Category: Reviews

I say I live in Sunset Park, but really, I live at my office in Gramercy.  So here are my 10 favorite things to eat when I'm at my place of residence (in no particular order.)

1. Mike's Coffee & Deli -- a tiny hole in the wall for my breakfast.  These guys are consummate New York professionals -- three guys in a tiny 8x12 space keeping track of 5, 6, 7 finicky New Yorker sandwich orders at any given moment.  Plus, it's cheaper than any of the other places by about half ($1.50 for my egg and cheese on a roll).
   
2. Tiffin Wallah -- lunch buffet for $7.60, my fave dishes are the palak paneer and the okra tomato.  I prefer the little pancakes to the chapati.  I refrain from seconds because that can render me completely useless in the afternoon.  When pressed for time, consider dropping in for lunch -- you'd be surprised at how quickly you can be in and out of there, especially if you're alone.
   
3. BCD Tofu -- Soon du bu with pork, regular spicy.  Their rice is always perfect.  Love the fried mackerel you always get for free as a starter, and the oyster in the slightly sweet kimchi adds just the right amount of brine.
4. Chipotle -- chicken burrito bowl, rice, black beans, tomato salsa, lettuce.  Go ahead, judge me.
   
5. 'Wichcraft -- olive oil poached shrimp salad over mixed greens instead of arugula.  I often need to supplement with a hard boiled egg.
6. Maoz vegetarian -- Forget the falafel -- their fried eggplant is a marvel of shard and goo.  That and the salty fried cauliflower from the toppings bar and I am in heaven.
7. Mandoo Bar -- kimchi & tofu dumplings with pork.  Boiled.  Though it never feels like a full meal to just eat dumplings.
8. E-Mo -- kimbap, usually with spicy tuna and sesame leaf, to eat on the subway.  With my hands.  Yes, I'm that person, and stop looking at me.
9. Stumptown -- Soy cappuccino.  It really is the best coffee.  I wouldn't normally trust a place so overrun with hipsters, but the coffee is unfailingly a cut above.  The espresso drinks are pretty nicely priced.
   
10. Kalustyan's -- California dried apricots with the right balance of tart and sweet; high turnover means they're always moist. 
    

Bonus:
Best place for office birthday treats: Penelope for cupcakes or 'Wichcraft for cookies.  We especially like the oatmeal with cream cheese frosting cookie sandwich.

Place I never eat, even though it's super close:
Artisanal -- I went there once for dinner, didn't like it much, and seems dangerous to eat too much cheese for lunch.

Captain's Daughter ($8): Salted foccacia with sardines, a sliced pickled egg, and "salsa verde" of whole parsley leaves and sliced scallions tossed with olive oil and capers.  YUMS.  Does everyone already know about this place?  Best possible thing I could have eaten before the gig at The Knitting Factory.  The individual quince tarts' crusts sparkled with granulated sugar, enrobing fuchsia colored fruit.  Though I yearned for one, I held back.  The cup of loose leaf jasmine tea was the perfect cap to a really tasty and virtuous meal. 

From the outside, I wasn't quite sure what the brightly lit, sparsely furnished railroad space was.  A fish and chips shop?  A bakery? The counter is set deep in the narrow storefront, and the pastry case also houses stacks of books. The purposefully askew white lettering on the cartoon whale blue wall menu spells out abstract sandwich names like Spanish Armada and Ship's Biscuit without descriptions, forcing customers to consult the card on the counter for ingredients.  It feels preciously sewn, and it brushes my hair in the wrong direction (Steve Zissou?). But that's a teeny quibble for such sandwich pleasure.  My only request: add some chips to the menu so I can make it a square meal.

Saltie
378 Metropolitan Ave
(at Havemeyer St)
Brooklyn, NY 11211
(718) 387-4777
  

Sugar ban be damned, I always have to eat pang ji (or pang chi) when I'm in L.A.  These Thai street snacks are silver dollar taro coconut patties flecked with chewy kernels of corn.  The batter is scooped into little mounds and pan-fried on a griddle.  They're chewy, not too sweet, and I can eat ten of them in a single sitting.    There's something about the mochi-like, glutinous texture of them that makes my teeth happy, while the delicate lavender hue appeals to the unicorn princess in me.

Special at Hasaki: grilled mushroom plate ($18).  Sprightly white shimeiji, bluefoots, meaty chanterelles, king oyster, maitake, grilled on a flat iron casserole with soy sauce and butter (soy sauce with butter needs to become a more regular part of my repertoire) and brought to the table under a blue ceramic dome, sizzling and chattering.  Robust, animal, like nibbling on a plate of hot earlobes.

