The last night we were in Paris we ate at Les Cocottes, a short walk from The Eiffel Tower. The chic dining room and meat hanging in the windows drew us in.  Our glorious meal was accompanied by a bottle of Beaujolais and dark rainclouds. Our appetizers arrived as it began to drizzle.  I had a crab salad which had been meticulously packed into a tiny mason jar.  Shaved cucumber and homemade mayonnaise blended together well.  Kate’s salad was simply mounded with bacon, and an oozing quenelle of goat cheese sat melting on top.  Kate sipped her wine as I drank her in.  What a babe.  Later that night we got engaged.  The small restaurant was filling up, people bustled in from the blustering rain.  The place was full and people were waiting by the time our entrees arrived.  I was immediately jealous of Kate’s scallops.  They swam in a foamy and delicious smelling sauce.  I was straight drooling.  She gave me only one taste.  Good Lord.  C’etait delicieux!!  My steak dish was very meat and potatoes for Paris, but was well executed and well, it was meat and potatoes.  Man I wanted those fucking scallops.  We laughed and talked for awhile, digesting and enjoying the wine.  This was our last night in France, and we were savoring every minute.  We finally ordered dessert, she the chocolate tart, and me the clafoutis.   The simple dark tart sat silky on the plate, a texture that would prove to taste as good as it looked.  My dessert was strewn with port soaked prunes, a pot of pancake.   Totally sated and elated we paid our bill and left with smiles.   I lifted an umbrella from a pot by the door on the way out.   That rain was really coming down.

Yes, faithful readers, that, unfortunately, is Foie Gras. A cold lifeless hunk of fatty fat-fat, alongside a pile of stinky aspic. This pathetic terrine was crap, and so was our entire meal at a brasserie in Paris, France. The 27 euro prix fix was just shit. The service staff hovered annoyingly, the dude eye-balling my fork, just bent on that moment when I put it down so he can snatch it away. Our salad, hands down the best course, reminded me of middle school. I felt the bearded cigar smoking lady from 6th grade lunch line watching me from the kitchen as I ate slimy lettuce and hard tomatoes. Even the cream corn was present. Kate had salmon, a flesh colored mass that arrived at the table amidst a broken hollandaise and rice pilaf. The only texture in the fish came from the numerous pin bones. My lamb chops showed up overcooked with no sauce, the “chips” were the only thing more embarrassing than the foie terrine. And what the fuck was that salad? Even Ground Round did it better than that!! At least they dressed the cunting thing. We sat in the middle of the dining room, in sight of the (shudder) dessert table, which housed the included sweets of the evening. A kind of enclosure or sneeze card covered the room temp plates I could almost reach. The profiteroles came from the kitchen, however and the imported Hershey’s syrup the saving grace of the meal. My lemon crap-tart arrived quickly, as it was stored less than a meter from my face in the center of the crowded room. It had the tip broken off of it’s stale meringue. The fucking tip was broken off!! Show some pride people!! This is Paris!! Putain de merde!!

