…like a ghost I walked the streets of Temple Bar…

I just got back from my trip and I must say, that I had a lot of fun. Saw some stuff, bought some stuff, and even learned some stuff.

One of the most important things I learned was that when you need to pee, and you see a sign like this …



… buying a pint of the dark stuff, just so you can take a leak, doesn't really solve anything.

I’ve got to get some shut-eye now, but I will try to update soon. I’ve got tons of pictures, some might even be good enough to share.



I drank so much stout, I’ll be crapping black for a month!

Win-Win…

So when I got home yesterday I find something in my parking space. This is not that odd of an occurrence, and I can usually squeeze in without hitting too many cars. But today I come home to this…



I thought maybe my landlord had rented the upstairs to Carnival folk while I was at work. I was imagining that my new neighbor would be a beautiful trapeze artist, like Gina Piccolapupula whom you may remember from Big Top Pee Wee...



…but no such luck. It turns out that the thing is just a big washroom…



Lots of sinks on this end, and two bathrooms at the other end. I’m assuming they are bathrooms anyway; the doors are a little more securely tied on the other end. I could get into them, but at this point I don’t really care that much.

A bathroom trailer, huh… do you think my neighbors are trying to tell me something? Is this is some weird Germanic custom that they do during the spring? Am I the person on the block who is the most in need of cleaning up? Maybe I’m just the most full of sh … oot that couldn’t be me, could it?

I think someone was probably towing it and broke down and had to leave it here yesterday. It was gone when I got home today.

Anyhoo…

The day after the Derby party (Sunday) I had to go to Stuttgart for an early Monday meeting. I would be there all week for work. Sunday was also the last day of the Cannstatter Fruhlingfest. This is the spring festival they have in Cannstatt, which is right outside of Stuttgart. They also have a Volksfest there in the fall which is kind of a mini-Oktoberfest (from what I’ve heard). The Fruhlingfest is 3 weeks long and seems more like an amusement park with beer.

Not that I am opposed to such things, but as I was standing in one of the Bier Gartens watching this crazy ride rotating around three axes I was thinking about two things.

1) I’ll bet there’s a lot of chucking that goes on here…

and

2) Where the hell is my umbrella?

After noshing on this pretty awesome sandwich…



I was wandering around and I noticed this guy with this gold trimmed wife-beater shirt on. He was wearing a cowboy hat and just prancing around. Then I surreptitiously zoomed in on him and saw what his T-Shirt said…



… I don’t think he was really American.

Work went fine in Stuttgart, and though I did not get to see much of the area I had a good time.

Saturday I am heading off with a buddy to Scotland. We fly into Edinburgh where we will participate in the Scotch Whisky Experience and eat some haggis. After two days in and around Edinburgh, we will work our way up to Stirling to see Doune Castle and spend the evening in Falkirk. From there we will head over to Glasgow for a day and then fly over to the Motherland of Ireland. We will have 5 nights in Ireland: two in Cork, two in Dublin, and one somewhere in between. We may go to the Beamish brewery in Cork and probably hit up Guinness in Dublin.

We’re flying on Ryan Air so we will be packing light. I’m actually going to take only my second-string underwear, so that I can just throw it out as I go. This will leave me with more of two things…

1) More space for any knick-knacks that I decide to pick up (sorry – no haggis ... or kilts)

and

2) More space in my underwear drawer.

All around, it really is a Win-Win situation when you think about it.

I'll will not have my computer while I'm gone. I may be able to approve comments while I'm away, but I doubt that I'll even try. Of course this means that my already pathetic schedule of updating will come to a grinding halt for a while.

Eight lines about a horse...

A horse is a horse
of course, of course
and no one should dine
on a horse, of course
that is, of course
unless the horse
is the one that
Tony’s feeding his friends.



And you thought I was going to make a bad Eight Belles joke, didn't you?

Bad Taste?

I made my triumphant return to the city of Bamberg a couple of weeks ago. Bamberg is home to approximately 70,000 people, and 9 breweries. The region around Bamberg is known as Franconia and has somewhere in the area of 50 breweries.

Everybody knows that Munich, which is in southern Bavaria, is home to the Oktoberfest and is arguably the beer capital of the world. What some do not know is that Franconia, which is in northern Bavaria, and has the highest density of breweries in the world. All in all … I’d have to say … I like Bavaria.



