What's Awesome, and What Isn't; Part Dva

I’m picking up where I left off a couple months ago with the food & music review; despite the fact that all of you thought I’d forgotten. Your faith in me is both underwhelming and to some degree, accurate.

After a reluctant exit from Slovenia, I made my way down through Croatia for a couple weeks. Having a long, rocky coastline that snakes nearly all the way down the Adriatic, I naturally gravitated towards seafood for much of my stay here. Any whole fish I ordered was typically prepared minimally with some lemon, light olive oil, and garlic, and was of predictable freshness. No complaints there, and if Croatia weren’t located along the coast of a large body of water, I’d say the fish was all very good. Seeing as how it does indeed have a prominent coastline, it was pretty average. Make sense? Sort of like when you spot a hot girl on the street in Herald Square, you’re liable to slip a disc at the sight of such a rarity. However, if you’re partying on the island of Hvar and see one, you’re more likely to yawn and order another beer. And then maybe jerk off. In that order.

That was the fish. The grilled calamari, on the other hand (if it didn’t react horribly with my digestive system), was outstanding. They serve it with the guts (is there another word for this?) still inside, and the portions you receive are definitely more than is necessary. I contend that calamari, be it grilled, broiled, or fried (yuck), makes for a great appetizer, but is a bit too heavy and briny for a main dish. This is especially true in Croatia, where the seawater is extra salty and is evermore present in the seafood.

Besides that, the baby squid was incredible. If you can get over the fact that you’re eating 5-7 once-living organisms in each bite, the baby squid I had in Croatia was as tender and light as it was mild. Simply brilliant. Pair that with the octopus salad, which was little more than a delectably tender octopus ceviche, and you have a nice contrast of sharp and mild flavors. Kind of like what I imagine the vagina of a 20 year-old virgin to taste like. Wait… too much? Come on, like there’s such a thing as a “virgin” anymore…” Either way, the octopus ceviche was good stuff.

Another thing Croatia does very well is the pizza. In fact, I am tempted to say that although I’ve never been to Italy, it may have the best pizza in the world outside of New York City. The dough is light and fluffy and crisped up nice underneath a fresh, tomatoey sauce that takes on more of an active role in the overall flavor of the pie than it does back home. The cheese is fresh and laden in just the right ratio to the dough beneath. There isn’t nearly the emphasis on garlic here, and any toppings you get will be a nice, never-frozen addition to an already delicious meal. We made pizza a pretty major component of our diet, right after anything served in a 0.75L bottle. Yea, we get drunk!!! Woo-hoo!!!

One thing I did learn while in Croatia is that there is virtually no difference between cuttlefish and squid by the time it lands on your plate. Cuttlefish risotto and squid ink risotto is EXACTLY the same thing. Don’t let some slick waiter with an overbite tell you anything different. Fuck that guy, it all tastes like shit after the third bite.

Having watched a Discovery Channel special on cuttlefish over Thanksgiving, I have since learned that cuttlefish are among the most intelligent of all underwater living things. And… since then, I have been left feeling more than a little guilty for eating these super-intelligent little critters. Especially since they taste the same as a dumb old squid.

It’s like how you can nickname someone a “squid” and you know that kid is a fucking douchebag. But if you nickname someone “cuttlefish” it’s more likely to be someone on the other end of a Dawson’s Creek friends-that-will-never-amount-to-more relationship. Either way, Dawson was a fag. That shit is scientific.

Moving on. I don’t need to go into much detail on the kebabs in Budapest after the way I lauded them a few months ago. Granted, nine-tenths of my meals there were under heavy alcohol and “philosophic” influence, but the kebabs were amazing. The rest of the food there was usually eaten with the homesick, humorous, and horny Jeff Jones, and tended to be of mixed European fare. I had some decent beef on occasion, but nothing particularly noteworthy. Anything else seemed to be rather nondescript. Either that, or my memory of Budapest suffers greatly from a three-month binge on cheap (and delicious) vodka in Ukraine. Or maybe it’s equally likely that I’m making excuses for my weakness for (good) kebabs. Fuck those things are good.

Before I get to that though the music from Sziget (in Budapest, if you need reminding) was from all different genres, and it all sounds great when you have a fistful of marinated lamb meat oozing with love and devotion. Gogol Bordello though, as I think I’ve mentioned, is a speed/punk/gypsy act from the Lower East Side in New York who I hadn’t seen prior to Sziget, and was absurdly energetic and as much of a show as it was a great concert. Plus, I think the playful, pipe-hitting, pocket-pooling Jeff Jones and I fell in love with the two bass drummers who dance and prance around the stage like tempting little vixen tinkerbells. Oi. The virile, ferocious, and voracious Jeff Jones even had me concerned with his date-rape stare.