Seriously, I need to go out on a date.
 


Hasaki
210 E. 9th St.
Between 2nd and 3rd Ave.
212 473 3327
6 to Astor Pl. or R to 8th St.

Picture from the Manna Kitchen website

Heej is probably going to kick me for blowing up our secret spot, but I'm going to do it anyway.

Many Tuesdays and Thursdays after yoga, we refuel at Manna Kitchen in Union Square.  It's an modest, cheap little Korean joint on 18th St., right next to the Fresh store.     

We've pretty much eaten our way through the entire menu at this point, but the thing I order most often, the thing I have probably eaten more of in the last year than anything else, is the Rock 'n Rice -- it's a variation on dol sot bibimbap, the hot stone bowl kind, that can be ordered with tofu or white meat chicken instead of beef. 

You've seen it all before -- the ketchup squirt bottle of chili sauce, the bottomless cups of barley tea, the colorful assortment of sesame oil-sauteed vegetables.  But their secret weapon is the magical, mystical brown rice option.  Brown rice you say?  YES!  It crisps and puffs in that fiery rock pit like nothing else.  Think of that crunchy, toasty, nutty goodness against the jiggle of tofu with a slick of hot sauce.  I can eat it twice a week after yoga and not feel disgusting.

Entree prices hover around $10, and every dish comes with little environmentally-unfriendly foam bowls of kimchi and panchan like cold soy potatoes and onion or marinated fish cakes, often accompanied by a shallow bowl of miso soup.

As a myopic Asian, I really don't mind the retina-stimulating fluorescent lighting against the orange and kelly green formica tables.  In the winter, we sit at the bar stools, hovering over spicy soups that fog up the window we're facing.  In the warmer months, we bring our cafeteria trays outside and sit at wobbly aluminum tables outside, sipping ice water from little styrofoam cups.

Considering the regularity with which we sup at Manna Kitchen, we should probably be on a first name basis with the tall, jolly and bespectacled Korean guy who's always behind the register in his cap and orange t-shirt.  I think I see that guy more often than I see some of my good friends in New York, and though we never acknowledge that out loud, he probably smiles inside about that, too.

Okay, it's not destination dining, obviously.  It's not going to make it onto any best of lists, or even any obscure-chaser's cheap eats list.  And yet it is a destination I dine at probably three or four times a month. The whole ritual -- yoga, casual Korean grub and Chit Chat of Beautiful Ladies with my girlfriends Heej and Sarah -- is something I look forward to every week. 

If you're looking for black goat chigae blessed by a female Korean shaman who smokes mountaintop sesame leaves, then it may not be authentic enough for you.  But that kind of authenticity is bad for my arteries.  I could happily eat this perfect, perfect dish twice a week for as long as I live in New York.

Walking to the subway after dinner:

HEEJ: Do you know how many times I have eaten Korean food this week?  And I'm eating Korean food again tomorrow.

ME: Let me tell you something -- in Korea, they eat Korean food every day.

HEEJ:  Hey, that's true.

Manna Kitchen
28 E. 18th Street between Bway and Park Ave. So.
New York, NY 10003
212-228-1044

*Hello!  Three posts three days in a row!  This NaBloPoMo thing is working!  Except I can't get the acronym right.  I keep thinking NAMBLA.

On the rarest of occasions, it is possible to take a bite of something and taste an entire lifetime in it.

Sometimes it's an animal's life, very straightforward.  Sometimes it is the chef's life you taste, his memory, her touch.  Sometimes it's your own life. 

I can count the number of times in this has happened to me.  The first time was when my whole clan went to visit my cousin when she was in college.  We ordered takeout from the Thai House on Market St. in San Francisco.  My father, whose brother did the electrician work for many of the Thai restaurants on that side of the bay, popped his head into the kitchen and asked to get our food extra Thai-style.  We ate sitting on the floor of my cousin's railroad apartment in the Mission.  What I remember was a tom yum goong, so pungent and tangy, topped with blistered chilies that singed and sang.  That night, I tasted my family's life, in a moment when we were all together, just a few years before we dispersed around the nation.  I'll never forget that meal.  We still talk about it to this day.

Another time was a meal I had with my then boyfriend at Nobu.  My boyfriend wanted to impress me.  I was mostly ungrateful and unimpressed.  Until, that is, the final course came out -- a small bowl of broth, all golden clarity and tasting of the sea.  It had a few small pieces of pink and white fish, poached to perfection, with just a few sprouts of mitsuba floating about.  It made my boyfriend cry.  It made me a little teary.  We looked at each other.  We looked at the chef.  The chef nodded knowingly.  I tasted the ocean in that bowl, the Pacific ocean, the history of kelp, the bright sun that warms the upper reaches of the water. 

