Neighborhood: Johanneshov, Stockholm Relationship status: Living with my girlfriend
What did you eat today?
I just ate a veggie bagel for breakfast. But yesterday I had so good food that it inspired me to answer this thing - finally. I had an amazing deep fried salmon roll with Chinese mustard (red hot), followed by some amazing noodles with flat iron angus steak on top. Fab!
What do you never eat?
Things in shells, if I can avoid them. Not at all fond of crabs, crayfish, mussels and that stuff. I think the shell is there for a reason - someone's telling us to leave them alone.
Complete this sentence: In my refrigerator, you can always find:
Mustard - the ultimate condiment that you can have on absolutely anything - including a cheese sandwich.
What is your favorite kitchen item?
An old school pot for making stews and casseroles. Throw something in there, leave it for a few hours, and somehow it always tastes good.
Where do you eat out most frequently?
The local thai place. Surprisingly good for being a local actually. Apart from that, I like Jacobs on Riddargatan that does both Danish smørrebrød and French main courses. Clearly underrated place.
World ends tomorrow. What would you like for your last meal?
Something Asian - probably something fairly simple like proper Kung Pao Chicken with those amazing garlic stirred beans that they have there (in China that is - I've never found them anywhere else). No point making things more complicated than they have to be if you're going to pop your clogs in an hour or two anyway.
As of right now (2:30 pm): homemade granola with milk, banana bread with cinnamon sugar, blueberries, rigatoni with sweet onions and leeks and chives and ricotta salata, more banana bread, more blueberries.
What do you never eat?
I have textural issues with raw oysters. And brain. I think brain is my final frontier, food-wise. [
Complete this sentence: In my refrigerator, you can always find:
eggs, extra sharp cheddar, milk, hot sauces, jam, peanut butter, Roland Dijon mustard, unsalted butter, and Polaroid film.
What is your favorite kitchen item?
I love my kitchen towels. They're all very soft and well worn, and many of them have stripes.
Where do you eat out most frequently?
Lately, a taqueria called Malena's. It's in our neighborhood, and it's not really all that great, to be perfectly honest, but their guacamole is solid. So we get guacamole, rice, pinto beans, and a few corn tortillas, along with salsa and chips. It's cheap and quick and always hits the spot.
World ends tomorrow. What would you like for your last meal?
I'm terrible at this kind of stuff. But I think I would choose a cheese pie at Di Fara and a beer. And then a scoop of Graeter's black raspberry chip ice cream, on a cone.
I had a blast with Molly in Rome last month. She's a lady. I'm such a fan. If you were in Rome on the same day that we were, you might have seen Molly looking totes cycle chic in sweet black ankle strap flats, jeans, a wavy auburn ponytail and Audrey Hepburn specs. I was the greasemonkey riding next to her, sweating through some Old Navy cankle khakis and a saggy green wifebeater. You can follow Molly's adventures at orangette.blogspot.com.
"But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,-- But by some power it is,--my love to Hermia, Melted as the snow, seems to me now As the remembrance of an idle gaud Which in my childhood I did dote upon; And all the faith, the virtue of my heart, The object and the pleasure of mine eye, Is only Helena. To her, my lord, Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia: But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food; But, as in health, come to my natural taste, Now I do wish it, love it, long for it, And will for evermore be true to it."
I'm not sure exactly when it happened. There were moments over Midsummer that I felt Sweden was casting a spell, pouring some love juice into my eyes. Could Sweden really be this charming and beautiful? Why have I bothered traveling to other countries when I could have been here the whole time?
My friend's brother Sef and I drove up to Tällberg for Midsommarafton, or Midsummer Eve. This is traditionally better than actual Midsummer Day -- it's always a Friday and it's the heavier snaps drinking night. Midsummer Day, Saturday, is spent recuperating from your hangover. The Swedes are planners, and I like planners.
But oh, Tällberg! So picture postcard perfect! Some say Dalarna is the heart of Sweden, and some say Tällberg is the heart of Dalarna. All the blond children singing folk songs in embroidered caps and dresses, all the maypoles raised with big wooden chopsticks, the horses swishing their tails in the breeze, the birdsong, impressive Lake Siljan...it was like a Swedish dream.