Seeing Sinead O’Connor was definitely a cool and (perhaps once-in-a-lifetime) experience. Her voice is completely enveloping, soft and somehow powerful, and all coming from this tiny little Irish chick (who has gained a bit of weight since burning the pope’s picture years ago – that’ll teach her to mess with fucking GOD…). But the whole time, you got the sense you were watching an icon. She’s not in anyone’s consciousness much anymore (at least not back in the states), but when you see her on stage, you get the sense anyone within arms length may start crying. And you’d be more apt to hug them than call them a queer.

Tool was sick.

That really needed it’s own paragraph. Once I escaped the cauldron of death (ie. the mosh pit), and was able to somewhat safely enjoy the show, I immediately understood why Tool fans have a huge boner for Maynard. Huge. The guy is just fucking cool. He’s the kind of performer I’d expect David Beckham to be if he could sing, dance, and convince me to get an abortion. Wait… what???

I expect most people who know even a little about Tool know that Maynard never shows his face. On this occasion, he was wearing dark sunglasses and a cowboy hat, and faced the back of the stage the whole time, with his silhouette broadcast on the white screen in front of him. Which makes me think that silhouette porn is probably the only frontier porn has yet to explore. And honestly, wouldn’t it also be the cheapest? Though probably also the least fruitful, from a consumer’s perspective. Whatever. Nevermind.

His air of mystique definitely pervades throughout the show as the crowd grows into more and more of a vibrating hormonal asexual orgy until some song like Schism gives everyone the opportunity for some weird emotional and energetic release, thankfully devoid of any actual ejaculations. At least as far as I could tell. And believe me, I was looking.

Anyway, I was a Tool fan (one who would buy the occasional album because I respected Maynard’s “vision” for the album so much), but never one to wear a t-shirt or pierce anything. Now, I’m quite sure I’ll never miss another show if they trip through New York.

Faithless is a jazzy-pop-electronic group from the U.K. that was about 5,000,000 times better than I thought they’d be. Granted, five million times zero is still zero, but whatever. I went in there expecting to shout “I told you so” to my hostel-mates over the top of some shitty pop track, as I made my way for a third kebab. On the contrary though, I thought they (Faithless, not my dumbass hostel-mates) brought an immense amount of energy, and that’s not just because they had the biggest crowd of any other band I saw at Sziget. Simply… they bring it. The crowd was a throbbing hoard of heaving kinesis the whole time, and every song raised the bar a bit further than the one prior until finally at the end, I needed a cigarette, a shower, and a good cry.

Pink played too. Yes, that stupid-ass Pink. I dropped by to validate how bad I thought she’d be, and even I was surprised at how brutally horrendous she was. It was like taking home a girl you KNOW is regrettable to begin with, and then finding out she can’t even fuck. I opted for a kebab instead of sitting through a third Pink song. Interestingly, a kebab is exactly what I’d be passing on in the event a sub-par girl happens past my apartment threshold.

I saw Deep Dish too. Ask me if I remember a damn thing about it. That’s how good they were. Definitely won’t miss them when next they’re in New York. I wish I could say more, but I’d have to download or Google something, and at that point, I become much less of a lame blogger, and a lot more of a lame journalist. Either way, we’re all losers.

I saw a shitload of other electronic music while there, most of it spent by myself or with the adventurous, transcontinental, and occasionally transgender Jeff Jones, and all of it is one big blur. That should give you some indication as to how good Sziget is as a festival. Simply one of the top three festivals I’ve ever been to, and probably in no small part due to the fact that I wasn’t sleeping on mud, wood chips, the back seat of a Hyundai, or linoleum.

After Budapest I went to Lviv, and spent three months in Ukraine. I remember I was so fed up with mistaking the map for which area was Center for the first two days that I ate McDonalds three times in two days. Let me tell you, it’s no less disgusting in Ukraine. In fact, it transforms from food to remorse in less time than it takes to chase each filthy bite with cola.

After the first two days, I began moving to greener pastures and delved into cuisines from Georgian, Armenian, Lebanese, and of course Ukrainian. Let me start by saying Georgian food is perhaps the most tasty and flavorful cuisine I may have ever had. For one thing, starting a meal with harcho is a must. Harcho is a soup made from beef stock, with chilies, onions, tomato and chunks of beef making for a spicy and hearty opener. I’ve tried many other Georgian soups, and they simply don’t stack up against everything the harcho delivers.