We ate a quick, early breakfast of poached eggs, croissants, charcuterie and cheese. After checking out of our room, the owner of the hotel offered to drive us to the bus station to begin the next leg of our journey. Leaving much loved Riva Del Garda was bittersweet, but we were bound for Rovereto, then Bellagio. We waited at the station for about an hour, dozing on our heavy backpacks. On the bus, we marveled at the beauty of the Italian countryside. In Rovereto, we had just enough time to grab some snacks- cappuccino, “light” coke, and a panino. The train ride to Verona was a quick and easy on hour. A twenty minute lay-over and then a train to Como. When it arrived we wandered empty car after empty car looking for our seat numbers. In the very last car, which was packed, we found our seats next to an ancient nun and a smelly old lady reading the funnies. Her cell phone kept buzzing loudly as she dozed, completely oblivious. We arrived in Como around 3 pm and had beers and a package of cookies. Our final bus of the day to Bellagio left in about an hour. When it finally rolled up in the warm afternoon sun we barely got seated before the driver hit the accelerator. Riding through the city of Como, the bus loudly banging and creaking over bumpy streets, I could hear it’s roar over my ipod. I commented to Kate about how roootie-poot it felt, we soon found out why. The bus ride from Como to Bellagio is one I will remember for the rest of my life. A white-knuckle nightmare of blind corners and blaring horns. Our driver, the picture of calm in the rear-view pounded that bus around impossible corners, up narrow-assed streets, gassed it through too-tight curves and hammered it up and down steep grades. He leaned on the horn often, as if to warn oncoming cars of their two options: pull over or die. Near-miss was met by close call and again with the horn. Too-tiny streets where houses and buildings teetered over the cliff’s edge, the asphalt winded up around and over and through. I gritted my teeth and held on to the seat-back in front of me, which I then noticed had roller coaster style handles. Motorcycles passed us at regular intervals. Fucking death wish? At one point, a particularly narrow corner, road work had closed off one lane. What did our driver do? Again with the horn…but this time his trumpeting was only met with more trumpeting, of another oncoming tour bus. Screech!!! Hilarity ensues. Picture this, on one side a thirty foot rock wall, about three inches from the side of the bus. On the other, another huge bus crammed in at a weird angle between us and the guardrail, the hundred plus foot drop into Lake Como over houses and gardens. Italian men from both buses were in the road cursing and waving their arms, comically creased brows and incomprehensible shouting. Bottlenecking traffic, cars and motorcycles piled up in front and in behind, ever inching closer as the buses eeked back and forth, trying to get around each other. After about fifteen minutes of this, our driver manages to squeak out, how he didn’t scrape the rock wall is beyond me. But now you see, we were off schedule. The fifteen minutes spent maneuvering the construction zone had made us late, and our driver knew it. I don’t think he let off the gas once over the following twenty minutes, even when he slammed on the brakes to carry us careening around cars or through narrow tunnels. Arriving in Bellagio and screeching to a halt, he promptly killed the engine and jumped out, no doubt in search of a stiff drink. As I peeled my fingers out of the grooves I had created in the seat in front of me, I wanted one, too. We checked into the Hotel Bellagio, and on the third floor found our room with stunning views. After settling we wandered the tiny winding staircase streets inquiring at several eateries about dinner. In this town, apparently, dinner wasn’t served anywhere until after 7 pm. We sighed and parked our butts at a patio cafe and ordered drinks. They brought cream cheese and chive crostini and cheap chips with our beverages, we ate and watched the sun sink low in the sky. An hour or so later, we were in front of Far Out, a swank feeling restaurant with a good looking menu. Once seated, we were told service would not begin for another fifteen minutes, in which time we were completely ignored. I walked over to the bar and ordered us a couple of drinks. At our table, our server told us they didn’t serve wines by the glass, even though I just bought one at the bar. Our empty glasses stayed on the table the entire meal. We ordered our food and waited, pondering how Italian restaurants put out bread and olive oil, but no plate to dip. During our caprese salad and bruscetta, we watched a bunch of obvious looking Americans pile into the seating area. Our server, who also was also hosting, told them “Sorry, we are full.” We glanced around the empty dining room just as they had and exchanged confused looks. The group left, looking puzzled. I thought maybe the tables were reserved or something, but as the room filled up with random walk-ins I realized they certainly were. For non-Americans. They had reached American capacity. I enjoyed my Head-on Tiger Prawns and Beef Tenderloin but really wanted to stiff these assholes on gratuity. Kate wouldn’t have it. She loved her Salmon Ravioli too much. We left three euro on a fifty euro check. Back at the hotel we watched old sci-fi movies (in English yay!!) and fell asleep to the sounds of a thunderstorm.