The Bamberg tourist office sells a self guided beer tour. For 24 Euros you get a map, a mug, a booklet about the breweries, a small rucksack, and five coupons for free beers. There are five breweries on one side of the river, and four on the other. You choose which side you want (if you choose the side with four, you can double up at one of them). The tickets are only good at the breweries on the side you choose.

We, of course, chose the side with five breweries. We started at the Spezial because they close early and we wanted to try their smoked beer. It was very good and we also ate lunch there.



We proceeded to wander around our side of the river, and soon realized that all of the breweries except one were within walking distance. So we did what every other red-blooded American male would do, and crossed over the river.

The fourth brewery on the new side being quite a haul away, we only hit three on the new side. We also ate dinner at one of the places on the new side. The highlight of the trip was the Shlenkerla Rauchweizen. It had the excellent body and yeasty feel of a nice hefeweizen, but it had the aroma and a bit of the flavor of smoked bacon. It was wonderful I’m telling ya.

We capped off the night at the Fässla where while sitting in the bier garten we spotted someone with a Döner kebap, and had to have one of those too. After our Döners and our final beer we decided it was time to crash. So we went upstairs to our rooms. Yes, you read that correctly, we were spending the night at the brewery. There are several breweries in Bamberg that have hotels attached, which is an awesome idea - if you ask me. The room was small, but comfortable and they had a decent breakfast there. The place was founded in 1649, but I am assured that it’s been updated since.

Last week I decided to try something that I had in Louisville a few years ago, but could find no recipe for. Smoked Jambalaya. I had it several times at a place called “Me Oh My Jambalaya”, which was run by this crazy old woman from Mobile, Alabama. She was a fantastic cook, but she was nuttier than squirrel shit. The first link that pops up when you Google “smoked jambalaya” is a review of the restaurant on a Louisville website. (The website also gave Flabby’s a four star review and is well worth you perusal if you are looking for good food in Louisville).

Even though I could find no recipes, I had a pretty good idea of what to do. I made some jambalaya using a recipe from Paul Prudhomme. I added a little more liquid than it called for. When I added the rice to the pot, I let it come to a boil. I took it off the heat and poured it into a shallow stainless steel pan. Then I put the pan into the smoker, which was already heated to around 200 degrees (F). I threw some grape vines in and the smoking began.

Everything but the rice was already cooked. I just gave it a good stir every 20 minutes or so, and threw some more vines in when the smoke was no longer visible from space. I called up some friends and invited them over for the experimental meal. After about 4 hours in the smoker it was ready to be served.



You just know it had to be good (or I wouldn’t be telling you about this). What I was not really prepared for was the amount of smoke flavor and scent that it had. One day the following week, I took some in for lunch and reheated it in the microwave at work. Everyone was commenting on the smoke smell (not all were as happy as I was though).

So, I’ve decided to have a Kentucky Derby Party at my place in Hattenheim. If any of my loyal readers want to come, you’re definitely welcome. I think I can put both of you up for the evening. If the weather cooperates it should be a good time. I’ll have plenty of smoked meat, beer, wine, mint juleps, and plain ole Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey there. Although the race won’t happen until after midnight here, AFN is having race day coverage beginning at about 7 PM here. So we will get to watch some of the hoopla. As far as the meat goes, I’m thinking of doing some pork shoulder, maybe a turkey breast, possibly some lamb, and I’m thinking … although I’m not sure yet … but I am considering … the possibility of smoking … and serving … some … well … horse meat.

Do you think it’s in bad taste to serve horse meat at a Kentucky Derby Party?

Bacon …

On 31 March 2008, at approximately 6:00 AM, I found myself standing in front of a German Passport Control Officer. He was looking for a better answer than I could give him.

“So you are in Germany illegally”

It was more of a statement than a question.

See, I had sent my Official Passport with someone else to Georgia so that they could obtain an Armenian Visa for me. I was trying to explain this to the German Officer who was now giving me the hairy eyeball.

“Doesn’t matter”, he says, “it is not here.”

I had given him my tourist passport, which showed no entry into Germany. The only European entry was into Spain, and it was dated last September.

“This is a serious crime in Germany”

and

“What do we do now?” were his next two phrases.

Of course it took him about a minute between sentences. He kept flipping through the blank pages of my tourist passport, and looking at the computer in between the hard stares he was giving me.

Now let it be said that I was on my best behavior during this whole incident. I was calling him “Sir” the whole time and was maintaining my composure, but firmly standing my ground. I knew that I was right, and this little authoritarian posturing wasn’t spooking me. Had I been French, I might have surrendered. I was thinking that I might have to give up a pack of the cigarettes that I bought (to bribe people in other countries) before I got to leave Germany. However, after a couple of minutes staring me down, I guess he figured out that I was trying to LEAVE the country and that would be OK. He just told me to bring my other passport next time.