Next, you can snack on their sweet and spicy sauces paired with flat grilled bread, and then move onto any number of perfectly grilled meats, prepared over direct heat on a skewer over a wood fire. Excellent, and exactly the way it should be.

Armenian food is quite similar to Georgian food, though their meats tended (in my experience) to be cooked over coal and that just isn’t the same. It was kind of like sex with a condom, frankly. Still good, but not nearly as satisfying.

I ate quite a bit of Lebanese food while in Lviv, only because a friend of mine owned a Lebanese restaurant nearby Ivano Franko University, so the food and the slut parade often paired to a fabulous start to my day. Not to mention, my friend made the best ayran I’ve ever tasted.

Ayran is a garlic-yogurt drink with a dash of cayenne, and not only is it healthy and satisfying, it’s also the surest way to increase your own personal greenhouse gases. Simply, it's the middle east's answer to Mexican food.

Ukrainian food is rather bland in all respects. There is an emphasis on pork (for women) and more pork (for men). This comes in many forms, including sala, which is a spiced raw pig fat, which should really be served with a bowl full of Lipitor.

There is also a multitude of sausage options, and their bacon totally ruined the erection I'd typically have after ordering it, as it would normally show up raw. Their soups can tend to be rather heavy, which is fine when it's busecca, which is a delicious tripe soup served with a garlic cream. Goooooooood shiiiiiiiiiit.....

Produce in Ukraine is of the best quality I've ever had. Especially the tomatoes. Interestingly, there is no appetite for salads in this country. Which is totally disappointing, especially after a dinner of raw pig and busecca. It's sort of like waking up with a regrettable girl next to you, knowing you need a shower, and finding out there's no hot water. Crushing.

Caviar in Ukraine is top notch, as you'd expect, and even though the bread products are typically nothing more than decent, you can find a decent selection of cheeses to pair with it, though definitely no wines (that don't taste like cat urine) to complete the triumvirate.

As for music, I did see De Phazz while in Lviv, which was sponsored by Nemiroff, or else they never would have come. They're a very cool, lively, diverse jazz/funk act from Germany, with a male lead singer on some songs, and a female lead on others. They played to a half-full house of about 400, since most Ukrainians can't afford a $40US ticket. Even so, they brought a lot of energy and played not one, but THREE encores. That was a pretty nice touch.

I also saw some other new-age jazz act whose name I can't remember, but it doesn't really matter because they sounded a lot like how Michael Bolton probably wishes he sounded, and that's still not very good. But seeing them for $2US, I would hardly complain much. Though it does probably explain the crappy suits the performers were wearing.

As for me, I’ve been through Turkey, a quick fly through Syria (with some issues at the border, but nothing serious), a night in Amman, and have been in Israel now for about two weeks. I’m in Jerusalem now and heading south to the Sinai Peninsula within a couple days. From there I move to Egypt after a quick jump back out to Jordan to see Petra and Wadi Rum.

I’ve been incommunicado in general lately, if only because I’ve been on the move a lot since leaving New York. I’ll be settling down someplace in Africa for a bit to relax and catch up with everything. Unfortunately for all of you, I haven’t been drinking as much the past five weeks or so, so there isn’t quite as many opportunities for me to get into any trouble. I’ll work on that.

What's Awesome, and What Isn't [Part 1]

In my last entry, I hatched the idea to clue everyone in on the various foods I’ve run across after four months in eastern Europe. Well, I think I’ll expand that to include booze and music as well, and we’ll call this a lesson in What’s Awesome, as well as What Isn’t. I'd love to post a picture of some food for this, but sadly, I still can't upload a photo in these internet cafes, and Ukraine takes WEEKS to get internet into an apartment. Good times.

Let me say from the top that I’m not entirely sure how funny this will be, nor am I sure this will add even an ounce of value to any of the lives of people not intending to A) visit Eastern Europe, B) do drugs, C) do drugs in Eastern Europe. Because as we’re all too aware, music and food and drugs are pretty much like bread and peanut butter and jelly, only it tastes better. I suppose this’ll be an adventure for all of us, so… here goes.
It’s easier for me if we travel throughout Eastern Europe according to my rather inefficient itinerary to this point, so if you’ll allow me this luxury, I’ll forgive all of you who said you’d visit, and then never did. Sound fair? Yea, I think so too.

First, the food in Czech Republic was largely average. And let me say that it took me some hunting around just to consistently eat at a very pedestrian level. Highlights include the pork knee (or knuckle), which is exactly what it sounds like, is baked and served on a spit, hovering above a dollop of mustard and another of horseradish. The skin is crisped nicely, safely trapping inside all the juices that make a pig so much more delicious than it is cute. It’s one hell of a meal, so don’t bother ordering a side (my mistake was usually coupling this beast with an order of croquettes – which tend to be a nice french fry substitute). It has a pretty obscene amount of fat betwixt (man, I love that word) the meat pockets, but the surgery is a small price to pay. It was easily my favorite meal in CZ.