SEF: Where are the cameras? Because this can't be for real, right?
Lots of ladies wore thick crowns of wildflowers in their hair. "Where can I buy one?" I thought. But of course there were none for sale -- you're supposed to gather your own and make one. American consumer FAIL.
You wouldn't believe how many wildflowers there are here. It's no wonder Carl Linnaeus created modern taxonomy -- he had a lot to work with. Purple and yellow and white and FREE, the colors running in wide, ragged stripes through the lush green fields. It's so incredibly fresh out there...like there's more oxygen in the air.
I managed to get rooms at the last minute at Hotell Långbers, which sits at the top of Tällberg. It was unbelievably dreamy. The bedding was delicious, the rooms were airy, with that Swedish country modesty I find so utterly charming. Their website really doesn't do justice to how absolutely gorgeous the place is. I booked the rooms on Booking.com for not much more than I paid for the vagrant's room in Rome. The place reminded me of Mohonk Mountain House -- so unpretentious, but utterly luxurious in a wholesome way. The morning after our snaps-soaked dinner at Hotell Åkerblads, we booked the hotel sauna and outdoor hot tub for an hour before the long drive. Heavenly.
And the view from my room! A craggy landscape of pointy evergreens, cut off abruptly by the glassy curve of Lake Siljan, which stretches all the way to the horizon.
Midnight sun at the top of Tällberg. How wonderful, and how strange that it feels so normal to me now.
Before I came, I thought I would spend my two weeks of vacation in August traipsing about mainland Europe, hitting all of the major cities. Now, I think I'll stay in Sweden. I'm trying not to miss it already. Who knew?
It's almost Midsummer! Though I celebrated Sweden's National Day with some proper husmanskost a couple of weeks ago, people say Midsummer is the real Swedish national holiday. They may love their Christian holidays, but the Swedes are sun-worshipping pagans at heart. The Finns and the Norwegians also do Midsummer, but I think most people associate the holiday with the Swedes.
Food traditions include eating herring, potatoes, and strawberry cake, and drinking lots of snaps. Non food traditions include dancing around a midsommerstång (a maypole), singing, and drinking lots of snaps. And, of course, there will be lots of snaps drinking. Skål!
I asked one of my co-workers what she would be doing for Midsummer:
VIVECA: Oh, it's a lot of preparation. You prepare the food, and you drink, and then you eat. And you put up the maypole, and sing. And then you probably drink again.
My co-worker Björn's words of wisdom:
BJÖRN: Don't drink too much snaps.
ME: Why not?
BJÖRN: That's a rookie mistake. Just drink a third of it each time. Otherwise you'll never make it through the night.
Megan already posted this on her blog, but it's worth repeating here. This is a German IKEA commercial which was actually banned by the head office (according to the notes on YouTube, anyway).
Another midsummer tradition is for women to find seven kinds of flowers (again with the sju sorters) to put under their pillow in return for a dream of your future husband. Seems a small price to pay for such intel; I'll let you know whether or not the pagan gods deliver.
Here's the one song/dance I'm going to learn so I can participate -- it's the only kind of pole dancing I'll be doing in this life.
Tomorrow is Midsommarafton (Midsummer Eve), and Saturday is
Midsommardagen (Midsummer Day). I'm actually going to Dalarna, north of Stockholm, for
Midsommarafton, which is the classic place to celebrate. I suppose it's like going to Times Square to watch the ball drop on New Year's -- touristy, sure, but classic. I'm preparing myself for 11 degree weather (that's 51 degrees Fahrenheit -- witch tit cold, appropriately), and rain mixed with sun, which is apparently the classic Swedish Midsummer weather.
I'm really excited! And I'm a little relieved that the sun will start to let up. Last night, I was up at 12:30am, and though it never got fully dark, the sun was actually starting to rise. I can't even tell you what a mind fuck that is. I almost couldn't go to bed.
