My Back Yard

Batter-fried clams,
lobsters dunked in butter.
Summer on Maine beach.

I couldn’t push food out of my mind when I brainstormed “regional poetry” for Totally Optional Prompts. The fried clams at Ken’s Place in Scarborough, Maine, are the best in the world. Far better than breaded clams. At least, in my opinion.

A plate of olives should come at the beginning of a meal, not the end. That’s one of the reasons I’d rate Tusca, a tapas restaurant in Pittsburgh, Pa., only average.

Tusca’s kitchen sends out food at apparently random intervals. None of the items the three of us ordered came out at the same time. That might not surprise me if their menu consisted only of tapas. However, only two sections of their menu are referred to as tapas.

Their food was edible, but didn’t excite me. The size of the roll overwhelmed my Kobe beef slider. The lobster and shrimp pasta’s sauce was watery and the lobster was chopped so fine it lacked taste. The grilled vegetable salad skimped on grilled vegetables.

Service was lackluster. The waiter didn’t notice that he slopped coffee into the saucer when he delivered it. I had to chase him for a napkin to sop it up. He was slow to set the table, though admittedly the third person of our party of three arrived late. On the plus side, he did once refill our water glasses without our having to ask.

For the record, my husband liked the food. However, after asking twice about the whereabouts of his olives, he predicted he would leave the restaurant without receiving them. He did enjoy the plate of green and black olives that finally arrived as the last plate of the meal. The slivers of cheese atop the olives were my favorite taste of the day.

The grilled hanger steak with bordelaise sauce sang to me at Tryst Restaurant in Arlington, Mass. The steak was a little chewy, but tasty with the rich sauce. Truffle fries would have been better if served warmer than tepid. I would order the steak again.

Service was a bit slow. By the time my husband’s glass of wine arrived he was almost done with his roasted beet salad.

I just ate the world’s best lamb sandwich at Kouzina in Waban, Mass.

The tender, pink-tinged grilled lamb mixes with tzatziki and marinated inside a wrap of grilled pita that’s thinner than commercial pita. It also comes with short, skinny fries sprinkled with feta.

Heavenly.

I’ve eaten at Kouzina before. I love their fig tart, which isn’t currently on the menu, fried calamari salad, and bread basket with olive oil-tomato.

Mission accomplished.

I went through all of the steps of re-seeding my back yard yesterday.

It does not look picture perfect. Seems that my compost failed to decompose completely. Rose buds, avocado pits, and eggshells are mixed into the rich soil spilled across the yard. They summon up memories for me. Squirrels licking every last bit of green gold off the patio after I’d cut the avocado into bitesize bits. The bracing taste of eggs over easy after a diet of Egg Beaters. The flowers that my honey still brings me — he’s a romantic. 

The Hilton Sandton, where I stayed with Iggy earlier this summer, is concerned about improving its maid service. So when the supervisor checked on our room I asked, "Is it normal for a room with two people to find only one chocolate on the pillow after turndown service?" She agreed that wasn’t correct.

Sometimes we got two chocolates after that. A couple of times, I got the second chocolate only after explicitly asking for it because I was in the room when the maid came for turndown service.

One evening, the maid told me that she couldn’t give me a second chocolate. It was against the rules. I was all for calling her supervisor. But Iggy didn’t want a fight. He told me to take the chocolate.

What’s with the scarcity of chocolates? South Africa is a poor country. I wonder if the staff steals the extra candies.

Anyway, the funny thing is that Allan got two chocolates on his pillows last night, even though he’s there by himself. Maybe the staff on the first floor is more conscientious than the third floor staff where we stayed the last time.

"Filtered coffee or regular?"

Iggy asked, "What’s regular?"

It’s hard to imagine a place where your hosts offer you instant coffee. But this is a tea drinking culture.

They sell beef flavored Fritos in South Africa.

Would you try them?

Ate yummy felafel at Anat tonight.

Soft, fresh pita bread filled with ungreasy felafel, tahini and condiments.

… in Washington, D.C.

Warmth and wind have knocked the heads off tulip hordes. Tourists shed their layers, stripping down to tank tops and shorts. Fourteen brown, yellow, and black ducklings swirl around their mother in the pool alongside the cafeteria of the National Museum of the American Indian. A worker pounds stakes for a volleyball net on the Mall.

I’m in Washington for little more than a day. Yesterday afternoon I hit four Smithsonian museums: the Freer and the Sackler, both predominantly Asian art museums, the National Museum of African Art, and the National Museum of the American Indian. Visiting Asian art museums feels like coming home. So many familiar sights. The spare black ink landscapes of China, the gold foiled screens of Japan, the subtle celadon of Korea, and the peacock glaze of a modern bowl built by a potter who lives near Mt. Fuji.

Dinner was an unexpected treat at Café Atlantico.  The arugula and jicama salad looked like maki sushi, with the greens wound inside a lotus root-like arrangement of jicama, with raspberries interspersed between the maki, bits of blue cheese in the center, and what looked like miniature Rice Krispies sprinkled around the edge. It didn’t only look nice. It tasted great, which is more than I can say about most fancy-shmancy food. I also enjoyed my more conventional salmon with cauliflower quinoa and papaya.

My coco en dos formas was also delectable. Imagine a shallow soup bowl with a thin layer of coconut sorbet topped by an equally thin layer of lime-vanilla gelee. Those two layers form an orb the size of the sun. Then, there’s the moon of eggless coconut panna cotta with toasted coconut flakes resting on one corner of the sun.

“What kind of cooking is this?” I asked one server. The upstairs – I was downstairs – might be considered molecular gastronomy, she said. Downstairs, the chef likes to have fun. I thought the cuisine might be contemporary Mexican food because the menu included an item using a form of fungus that Iggy and I ate on our vacation in Mexico City.

I would definitely eat here again.

Another highlight of my visit was meeting a bold squirrel on an urban street corner. He caught me staring at him. He stared back, his lips slightly parted by the acorn that prevented him from closing his mouth. I pulled out a bit of my sesame-based protein bar, then threw it toward him. He didn’t flinch. None of the servile cowering I see from even Ready Freddy. He investigated, retreated, and then went back to reconnoitering for more food.