Beyond that, I would suggest avoiding anything beef in CZ. As Nino discovered after exploring the “meatloaf”, it’s all trash. On the plus side, the pizzas are surprisingly above average. They’re rather uniform throughout Prague, and consist of a crispy thin crust, with a pretty solid cheese-to-dough ratio. My only complaints about the pizza are a rather high coefficient of grease, and the lack of parmesan accoutrements.

One thing of note in CZ, is the ice-cafes. Coffee, with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream, some whipped cream, a straw, and a glimpse of heaven. I had one after every meal; it’s impossible not to.
Czech food largely centers on the pig, as does most other countries in the region I’ve endeavored to. I had some pretty astounding bacon, and on other occasions, some pretty bad bacon. And fuck if I don’t love bacon. But as with any country, “meat platters” tended to be way overcooked and rife with fat and bones, and the potatoes, including the delightful little croquettes, were pretty ordinary. I don’t care what anyone says, there really isn’t much inventing left to be done with the potato. Kind of like how sex is generally very nice, but it takes a pretty special “potato” to blow your socks off. As such, I feel like I’m years away from fucking a new potato. Wait. Where did that analogy go wrong?

In Poland, I fell into a “daily borscht.” The borscht in Poland is a beetroot broth, with about 3-4 meat tortellinis (I’m sure they have their own name for these, but I never bothered or cared to find out) floating tauntingly within. It’s a nice, light (despite the oily pustules lining the bowl) start to any meal. Even breakfast. Poland has its version of the schnitzel, which I will go on record as saying is EXACTLY like it is anywhere else. Question: How can you fuck up pan-frying a pounded chicken/veal/pork something? Answer: You can’t. Every country thinks they have the best schnitzel, and it’s insane. It’s like someone telling me that Grey’s Papaya has the best hot dogs in Manhattan. They don’t. They all taste like shit, and Grey’s Papaya just has a bigger sign.

Poland does have, however, this beefy eggroll thing, laden in beefy sauce. Fuck I wish I knew what this was called, because they’re fantastic. Leave a little bit of borscht, and drizzle it on top of this thing, and your pants might come off. I swear. Mine did. Then again, that could be a function of the women of Poland, but I’ll try and stay focused on food here. But it wasn’t easy.

Moreso than anything, Poland has a FUCKLOAD of ice-cream. I was on a daily ice-cream, because Poland FORCES you to. Matt (from Krakow) and I had a running joke anytime we needed directions somewhere: “oh, M bar? Yea, go three ice-cream shops down to the ice-cream shop, take a left till you see the ice-cream shop, then turn right and you’ll see an ice-cream shop. M bar is two ice-cream shops past the ice-cream shop, across from the ice-cream shop.” They were honestly that prevalent.

And they should be. It’s perhaps the creamiest, most flavorful ice-cream I’ve ever had. So, for those of you counting at home, in Poland, I was coming off a daily ice-café, and coming into a daily borscht and ice-cream. Some may say I’m a creature of habit. I like to think I just know a good thing when I see it. Like the women of Poland. --FUCK!!! You’d think my penis is a touch-typer.

I know what will calm down my loins; I tried a hamburger in Poland. I asked a few people where I could get the best hamburger in Krakow, and they all recommended a place called Rooster. Once inside, I could tell that it was nothing more than a Hooters rip-off. The Texas license plates and other paraphernalia, waitresses in boy-shorts and cutoffs, and a menu full of American pub fare. A “Rooster,” however, is a cock. “Hooters,” as we all know, is a euphemism for titties. So it would seem, the good people of Rooster took entirely the wrong meaning from “Hooters” and drew the bird parallel. As the City of Titties, I assure you that Prague would have NEVER made this mistake. If this same restaurant were to open in Prague, it’d surely be called Knockers or Melons. I’m still amused though, that the bird name they chose in Poland, happened to be the ONLY one they could possibly pick while drawing a tangential reference to a penis. Real bad call.