The flight left on time, and we had a beer at the airport in Istanbul before our next flight. On the plane to Tbilisi, I was sitting next to this pretty blond girl who actually looked a bit like Uma Thurman. I played it cool for the first 45 minutes of the flight, then I made my move. I offered her my chocolate pudding from the airplane meal…

She accepted it and we chatted a little bit. She had a great accent. It only took me another half an hour to work up the courage to ask her for her phone number. It only took her about 2 seconds to ask the stewardess if she could change her seat. As I was sitting in the aisle, I slipped the stewardess a pack of Marlboros and she told Uma that she couldn’t move.

I’m beginning to see how this bribery stuff works.

We landed in Tbilisi and were picked up by a driver and taken to our hotel. The Marriott in downtown Tbilisi. We met up with some others for dinner, and it is then that I find out that the people I’m supposed to meet in Armenia the next day will not be there. They’ve arranged for me to meet with someone else about the project. “OK, fine”.

We ate dinner at a Spanish restaurant. Needless to say I was disappointed. Not in the Spanish food mind you, but that fact that my first night in a new country is being spent eating food from another country. It’s kind of like going back to the USA and eating pizza as your first meal. What? That doesn’t sound odd to you? Well the analogy may stink, but I was still a bit peeved.

We had a great breakfast at the hotel the next morning, and were on the road by 0715 for a 5 hour road trip. There were five of us in a Toyota Land Cruiser bouncing around on extremely rough roads for 5 hours. The potholes were plentiful and deep, and the rest of the road wasn’t really that great either. Let’s just say that the geometric design of the road was not quite Autobahn standards.

The scenery was very stark and rugged. Lots of grassy hills were interspersed with steep rocky mountains. Every once in a while we would pass a flock of sheep grazing, or an old woman walking with a couple of emaciated cows.

The older part of Tbilisi is actually pretty (though a bit run down). It is when you get outside of town and see all the Soviet style concrete buildings that you can appreciate architecture (and yes even architects). The bare pre-cast concrete panels, with the grout between them visible and sloppily done, have never even been painted to help cover them up.





We crossed over into Armenia. Before we checked into the hotel in Yerevan, we found out that the guy from the Non-Governmental Oranization (NGO) who was supposed to meet me that day would not be able to meet with me until the next day. I guess that the two months of emails going back and forth about the timing of the trip and getting us there were not enough advance notice to ensure that anyone besides me would be at the meeting. Tomorrow was supposed to be spent on a site visit and then traveling back to Georgia. Today I was hoping to gather what information was available, ask for more (you always have to ask for more – even though you asked for everything already), and get a better handle on what this project actually was. I know it seems kind of funny to travel several hundred miles by plane and a few hundred by car before finding out what the project was, but trust me, God and the Government work in mysterious ways.

So I went to another meeting with the others from my group. As I write this I am sitting in a non-air-conditioned room with about 15 people. The windows are closed because it is too noisy outside, and it is hot in here. I’m listening to someone read off contract clauses, which are being translated into Armenian.

i.e. I am in a roomful of people who are meeting about a project I know nothing about, don’t really care about, and I’m being forced to hear it in two languages. One of which I barely understand, and the other one is Armenian.

I was beginning to think that this was all just one big, expensive April Fools Joke on me.

At the end of the meeting the guy in charge (I’m not really sure what his official capacity was, but he was definitely the man in charge) asked us to have dinner with him. That night we had an awesome feast at an Armenian restaurant. The man in charge from the meeting was acting as toastmaster, which is serious business here. Almost everyone toasts, and you need to get the toastmaster’s permission before you do. The food was excellent, the wine was good, and the vodka shots were flying back for each toast. I started out with wine, and was sipping it for each toast. That was until I noticed all of our drivers tossing back shots. I thought, “Hey, if we get in an accident on the way back to the hotel I want to be loose too.” So I did a few shots of vodka too. And the vodka was good.

The next day we went to the NGO’s office and I discovered that what I thought was a single project was actually seven separate projects. The guy from the NGO explained the project, and the project manager asked him a couple of questions. When I was asked if I had any questions, I was somewhat dumbfounded.

“Questions?”