In Beaune, France, I visited real pastry shop. Near our hotel there was a spot with delicious smelling individual pastries, all smart and clean and made similar modular molds and built in frames. I bought a triple chocolate mousse cake. The delicate chocolate garnish on top caught my eye, and the barely gelatine-ized mousses melted easily in my mouth. I felt myself getting closer to Paris as I ate my little cake in the park. My mecca of food and cooking was on the next horizon. I felt it all deep-like. We visited the local cheese shop, the smell of moldy funk filling the air, the streets. Viva fucking France, Man!! For lunch, we wandered an open air market We bought cheese, bread, tapanade, and fruit. We ate by the merry-go-round and people watched. Our dinners were good in Beaune, everything from snail shaped foie to burger and fries and carpaccio. We played cards at night and talked while drinking local wine. We woke early one morning and boarded a train to Paris. I knew soon I would be eating at Pierre Herme’s shop, the epicenter of my pastry dreams. A few days later, in a jewelery shop style setting, precise desserts were handed to me by white gloved employees who openly mocked my poor French. OK, maybe they didn’t have white gloves, but I couldn’t get my mind around this perfect pastry shop. I could barely take it in. I was all jittery, starstruck. Perfect soldier-like rows of macrons and chocolate masks. 60 euro boxes of truffles and what looked like loaves of quick-bread. I ended up buying a chocolate dome called Plentitude and two macarons. The two cookies we ate while walking through the Tuileries Gardens outside the Louvre. One cookie was olive oil, the other salted caramel. Kate found a huge wrought iron spider. Later, inside the Musee Dorsay, I ate the chocolate mousse dome. We saw several great paintings and cool sculptures. I saw paintings by Van Gogh and Degas. Pierre Herme’s mousse cake left a more lasting impression than either. Fractal shapes of uber-thin chocolate fit into a seemingly random pattern, covering the dome. Underneath, a glossy ganache coated a luscious dark chocolate mousse and a crisp cookie base. I went back a second time, and bought more delicious stuff. More macarons of course, and in Luxembourg Gardens, I ate another dome. This one had a creamy salty caramel center and milk chocolate mousse. A chocolate macaron made a base for the tempered chocolate hemisphere. I have got to get me one of them molds. I also visited Laduree in Paris, and had a fine meal. Seared Foie with crisp brioche and foie fat. Veal Sweetbreads with parsnip puree. Kate had Scallops with Black Rice. My first taste ever of sweebreads left me drooling and the foie was cooked perfectly. Kate cleaned her plate and we ordered dessert. An opera cake sort of, and a chocolate passion fruit tart. Both were cleanly executed and delicious…but I still had Pierre Herme’s in tongue-memory. The macarons we bought on the way out weren’t nearly as good. I could feel myself getting fatter and I didn’t care.

We ate twice at the Stockhorn in Zermatt, Switzerland. We arrived in town on the Glacier Express in snow storm. Big flat flakes blew everywhere. An overgrown golf cart picked us up from the station and brought us to the Albatross Hotel. After checking in, we inquired about the local fondue joint. A short walk from our hotel landed us in a stinky cheese cellar. Travel weary and eager to relax, we ordered wine and beer. Shortly afterwards, a salad and charcuterie plate arrived at our table to our delight. The meat was fatty without being greasy and had nice spice. Steaming and stinky, our cheese fondue was delivered next with toasted bread. Garlic and white wine filled the air, and a slight aroma of vinegar. Drool flooded my mouth as it wafted into my face. There was more melted cheese than we could possibly eat but dammit, we had to try. As we dipped towards the bottom, our pores oozed with oily cheese. I knew the best cheese was burned to the bottom of the crock, all crunchy and dark. I chiseled with my fork to get those last few bites. After eating our fill, we waddled back to the hotel in hopes of hot tubs and glasses of proseco. The following day the hotel served a buffet style breakfast. I ate three croissants, scrambled eggs, bacon, cottage cheese, two kinds of dried meat, yogurt , and buttered bread. Afterwards, we frequented swiss bakery fuchs, where the smell of chocolate lured us into to melty heaven. We sat around our hotel most of the day, sporadically venturing out for snacks. We wanted to catch a glimpse of the Matterhorn, but as much as it teased us we never did. We watched old Frank Sinatra movies and BBC sitcoms while drinking and playing cards. Our hotel room in Zermatt was one of the nicest we stayed in. Later that night we wandered down to the StockHorn again. We sat in the upstairs dining room this time, with a great view of the fire place. Here all the proteins were cooked. A server would bring up little plates of raw meat from the kitchen. Dude would then toss them all into a bain of marinade for a few minutes , then throw them on the grill. I ordered beef tenderloin (44 francs,) and sure enough, right into that sticky sauce, then onto the grill. As we watched it leave the flames, a server dished out sides from a chafing dish near the grill. Au gratin potatoes and sauteed veggies met the steak on the plate. It all came to the table moments later with a crock of garlicy compound butter. Kate and I split the perfectly temped beef and side salad. As the night got rolling, dude flew through his orders, a blur of motion. A little intercom on the mantle kept him in touch with the kitchen. This guy cooked fifty or so steaks plus chicken, as we ate and watched. The night winded down and we drank more wine. We walked dreamily back to the hotel for more chocolate and sleep. The following day we would travel to France.

