cantonese lady, who may or may not have passed it to a Mr. Tan who, in the 1960s, made a fortune selling factory-made “Swallow” brand laksa paste. None of these creation myths mention the other forms … Read the rest
Urum in Mongolia
It’s my fifth morning in Mongolia, and I silently welcome a respite from meat.
I’m sitting on a low stool at a table in a nomadic family’s kitchen tent in the arid Gorkhi-Terelj National Park. Yurts—or gers—dot the wide, dusty valley every kilometer or so, and hundreds of goats and sheep rip short grasses and shrubs from the earth.
I think back on my first few meals. There were the large mutton-filled patties called khuushuur, and the platter of tender goat intestines piled high, and then the rich minced beef dumplings. And the night before, a stew of goat, carrot, onions, and potatoes simmering on a pressure cooker over the fire. The father made me back 20 paces away when he … Read the rest
A cocktail in Nice
I first spotted the curious restaurant while walking with my mom along the waterfront just north of Nice, France. Perched on a tiny rock pillar out in the sea, it was impossible to miss. But it was not a day for lingering, so we walked on, climbed up onto Mont Boron and then back down to the neighboring town of Villefranche-sur-Mer, striding past hillside homes and kitchen gardens, where chickens lounge away their days under the shade of olive and citrus trees.
I fell in love with those chickens, those homes, those trees. I snapped a selfie with a chicken over my shoulder and sent it to home to my husband saying I’d found my retirement plan, wink, wink.
A year later, … Read the rest
Buranei on Burano
It’s morning on Burano, and the sound of a spinning washing machine woke me. Mornings here are made for cleaning; washing clothes, sweeping the front step, mopping the floor; the sound of metal drying racks being opened in the courtyards.
I stepped out of the front door into the sun. I needed to get going before the vaporettos full of tourists started their assault. On my way to the bakery, there was the scent of laundry soap in the street. Houses here are in every shade of the rainbow: pink, blue, green, red, orange, yellow, purple. Front doors are covered in cloth that lets in the breeze and keeps out prying eyes.
Burano is a village trapped on an island, and it has … Read the rest
When you have the French Riviera just a train ride away, why would you choose Scotland for your summer vacation? That’s what most of my fellow Parisians heading for the beach were probably wondering when I shared my own holiday plans. Sure, they might have thought it sounded quirky, but they weren’t convinced. And to tell you the truth, neither was I.… Read the rest