Sure, I had a bunch of questions. Back when I thought that it was one job. Now that it is seven completely different jobs, with completely different needs, and completely different problems, well now I didn’t know where to begin.

“Any drawings?”

“No.”

“Any specifications?”

“No.”

“Any photographs?”

“No.”

“Any local standards?”

“No.”

“Well, thanks. I’m all out of questions, Your Honor.”

So we drove around for the better part of the afternoon looking for someone to show us a site. We actually met the mayor from one of the towns. She was traveling south on the same road we were traveling north on, when we called her. We met at some signpost, and her husband translated for her.

The mayor only spoke Armenian. But her husband could only translate it into Russian. This luckily is one of the languages our Georgian translator spoke, and she translated it back into English for us. And everything goes back the other way too. It was kind of like playing “telephone” with your third cousin, twice removed.

Let me try and describe how surrealistic this scene was. We were pretty high up into the Caucus Mountain range, and there is snow on the ground. It is very cold and windy and everybody is standing around shivering. One person would talk for about a minute, and the message would take about 2-3 minutes to get to the person at the end of the line. Then it would start all over again in the opposite direction.

Oh, I’m sure we were all perfectly understood and nothing got lost in translation…

We got back to Georgia that night, and the others had to go to some State Department event, so I went out to dinner on my own. I wet to this place which was supposed to have some of the best Khinkali around. Khinkali is basically a stuffed dumpling. It is a bit bigger than a pierogi, is wrapped more like a pot-sticker, and is either steamed or boiled. The ones I had that night were meat filled, but they also are filled with cheese, mushrooms, cabbage, &c. I had heard how good these things were, but to tell the truth, I was not really that impressed. They were OK, there was certainly nothing wrong with them, I just didn’t think they were worth raving about.

The waitresses at the place were all very pretty too. Well every one except mine. She looked like Satch from the Bowery Boys.



The next day I had nothing to do until my ride to the airport at 1500, so I took a little walking tour of Tbilisi.







For lunch, I had a cheese filled Khinkali and a Megruli Khachapuri (savory cheese pie with egg) that was pretty good. I bought some salami and a $45 bottle of 10 year old Armenian Cognac. Though I think I would’ve rather spent $50 on an 18 year old Armenian girl. Armenian women are beautiful, jet black hair, fair skin, amazing deep brown eyes. Some have these piercing pale brown, almost yellow, eyes that look incredible. But they are big on moles. Not that they want them, they just all seem to have them.

I made it back to Wiesbaden Thursday night.

Saturday we were smoking some meat for a party because a friend was leaving the next week. We used more grape vine and this time did two ~5 lb each boneless pork shoulders, a 4 lb leg of lamb, and a turkey breast. It all went well, and everyone liked the grub and seemed to have a good time.

On Tuesday I was heating up some of the smoked pork in a skillet with a little olive oil and some Sriracha when I got the idea to scramble a few eggs in with it. It turned out very good, and had it with a nice Rochefort Trappist Ale.



I was feeling like a genius.

That feeling lasted until the next day when I found out what genius really is. I was just sure that somebody had won the Nobel Prize for this. (If those P.O.S.’s Jimmy Carter and Al Gore have them, surely the inventor of this has one as well.)

Yes, this towering figure must surely be a man among boys.

What I saw that day, is what you see before you now…



Yes. Those are bacon wrapped mini-hotdogs. Now you tell me, is there anything that bacon can’t make better?

I also found some Getrocknete Pflaumen im Speckmantel. Which translates as Dried Plums in a Ham Coat. Otherwise known as ham (which is almost as good as bacon) wrapped Prunes. I had some of these with the bacon wrapped hot dogs.



That other stuff on the plate is cheese. I thought I might need to counteract the prunes and hotdogs.

Let’s just say I should have eaten more cheese…


Don’t forget to click on the pictures, there are a lot more on my Flickr page.

Costada di Cavallo …

(this one is a little long and was written over several days. Walt, you can get Jim or Gonzo to help you with the big words.)

It is 0330 Friday morning (that’s 3:30 AM – with a capital A). I am awake at this ungodly hour because the USA switches to daylight savings time earlier than Europe does.

What?

Let me see if I can explain this a little better…

Since the USA turns their clocks ahead one hour four weeks before Europe does (well they did this year anyway), that makes Eastern Standard Time only five hours earlier than it is here. Saturday night when we switch here, we will once again be six hours ahead. As things are, I was awake at 3 AM (instead of the slightly less obscene hour of 4 AM) and making coffee before settling in to write this. Oh yeah, I also need to be awake to watch the Louisville Cardinals vs. Tennessee basketball game.