In Malcesine (Mal-CHEE-see-nay,) Italy, we had the most amazing pastries. I think technically they were cookies, made from some kind of short dough, but there they called them Balls of Snow. Sure I had pizza and pasta, but it wasn’t until I ate these things that I knew I was in for some really interesting food. Balls of Snow are apparently only available in Malcesine, and can be a little tricky to eat. From what I could taste, this was a butter cookie of some sort, that while still warm from the oven was slathered with a filling and rolled into a ball. Then once cooled, a topping or glaze was added. After I started stuffing my face, it didn’t matter, they were brilliant, and fun to eat. I had other pastries in Italy, none that really stick out in my mind. Eating there was all about showcasing fresh ingredients, and this really came through on the savory side of things. In Limone, I had pizza that was so simple, yet so perfect, it left me speechless. Well, more like slurping, but you get the idea. One of our best meals was in Bellagio, at a little place called Barchetta. We walked up this little stairway/sidewalk, sat in the sun and had the lunch of a life time. We had bruscetta, then I had the Gorgonzola Gnocci, and Kate Spaghetti Carbonara. We washed it down with a 4 euro carafe of wine and were absolutely sated. I went inside to pay the bill and tipped the cook directly for an amazing meal. It was so good, that night we went back for dinner. At 7 pm, the dining room above the street opens up, and they serve even more good food. We shared a plate of Pan Fried Lake trout over Parmesan Rissotto, and of course more cheap wine. Our dessert was creme brulee (below,) but not in the traditional presentation. The custard was quenelled onto the plate and bruleed in a free-form way…on the black plate it looked sharp. Kate looked at me with that special look she’s got, and we knew we’d had another great meal. It was just enough to push us into a full fledged food coma. We slept like babies that night. Fat babies.

 As my faithful readers know all to well, I love to eat.  My recent trip to Europe was a whirlwind of raw milk cheese, artisinal beer, deliciously fresh produce, excellent (and cheap) wine, amazing chocolate and pastries, and many, many, good eats.  Kate of course, was right there with me.  Having said that,  I learned one very important thing:  You can get crappy food in any country.  For some reason I thought in Europe, the age-old birth place of deliciousness, you could throw a rock with your eyes closed and hit a good plate of food.  Not true.  In fact, when you throw that rock, you should throw it hard, and hope you hit the cook.  While I’m not the type of diner that nit-picks every little thing and sets out to not like things, I truly enjoy food and eating. But man there was some serious SHIT.  Also, why can’t you get a fucking coffee to go?  They simply do not offer paper cups in European countries.  Okay maybe they do, but we didn’t see them or know how to ask for them.  No, they want you to sit down, and if you do, the’re going to charge you do so.  Not until Paris did we find a Starbucks, which just felt wierd.  Oh, and I did go to McDonalds, and I did get the Royal with Cheese.  And a beer!  But only because we were tired and desperate.  Anyway, we had mostly good meals, and some things that I’ve never tried before.  We had some really incredible meals as well.   We ate chocolate in Switzerland, and waffles in Belgium.  We ate spaetzle in Germany, and gnocci in Italy.  I ate veal sweetbreads on the Champs Elysees.   Over the next few months, or however long it takes, I will at random intervals be posting about my culinary adventures abroad.  I predict you will enjoy thoroughly.   

A light rain gently cascaded down, the Eiffel Tower loomed overhead, resplendent in all it’s glory, and I, on bended knee, asked Kate to marry me.  She said YES!!  She accepted the cheap stunt ring I presented her in lieu of the real one that was tied up in customs.  Okay it’s not that big of a surprise to anyone, we’ve been seeing eachother for 4 or so years, and living together (in sin) for a time as well.  Like any relationship, we’ve had our ups and downs, and we realize as much as anyone that it is work.  You’ve got work at it.  I mean being considerate? That was a tough one for me.  Putting the toilet seat down? Forget about it!  Seriously folks, all kidding aside, I am extremely excited to make Kate my wife and official life-long companion, I would be lost without her.  She continues to make me laugh daily, and cares about me more than anyone ever has.  She has shown me what love truly is, and I couldn’t imagine being away from her.  The three week trip we just took was a good test of this thing we call “us.”  Sure we bickered.  Sure we wanted to punch eachother in the back of the head.  Sure we made people uncomfortable with the way we talk to eachother (”well you’re a fat idiot,”) but like I said, that’s us.   We haven’t set a date yet, or really set anything in stone, but we’ll probably give ourselves about a year with this engagement thing.  The only thing we know for sure is we’ll be wed in Colorado, where we met.  And that we love eachother.