Meanwhile, feeling as adventurous as I was ravenous for some ground up cow, I ordered the Rooster Burger. Patiently waiting, I was already feeling expectantly regretful, and gave considerable thought to running away and back to Babci Maliny for the third time that week. Given how low my expectations were, you’d probably be as surprised as I was to find that they weren’t NEARLY low enough. What arrived in front of me was the biggest, most disgusting saucer of overcooked, coagulated animal products I’ve ever had the misfortune of eyeballing. Visually, it was disgusting. Once I took a bite, my most empassioned fears were confirmed, and my throat cavity began convulsing as my gag reflex promptly stamped Bite #1 “Return to Sender” as it landed back on my plate. This was THE WORST bite of food I’ve had since my parents served me broccoli pancakes when I was six (true story). Lesson learned: No beef in Poland. Ever. And you can ask my parents; I haven’t had a bite of broccoli in 25 years. I can be incredibly willful when it comes to food.

As for music, at Open’er, I do feel inclined to recommend a few notables. For one thing, I’m going to assume everyone is familiar with Bjork, Beastie Boys, Sonic Youth, Groove Armada, and LCD Soundsystem. So in the interest of brevity, I’m going to keep my recommendations to those acts I found off the main stage. For example, The Strike Boys absolutely KILLED the late-night DJ set in the tent. They’re a high-energy Goa-type (with spots of ambient house) DJ tandem from god-knows-where, and were definitely a damn good reason to stay up until 6am. Especially if you were sleeping on a rubber car mat that seved to thinly layer frozen linoleum.

On the lighter side, The Bassisters Orchestra was a really cool compilation progressive jazz act, that I’m not sure even has an album. They consisted of a sax, trumpet, bass (string, not guitar), and keyboard, and had some really inventive sounds, I thought. Poland has a very vibrant jazz scene, and if you’re into that kind of thing, definitely give it a listen.

Smolik is a producer/DJ that has a lot of cool remixes of Polish acts, including Novika. Novika has the sultry voice of the Zero 7 lead, to go along with a similar supporting cast, minus the additional vocalists. She’s really good lounge fare, and perhaps my favorite side stage act at Open’er. You can steal some of her stuff off Limewire the way I did, and judge for yourself.

Next I returned to CZ, and moved to Vienna. Vienna also has some amazing ice-cream, as now I was clearly dependent upon a daily calcium/sugar quotient. Their schnitzels, as I’ve mentioned already, are the same fucking schnitzels any asshole’s ever had. BIG FUCKING DEAL. What I was surprised by however, was the overwhelmingly fabulous plate of baby back ribs I had. The sign said “best ribs in Vienna,” and being the skeptic I am, I thought I’d try them so I could complain about it to all of you later. I have to give them credit, though. They were damn good. They weren’t Salt Lick or anything close, but still probably the best ribs I’ve had in 2007. And that includes R.U.B. and Blue Smoke. They didn’t quite fall off the bone, but were tender, low on fat, and were laden in a deliciously smoky mustard sauce. Good shit.

Slovenia ALSO loves their ice-cream, though theirs is a lighter, less creamy variety. And although you’d think this would make it easier to resist, it simply wasn’t. I was still rocking the daily, and by this point I could eat a cone without needing the use of a napkin. For some of you, maybe you like to hang your hats on a flawless Partners Capital Statement or VB macro. For me, it was a carbon-neutral cone, and my prideful decline of paper products I thought exemplified my liberal excellence. Had you seen it, you would no doubt agree.

Slovenia is what introduced me to cevabcici, and I know I’ve mentioned them before. They are delicious little beer-battered beef sausages, with onion and some other shit in there that makes them taste like they came straight off Jesus' barbecue (was he Kosher??). They’re served with a red pepper paste that offers a nice sweet contrast to the salty goodness of the sausage, and visually completes the perfect dinner picture.

The sausages of the entire region are pretty unvaried. If you take the nastiest part of any pig, wrap it in a membrane and put it on an open flame for 15 minutes, douse it in mustard and offer a piece of bread, it’s going to be as disgusting as it is remorsefully satisfying no matter where you are.

Inasmuch as Ljubljana is a pretty well developed international city, I began branching out a bit more to satisfy some hankerings for tastes I was familiar with back home. I tried Mexican food, and it was predictably average. I tried some really disappointing pizza, and some average, if overpriced pasta. The salads however, were quite good. If there’s one thing I have to say about all of Eastern Europe (and Ukraine in particular), is their produce is of a very high quality. Maybe it’s because they aren’t juiced with chemicals the way they are in the US, and maybe it’s the soil and climate. But overall, the tomatoes, onions, rocket (arugula), cucumbers, and other vegetables are as delicious as they are colorful and crisp.

This topic is going longer than I anticipated. As such, I’m going to end this one with the proverbial “to be continued” and split it into two, possibly three parts. I may be a poor planner, but at least I’m a thoughtful scribe.

PS - To all of you at Credit Suisse, I've been missing Lenny's A LOT lately. Someone order the C2 on a kaiser and tell me how good it is...