The last month has been pretty crazy here (and there) for me. A couple of us spent a week down in the Kaiserslautern area for a planning meeting returning to Wiesbaden Friday afternoon. Early Saturday morning I was in a taxi heading for the Frankfurt airport. Approximately 20 hours later I arrived at the hotel in Destin, Florida.

The hotel in Destin was at the Sandestin Beach and Golf resort. The entire place was about 2400 acres, with four golf courses. I didn’t take my clubs, but I’m pretty sure that the greens fees were out of my range anyway. And after all I was there for training. The hotel was right on the beach though…



… and my room overlooked the pool area …

... which is nice ...



I think I’ll kind of like this class.

Florida was fun, but everything was pretty expensive and touristy. I had a couple of good meals, and a couple of disappointing ones. I met the youngest person to ever go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Surprisingly, he was working at a bar. I guess the fact that he went over another time didn’t flesh out his resume quite the way he had expected it to.

A couple of us went to some barbeque joint for lunch one day. I saw some good reviews of it on the internet, but they were wrong. The place was seedy enough for a good barbeque joint, but the meat was very wet and there was no smoke flavor at all. A couple of nights later another guy and I went to a barbeque place inside of the resort, and I was surprised at how good it was. Although the sauce was somewhat sweet, the meat was very smoky. It was so smoky that I almost set off the smoke detector in the hotel bathroom the next day (which reminds me of a story involving my younger sister and a pizza that I’ll have to tell you sometime).

I stopped at a Krystal hamburger joint on my way out of town Friday. Had heard of them but never tasted their burgers. They are similar to the mighty White Castles. Apparently each brand has their fans, and I’ve seen several websites praising one while trashing the other. Well, I had a couple of the pepper-jack burgers and I can tell you right now, they don’t hold a candle to White Castle’s jalapeno cheeseburgers. But hey, I’m just one man talking…

The flights back Germany on Friday only took about 19 hours (including layovers, &c), and I arrived at my apartment around noon Saturday. I was a little jet-lagged, but mostly tired. I was prevented from sleeping by the need to do three loads of laundry before morning. Let me tell you, these German washing machines and dryers (especially the dryers) are very slow. And when the only thing between you and a comfy bed is the damned laundry, it seems to take forever. Trust me; cussing at the machine does not make it go any faster. I tried every cuss word that I knew, and I’m pretty sure that I made up a few new ones during the third dry cycle.

I needed to finish my laundry Saturday night because three of us were starting our 8 hour drive to Vicenza, Italy at 0800 Sunday. And after a decent night’s sleep I felt surprisingly good for the drive. We drove through Switzerland, and stopped in Luzerne for lunch. It’s a pretty town. After lunch we walked around by the river and took some pictures…

After walking around for about an hour we headed south again through the Alps. They are incredible. Before you drive into Switzerland you have to a tax for the rights to drive in the country. They give you a sticker to put in your windshield. As you are driving through the Alps, you begin to see why the extra tax money is needed. There are tunnels everywhere. One of them is over 16 kilometers (~10 miles) long. I believe that the sticker costs 35 Euros (~$55) and is good for a year (so I’m not going to whine about it – especially because work paid for it). I took some pictures from the car while driving through the Alps…

I was the last one to take a shift driving and was at the wheel when we arrived in Vicenza. I was following the directions of Eric’s GPS system, and it was telling me to go down this one road. At the entry to the road there was a sign that appeared to say that the area was off limits to vehicles (at this time). I didn’t see any police around, so I turned down said road which leads us into the center of town. I always figure that it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, and decide to play the part of a dumb American if stopped (and yes, I realize that this part would not be much of a stretch for me).

So here I am, driving through these incredibly narrow cobble stone roads on what seems to be Take-the-Entire-City-Out-for-a-Walk-Downtown Day. This, of course, would explain the off limits sign. So we are driving painfully slowly through this mass of people. I’m trying not to hit any baby carriages or old women, all the while striving to refrain from making eye contact with the scowling citizenry. The GPS is sending us down these alleys, telling us to go the wrong way on a one way street, and generally making me crazy. Eric is looking at a map, and he’s directing me to go different ways, and I am beginning to recognize people because we’ve just passed them for the third time (and the looks of disdain only get worse with repeated viewings).