When kids here graduate from gymnasiet (high school), they spend part of their day getting drunk and riding around town on rented big flatbed trucks called "flaks" which have been decorated with hand-painted banners and, oddly enough, fresh birch branches. Oh yeah, and they're also wearing white sailor caps.
Every year, some drunk kid falls off the truck and makes the news. And the partying can get so out of hand that the city has to stagger the graduations throughout the first two weeks of June, thus limiting the number of drunk teenagers vomiting in the street on any given day.
I kept hearing the flaks from the office -- the screaming kids, the blasting music, the honking trucks. But it wasn't until today that I got to see one with my own eyes. The whole thing is very pride parade -- a bunch of shirtless sailor twinks and their girl friends dancing on a truck to the sweet thump of Eurodisco.
Neighborhood: Lilla Essingen in Stockholm. Relationship status: Living with Anna
What did you eat today?
For breakfast and lunch: My own bread that had unfortunately gone a bit dry, with cheese and cucumber. For dinner, spaghetti and a delicious pasta sauce with tomatoes and zucchini, cooked by Anna. A punchrulle brought to me by my friend Ulrika (Punch rolls are old ladies sweets) and a fruit salad. [Are those the same as dammsugare? --Ed.]
What do you never eat?
Guinea pigs. I rarely eat meat and never at home, but guinea pigs are something I know I have never eaten, and that I'm not curious to try.
Complete this sentence: In my refrigerator, you can always find:
Soy milk for my coffee. The day holds no promise without coffee. Regular milk for the coffee is ok too, but is usually not found in my kitchen.
What is your favorite kitchen item?
My coffeepot. It's white with golden patterns.
Where do you eat out most frequently?
At a Persian café and shop in Gröndal, close to my work.
World ends tomorrow. What would you like for your last meal?
I don't know. I like so many things. But maybe my Lilla Essingen Thai dinner from Saturday: Shrimps with green curry and coco nut sauce with lots of delicious vegetables, and their home made spring rolls. Or Stockholm's best ice cream.
So I don't have a lot of money, and having a job in publishing means...not acting like you will have a job forever. I tried not to be ridiculous with my money, but I did find a few things that I felt were worth spending more than 15 Euros on.
Splurging in Paris:
Bike About Tours -- 30 Euros
I love bicycle tours. I do them anytime I can. You get a little bit of trivia, a little bit of exercise, lots of fresh air and sun, all while getting the lay of the land. But if you're going to do a bike tour, you want to do it in a small group because: 1. it's safer to be in a smaller group and 2. there's less of a chance that you'll be with some talky fuckers who want to show off the history they learned from the back cover of their Lonely Planet guide.
I'll be honest -- the Bike About Tour, while small at 7 or 8 per group, was still larger than I like my bike tours. But it's the smallest one you'll find in Paris. Do the Bike About tour on your first day in town and you'll be able to find your way around in no time. (I'd never do one of those Fat Bike Tours, which I saw in Berlin. They are always rolling 20+ deep -- no fun.)
The secret garden shtick is a bit much, but the tour goes through mostly car-free streets on the left and right banks. The little red Dahons are fun to roll around on -- and if it rains, you can all just fold 'em up and get on the Metro.
Paris is a wonderful city for cycling -- lots of cushy bike lanes,
flat, well-paved terrain and if you've got a credit card with a chip,
you can participate in their amazing Velib' bikeshare program.
Added bonus: as advertised on their site, the Bike About Tour guys, American Christian and New Zealander Paul, are très adorbs (and très married). Still, who wouldn't want to spend a few hours chasing fit, tan boys around Paris on a bicycle? [Disclaimer: I've crushed out on everybikeguide I've ever had.]
My favorite moment was when we were cycling in an alley in the Marais in front of a piece of the old wall. Our cluster of bikes was blocking a little Renault or whatever it was from getting through. The driver honks at us.
DRIVER: [Leaning out the window] ASDLKFJ!@#%#@# [In French]
PAUL: [With a casual smile] Me fou, ah.
DRIVER: ASDFKLWEFLKJSDKLJ! [In French]
PAUL:[To us cyclists] Alright, why don't you guys come a bit forward.