Finally we stop, and Eric walks up the road two blocks and finds the place. It turns out that there is only one way to get to there, and we entered the whole mess from the wrong side. We could not get there from where we were. Eric takes the wheel and we have to leave the area, cross the river twice (maybe three times), and circle the city and enter on the other side. After a couple of sharp and inconceivably narrow turns, we are at the hotel.

The Albergo Due Mori.

The hotel is a nice little place, although the narrow streets really seem to pump up the volume from what little street traffic there is. You can hear the sound of women’s shoes on the cobble stones for a city block in either direction.

The Vicenza area is mostly known for Asiago cheese, sopressa, and the architect Palladio and many of his building still exist. We saw a couple of them in the downtown area while walking around; however, since this was a working trip we always seemed to get back around dusk. Thus there was never enough light to take photos.

On our way to work the second day, I noticed the words “macelleria, bovina, and equina” in a store window. After asking around the office about it a bit, the girl at the front gave us directions to a place she knew of. As it turns out, we didn’t even need the directions, because the place was right next to our hotel (and Eric was getting good at traversing these little streets). That night I dined on “Costada di Cavallo”, or Horse Steak. The others in the group, had Colt Steaks, but I went for the old grey mare (oh she ain’t what she used to be). The steak had a nice flavor, but was a very tough cut of meat. It was supposed to be a T-bone, but the Italians must make there T’s differently than we do. While there was a bone, it was definitely not crossed. It was really more of an I-bone, but that just doesn’t sound as good.

The girl at the front desk became our source, or “pusher”. I asked her about obtaining some SOPRESSA, and she knew someone who made it. She would be out in the area that evening. If I wanted some, she would call ahead so they could bring it up from the curing cellar.

I said, “definitely … please do … I’ll take 2 kilos … and thank you”.

Then she told us of another place, down the road from the sopressa guy that makes and sells Asiago cheese. If we wanted some of that she could pick it up on the same trip.

I said, “definitely … please do … I’ll take a kilo … and thank you ... and are you married?” and then sadly, “… he’s a very lucky man”.

The next day, she brought us “the goods” and explained to us that the sopressa is not ready yet, and we would need to hang it in a cool, humid place. “Like Germany?” was my reply. “Yes, that would do just fine. Give it about two months”.

Here is a photo of the sopressas hanging in my dining room …



I will move them to the cellar sometime soon.

They look a tad strange, and smell a bit funky, but ... they are strangely alluring. I’d have to compare the smell to the stink from the feet of a really pretty girl. The feet would have to be pretty as well, not like Jennifer’s big old ugly and smelly hammertoes. The Asiago came in vecchio (aged - like me) and stravecchio (extra-aged – like my sister) and I got a half kilo of each. The cheeses are fantastic, especially the stravecchio which is a little sharp.

I didn’t have a bad meal in Italy, unless you count lunch in the chow hall (and I choose not to count it). The hotel breakfast of … well … bread got a little old though. The wine was good, and the people were very nice - when they were out of their cars.

The Italian drivers remind me of Raul Julia in the movie “The Gumball Rally”…

“And now my friend, the first-a rule of Italian driving…” He reaches up, rips off the rear-view mirror and tosses it out of the car. “…What’s-a behind me is of no importance. ”

Thursday we finished up, out-briefed, and headed for Venice. We walked around for a couple hours, saw some stuff, took some pictures, had a nice dinner and drove back to the hotel in Vicenza.

Friday we headed toward home and drove through Austria on the way back. I just saw Innsbruck from the car, but what I did see was beautiful. I was driving so I didn’t get any pictures. We had a late lunch in Munich at the Weisses Brauhaus. It is owned by the Schneider Brewery, which is quickly becoming one of my favorites. They have a section of the menu for Bavarian specialties, which apparently translates as offal dishes. I chickened out on the “soured” lungs and the “soured” kidneys, and stuck with the safe fried calf’s tongue. It was good, but afterwards I was really wishing that I had the kidneys. Next time I go there (perhaps during the Oktoberfest trip) I will get the kidneys.

They also had an item on the menu called Milzwurst, which was translated as a “calf’s milt sausage”. I had heard of milt before, but did not know where it was, and I was not sure that it was even a body part. I asked the waitress what milt was, or what part of the animal it came from, but she was trying to steer me over to the schnitzel side of the menu. She didn’t know the English word for it. She kept telling me that it was a Bavarian specialty, and that I should stay on the other side of the menu. She even made sure that I understood what tongue was before she would order it for me..

After lunch we walked around a bit and stopped in at the Hofbrauhaus, where apparently it is Oktoberfest everyday. They brought us our Bier in one-liter mugs, and all the waitresses were in traditional Bavarian dresses. They have a big outdoor Bier Garten, and I’m sure the place really gets rocking in the summertime. But today was rainy, and most of the people there on Friday afternoon (Good Friday – and yes, I know I’m going to hell for eating calf’s tongue on Good Friday) were tourists. We left Munich and headed back toward Wiesbaden. I finally got home around 10 PM.

On Saturday, I typed “milt” into Google, and learned that it is fish semen. No wonder I couldn’t place it. I typed “Milzwurst” and discovered that it is a spleen sausage. So I could also understand why the waitress couldn’t translate it. How many languages do you know how to say “spleen” in? Hell, I’m not even sure what a spleen does or where it is, but I know that I don’t use it in conversation a whole lot.

It is Sunday morning as I type this now. Louisville beat Tennessee, but lost to North Carolina last night. It was a good run for the Cards, but UNC was just too much for them last night.

I’m flying out early tomorrow morning for a trip to Armenia. We will be flying through Turkey, into Georgia, and then traveling by car to Armenia. Should be fun. Last night a friend told me, somewhat nonchalantly, to make sure that I take a couple of small things – in case I need to bribe someone.

“What kind of small things? Am I going to try to woo the natives with shiny objects?”

“Just take a couple packs of cigarettes. Marlboro is always good. And carry some small bills, and don’t keep all your money in the same place, and ….”

My life was flashing before my eyes. What the hell did I get myself into?

But then after a little while, I realized that it was really no different than preparing to go into the infield at the Kentucky Derby. And I’ve been to 15 of those.

A soothing calm came over me. I was no longer worried. After all I would be with people who have been there before. They knew their way around the place. Everything would be OK. I actually felt warm in the glow of my newfound tranquility …

Or maybe it was just the Bourbon.

You can just call me Meadowlark …

I have been meaning to write about our trip to Bilbao, but I haven’t gotten around to it. Am I just too busy to keep my loyal minions apprised of my doings?

Not really.

I must admit that I’ve been a little lazy with this blogging stuff of late. So when I saw Wilhelm’s question show up in the comment section I decided it was time to fess up, so here goes…

Four of us traveled to Bilbao, Spain over a long weekend last month. The main reason for going to Bilbao was to see the Guggenheim Museum there. Two of the four are architects, and wanted to see this famous building. The other two of us are engineers and just wanted to get out of town for the weekend and see some stuff.

On Friday morning we caught a cheap flight on RyanAir into Santander, Spain and then rented a car and drove the one hour to Bilbao. It was a nice drive along the northern coast of Spain, and we saw some nice scenery &c. The weather was pretty nice for the length of our trip, but it was a little bit chillier than I had expected.

Saturday we went to the Mercado de la Ribera. It’s this awesome two story market. It has virtually every type of fish and meat, with some fruits and vegetable thrown in for good measure. The lower floor is nothing but fish.





The upper floor shares the meat vendors with the produce vendors.







Now multiply these pictures by at least 20 and that will give some idea of the magnitude of this place. There is a third floor, but it appears to be unused at present.

This is my haul from the market.



I only purchased cured and vacuum packed meats, because I would not get it to a refrigerator for a couple of days. I wanted to buy some Morcilla (Spanish blood sausage), but the woman said it needed to be refrigerated. The meat at the upper right of this photo is about one kilogram of jamón ibérico de bellota . It is not quite as expensive as gold, but I believe it surpasses the price of some precious metals (and trust me, it is worth every penny). The piece on the lower right is called lomo, it is cured loin. The sausage on the left is Spanish chorizo. Spanish chorizo is a dry and cured sausage. Mexican chorizo is a fresh, uncured sausage. They are entirely different products.

Saturday afternoon we took the train up to Portugalete to see the Vizcaya Transporter Bridge.



The bridge is the first of its kind and was built in the 1890’s. The upper part of the bridge is 50 meters above the water and transports vehicles and people across the river in a gondola hanging from cables. Like a ferry.



There was a walkway constructed across the upper portion in the 1990’s. One of the others and I took the elevator up and walked across, while the others took the gondola across. The view from up there was incredible. It was a little hazy, so the pictures did not come out great.







On Sunday we went to the Guggenheim. We went there Friday afternoon too, but did not go in until Sunday. The building is impressive.