After the little car made its way through the alley to the intersection, the DRIVER stops, makes eye contact with all of us, grinning, and emphatically sticks his middle finger up in the air before driving away.
PAUL: That's just the French way of saying good morning.
P.S. I had to catch my flight right after the tour, so Paul and Christian made sure I ended with enough time to get to the airport. I cut it close, which was nobody's fault but mine, but if the two of them hadn't kept an eye on the time for me, I would have missed the plane. Of course, at the time, I was like, hm, getting stuck in Paris an extra day doesn't seem too bad to me.
Bike About Tours Vinci Car Parking 4, Rue Lobau 75004 Paris +33 (0) 6 18 80 84 92 Metro: Hotel de Ville Office Hours: 10am- 7pm daily
Tea at Le Mariage Freres-- About 15 euros
I'm sure it's not the most serious tea house in Paris, but it's still fun to be able to try one of dozens of flavors of Le Mariage Freres teas, which I absolutely adore. The Fleur D'Oranger Oolong was just the right temperature, and the Maria Callas recording in the background was playing at just the right decibel level. 9 Euros for two madeleines is totally ridiculous, but the matcha financier was pretty tasty. The room is on one of those super quiet corners of St. Germain on Rive Gauche. I loved the dark wood shutters and giant palm fronds against saffron mottled walls -- very Casablanca. The waiters wore white, I wore blue.
Mariage Freres 13 rue des Grands-Augustins (0)1 40 51 82 50 3-course lunch at L'Ami Jean -- 35 euros Looking at the website, I assumed L'Ami Jean would be a white tablecloth gastrolab with tall food, hungry models and the rich men who try to impress them. It wound up being a rather homey bistro, with a terribly-printed menu and little handheld chalkboards announcing prettily scripted specials.
I don't really know how to describe what I ate there because my food magazine French was no help. In any case, I can't remember any of the menu well enough to look up what was in my food. Poivrade, farcie, morue, that's all I got -- the rest of those pretty French food words confused me.
I just ordered what the lady next to me was having -- a beautiful globe artichoke stuffed with a swampy mix of mussels and teeny brown mushrooms. Then a piece of cod, perfectly cooked and seasoned, with herbs and poached apricots and some kind of foam and topped with a thin ribbon of bacon. It was served with a jam jar full of what I thought was aioli but turned out to be mashed potatoes so full of cream you could drizzle it.
And for dessert, grilled strawberries on a skewer, bursting with juice, with a little savory taste of whatever preceded them on the fire. These were served with an icy quenelle of slightly bitter grapefruit sorbet, a dot of whipped cream, creme anglaise, and toasted pistachios and walnuts. It was one of my fave desserts ever and something that I will have to replicate (simplified) at home.
The food was killer, but what I loved most was watching the middle-aged French lesbian couple next to me smack their lips and roll their eyes over the food. A French mother and daughter who were similarly ravishing their food winked and joked with the couple from across the room. It reminded me of New York and made me wish my French was better.
Happy Sweden National Day! Yesterday's National Day only became an official, no-work holiday about three years ago. My Swedish friends tell me it wasn't a big deal because it's not like Sweden was celebrating escape from tyranny, since they were always the ones ruling over others.
Sweden is a small country, and despite the fact that their IKEAs have taken over our suburbs, they're unaccustomed to celebrating themselves. Check out this clip of the country's greatest sports moment in recent history, Sweden's bronze medal in the 1994 World Cup:
Sometimes, you go to a city for the first time and it clenches its sphincter, shines a flashlight in your face and tries its very best to kick you back to where you came from. That's how I always felt about London, and my recent weekend trip just confirmed my suspicions. Rome was no better -- I could feel the city trying to squeeze me out, and the feeling was mutual.
But sometimes, if you're lucky, you meet a city who leans back, makes eye contact, fans its hair out and parts its knees a teensy bit.
I arrived in Paris on Saturday morning, dropped my bag off at the hostel (more on that later) near Republique, and walked south towards the Marais to begin one of the sweetest vacations of my life.