It is especially impressive if you are overly fond of expensive, pretentious, and just plain weird buildings that look like huge titanium dog turds. Architects though, tend to get all gooey when they talk about this and other buildings by Frank Gehry.

When you go inside they give you a small speaker thing that you carry around and listen to facts and commentary about the museum and the artworks. If you listen in the main lobby it gives you way too much information about how Frank Gehry never picks his pencil up from the page when he is “conceptualizing” a building.

The permanent exhibits are just as pretentious as the building. In one room, the “artist” was explaining these mazes of iron. “…when you transverse the spiral, you’ll notice that it is made of concentric ovals. These are not the same as conic sections …” I turned off the speaker because I just couldn’t take listening any more. I had the distinct feeling that he had recently purchased a math book and a thesaurus.

The featured exhibit was “300 years of American Art”. Aside from the irony of my traveling to Spain to see American art, it was a pretty nice exhibit. Aside from the standard Warhol-type-crap they had a couple of Winslow Homer pieces, a few each by Whistler and Eakins, and one large portrait by John Singer-Sargent. So it was not a total bust.

And it is actually a pretty neat building. Impractical as all hell, but neat to visit (once, I don’t think I’d go back unless there was some exhibit I really wanted to see).

Spain was fantastic, although it did not seem like it was as much fun in the north (compared to the Madrid-Sevilla trip I had in September of last year). The food and wine were excellent. I had turkey leg confit, beef liver, calf’s tongue, baby eel, a variety of hams and sausages, and various tapas that included God-only-knows-what. Everything was wonderful, and tended to be washed down with some good local wine. Did I mention that Bilbao is just north of the Rioja region? That may explain why all of the local wines were pretty darn fair.

And maybe someone out there can explain why I had this weird drinking fountain next to the toilet in my room…



On Monday, while driving back to the airport in Santander, we stopped off at this little fishing town for some breakfast. I had the Iberico platter, which as it turns out comes with two beers. It was not yet 10 AM, but I wasn’t driving. The waitress was giving me the hairy-eyeball. “Do you still want the coffee?” she asked. “Oh yeah”, I replied. It was just an espresso sized coffee anyway.

When we were at the airport, I noticed that the guy at the x-ray machine stopped and reversed the belt when my bag was going through. I looked at him and said, “jamón”. He just smiled and sent me along my way. We made it back to Germany without incident.

The next weekend, which would be last weekend (if anyone’s counting), I performed an experiment that I’ve wanted to do since I moved into my apartment. I smoked a piece of pork loin and a small portion of lamb’s leg with grape vine.

The vintners trim back the grape vines a great deal every spring. They leave the trimmings on the ground between the rows of good vines, and eventually run them over with some type of lawn-mower/mulching machine.

Before they completed the second step in this process, I went into the vineyards under the cover of dusk. The plan was to abscond with enough vines to sufficiently test the smoking capability. Clippers in my hand, I proceeded to cut up a bunch of vine into 6" to 9” pieces, and put them into a grocery bag.



The resulting smoke was thick and sweet.



The rub I used was about equal parts (by volume) of kosher salt and whole peppercorns (itself a mix of about half and half black and Szechuan peppercorns), about a third part each whole fennel seeds and rubbed sage, a pinch of cayenne, and a little onion and garlic powders. I rinsed and dried the meats, coated them with the rub, and placed them into the smoker. They were smoked at around 250 degrees F (plus or minus) for about 4 hours. A handful of new vines were tossed in every 30-45 minutes.



Next time I will soak the vines in water to make them smolder instead of just burn. Maybe then I won’t need to add as many, as often. Here’s a picture of the meat cooking away…



And here’s one when they were finished…

Check out the smoke ring on that lamb! There is one on the pork too, it's just too light to show in the photo.

The conclusion? Grape vines produce a much milder smoky flavor than hickory or apple does. You definitely need to use charcoal or another wood as a heat source, because you’re not getting any lasting heat out of the small vines. Both meats had a very nice flavor (I let quite a few people try them, and everyone was suitably impressed). I thought the lamb turned out better, but when I went back and made sandwiches out of the leftovers I think the pork stood up fine. It is a method definitely worth repeating.

Yesterday I was up in the vineyards again with my clippers. Only this time I had two bags with me…

Tomorrow I start my whirlwind, globetrotting, world tour. Mon-Fri this week I’ll be in Kaiserslautern, Germany, Saturday I fly back to Florida for a class, the next Saturday I return to Germany, and leave Sunday for a week in Italy.

I will be one beat puppy when this is all over.