Paris was...Parisian to the Paris degree. Pliant, enchanting and just gorgeous. I fell in love almost immediately. As someone I went to dinner with last night said:
STOCKHOLMER: There are only two cities in the world that look just like they look in the movies -- Paris and New York.
But that's not the only parallel. I found that Parisians engage the way that New Yorkers do. They joke with strangers, or they shrug their shoulders at you, or they yell things at you and they acknowledge your presence. That famous Parisian rudeness they talk about -- I didn't experience it. Maybe I was too busy gawking at the buildings and stuffing my face with delicious things.
.
Look at the sunlight! Just pure and pearly, trickling softly through the leaves of aged trees lining les boulevards, les avenues, les rues. The temperature hovered in the 70s for the whole of my stay, raining only once for the five minutes it took me to flip through a rack of clothing in a little boutique. I didn't even notice it.
I also didn't go to a single museum. I didn't buy a single foodstuff to bring back to Stockholm. I didn't go to a single bar.
I basically bicycled or walked until my feet hurt, looking at beautiful things and beautiful buildings and beautiful people. I stopped to try on a pretty dress or two. And every few hours, I ate something utterly scrumptious. Sometimes I knew what I was eating and sometimes I didn't. You can forgive me for my lack of details or not, but I don't care because it was my self-indulgent vacation and it made me happy. It was only 3 days, but it was total perfection.
I took advice from David Lebovitz's site and packed pretty dresses to wear, and I'd encourage you to do the same. But comfortable shoes are a must for all the walking.
I thought my Swedish lessons would hamper my French, but my one semester of francais came back pretty smoothly. It was able to ask for water, say please, thank you, etc., and it was enough.
What I'm saying is, if you've ever wanted to go to Paris, go now! Go while the current mayor has cleaned up the Seine and made Paris beautiful. Go while the Velib' bikeshare program is pretty new and well-kept, so it's easy to get around town without having to use the Metro. Go because there has never been a good reason to keep Paris waiting. I know that now.
With trips every weekend last month, including the one to Rome that
bled my wallet dry, I think I put together an full but thrifty
itinerary for myself. I probably could have been perfectly happy to rent a bicycle for 30ish euros for three days, dawdle through the weekend street market of the Marais and sit on the Pont Neuf at sunset each evening with a hunk of cheese, a baguette and a bottle of wine.
Scrimping in Paris
Breakfast at Le Comptoir des Archives -- about 13 euros It's not that the food was so spectacular at Le Comptoir des Archives. The tartine with a thick trench of unsalted butter down the middle was as reliable as any tartine in Paris, the confiture of an unremarkable berry heritage. The salade de fruits was a fine mix of apple, peach, mango, banana and grape (thank God they don't put awful melon in fruit salads). And the cafe creme was perfectly good. (I know coffee is supposed to be terrible in Paris, but I thought all the coffee I had was better than all the coffee I had in Rome. You don't have to believe me. But that's what I think.)
But in Paris, it seems that the most popular spot at any given moment is the one that has the most attention from the sun. And at 9am in the Marais, it feels like the sun is looking only at you in front of Le Comptoir des Archives. 13 euros is obvs. not that cheap for a small breakfast. But
Paris is stunning in the morning, before the tourists wake up, and it's
worth it to get up and catch the sun and quiet while you
can. Think of it as 6.50 euros per hour.
You're better off spending 13 euros and a few hours on this quiet corner of the Marais than you would be for a twice-as-expensive breakfast at Cafe de Flore on St. Germain, where the confiture is an extra 2.20 euros and the salade de fruits is a mushy mess of soggy kiwi and papaya. Besides, a baguette with butter is pretty much a baguette with butter anywhere you go.
I sat next to the most elegant lovers. I imagined they'd just rolled out of bed to take a post-coital coffee and cigarette. Her strawberry blond, wavy hair was wild and thick, framing green bedroom eyes. But her white linen pullover dress was crisply pleated, punctuated by slip-on black kitten heels. Her head leaned into the crook of her young lover's arm. He had tousled black hair, wire frame glasses, a t-shirt and jeans. His jacket (a suit jacket, of course), was carefully folded in half on the wicker chair across from them. He had a book on the table but was only paying attention to his girl. Neither of them was particularly amazing looking, but together, they were irresistible.
Le Comptoir des Archives 41, Rue des Archives Métro: Hotel de Ville 01 42 72 13 56
Paris Opera -- 5 euros I tried to see Tosca at the last minute on Saturday, which was playing at the Bastille Opera. I'm glad I didn't get in, though, because it forced me to see another show the next night at the other venue, the magnificent Palais Garnier. It's smaller than the Met, but about five times more glamorous, with crazy chandeliers, gold carvings, and a Chagall ceiling mural.
The show was far from sold out, so the ushers encouraged me to move into the more expensive seating. No matter that I fell asleep during the concert, quintets and sextets of Ligeti, Prokofiev, Janacek and Hindemeth. It was totally worth the five euros to climb the marble staircase into Baroque heaven.
Palais Garnier The corner of Rue Scribe and Rue Auber Métro: Opéra lines 3, 7 and 8, RER Auber Ticket prices vary depending on performance and your seat.
L'As du Fallafel -- 5 euros It's a great falafel, maybe not a life-changing one, but a great one. The hot, crunchy falafel themselves are a manageable size, a bit smaller than a ping pong ball. The pickled veggies are great, the tender fried eggplant even better. The thick pita could stand to be more interesting. Don't worry, the guy asking you for your order and your money while you wait on the long line is legit. The question is, where do you sit and eat it? I wound up in one of the chairs in front of the place -- not ideal, and just okay for people watching. If you figure out a better place to sit, let me know. But it's a cheap filler up in the middle of the Marais on a beautiful, historic street.
L'As du Fallafel 34, Rue des Rosiers Métro: St. Paul 01-48-87-63-60
Caramella -- 3 euros Why does everything in continental Europe have to close on Sundays? I had hoped to crowbar a meal at Rose Bakery in the Montmartre into my very full itinerary, but had no luck because the French don't like working like New Yorkers do. I had to have dinner at Caramella instead. Wasn't such a bad option, though -- cooled down with a scoop of mojito sorbet, which was fresh and minty if a bit too sweet, and yogurt sorbet which was tangy, creamy heaven. Totally better than much of the Roman gelati I had. Again, you don't have to believe me, I don't care. I don't know how it rates compared to Berthillon ice cream, but it was pretty damn good and I didn't have to wait on line for it. Worth a pit stop to Rue des Martyrs if only to pretend you are Chocolate & Zucchini for a minute.
Caramella 47, Rue des Martyrs Métro: Notre Dame de Lorette 01-44-530956 3 euros
You know that Gwyneth Paltrow story about how her dad took her to Paris because, as he said, "I wanted you to see Paris for the first time with a man who would always love you, no matter what"? I love that story. In general, I'm ambivalent about Gwyneth, but I love her father for doing that for her, and I love that Gwyneth shared that story with the little girls of the world who long for a father to share that kind of love with them.
But. BUT. It's the kind of story that makes you believe that you should wait to go to Paris. Wait until you are with a man who will always love you, no matter what. Or at least wait until you are with someone who will love you while you are in Paris. Wait for the rendezvous, the pas de deux, the tête-à-tête.
I never really thought about Paris before. Perhaps in the back of my mind, I thought, maybe I should go see Paris for the first time with a man who loves me.
Which is silly, right? Here I am, the eternal bachelorette, the stoic loner, a person who calls her blog Eat Drink One Woman -- no Man. I am a romance pessimist. What was I waiting for?
But I think of the Isley Brothers' cover of the Stephen Stills song -- "If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." I know that's a song about loving the bird you've got in your hand. But what if you don't have a bird? What if nobody's ever going to take you out to dinner again, and if you want to go out and be treated like a queen, you have to make it happen? Would that be so terrible? If you have accepted that romance is not in the cards for you, don't you have to love the one you're with, even if that turns out to be yourself?
Name: Björn Jeffery 
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