And then there was Mathias Dahlgren's Matsalen.  Francis and I decided to go and treat ourselves one night when he was in Stockholm.  My appetite was ample.  The little teasers had been clever and delicious -- a seascape made of paper-thin, dehydrated cauliflower floating like coral in a glass of sesame seeds, a sail of soy-seaweed paper, a crisp sheet of beet.  And there it was -- a tiny bun warmed on a charred piece of wood.  The waitress gave some story about this bun being Mathias's first memory as a child.  Yeah, yeah, I thought.  Just lemme at it.

The smell -- coal, fire, dough.  Smooth, round bread against the wavy grain of the wood pedestal.  I popped it into my mouth and clamped down.  And -- was that a gob of butter?  A little salty, and then the dough was sweet.  Creamy.  Soft.  Oh god.  My blood vessels dilated up to the roots of my hair.  There it was -- recognition.  The chef's life in a bite.

The tasting menu at Mathias Dahlgren was one of the best meals of my life.  Seriously.  Moments of true bliss followed as Francis and I chuckled our way giddily through the seven-course dinner.  A little tile of ling, a cod-like fish, and the daintiest scallop, seared with just a smack of heat, was tender and sensual against a masculine garlic puree and palate-cleansing parsley sprouts.  It lit Francis's face up.  Bling!

Raw tongue lengths of coral-colored salmon folded over bright orange whitefish roe, nestling against a creamy bit of artichoke puree and emerald green Gotland asparagus tips, all moistened by a touch of browned butter and adorned with lilac chive flowers. This dish was absolutely feminine, encompassing the delicate complexity of spring, all fertility and sensuality.  It was my favorite dish that night.

Langoustine wrapped in -- was that pure pork fat? -- pork cheek, served with an astringent lovage-pea puree.  A pumpkin porridge topped with parmesan cheese, black truffles and pumpkin seeds -- simple and earthy.  Rich saddle of lamb with fried sweetbreads were decadent but played up the complex flavors of the meats themselves.   

But over the next few days, I realized that another dish was haunting me, continues to haunt me.  It was so deceptively simple, so audacious.  A rectangle of their crustless pillowy sourdough was stuffed with cow's milk cheese, pan fried on all sides in olive oil and touched with honey, sea salt and black pepper.  The grilled cheese (because, come on, it's a grilled cheese) came with a thin, long shot glass of fermented birch sap, a lightly fizzy, lightly alcoholic translucent white beverage.  Epic sagas could be written about the flavors that came forth with every alternating bite and sip.  Honey + salt. Milk + yeast.  Tree + animal.  Age + brew.  Is it too soon to taste that again?  Will I ever taste anything like that again?  I wonder.

A visitor I had recently made the observation that Swedes wear the same standard H&M clothes that we do in the States, but they style them much more interestingly.  The same could be said of food here -- the Swedish sense of style is in play here.  Matsalen doesn't have an infinite palette of flavors.  But what it has, it uses gracefully, bringing out nuance.

Matsalen, located in the Grand Hotel, looks out on the dock where Waxholmsbolaget ferries drop anchor when they're in the Stockholm harbor.  The boats come and go over the course of a dinner as the cloudy sky fades from gray to navy.  It's a really quintessentially Stockholm view.  Inside, the dining room is chalky but warm, done up in complementary shades of blue gray, beige and white, echoing the colors of the boats and their headlights against the changing evening backdrop.  It's elegant, not stuffy, mimicking the hushed reverence and charm of a seaside chapel.

Matbaren, the more casual restaurant next door, offers a few of the same dishes on Matsalen's a la carte menu, though the food a little less interesting.  The room is a lot more casual, with wood walls, tall stools, Poul Henningsen light fixtures and a long, curved dining bar.  The unmissable: the horseradish herring was fucking unbelievable -- a cream herring, pickled but not tart, with a row of adorable, halved boiled fresh potatoes and a rope of bleak roe.  A few purple rings of onion add color and zest; underneath the stole of cream and above the brown butter slip, the herring hides tiny segments of lemon which burst with the bleak roe at precisely the right moments.  Make sure to also order a frosty shot of Mathias Dahlgren's own double-biting horseradish snaps.

And check out this dessert: a chilled 50s martini glass is filled with plain yogurt, with a soft ball of peach sorbet plopped in the middle (had to be robot-couped, it was so fine and smooth).  Around the glass, a ring of toasted, skinned whole hazelnuts (which have become a regular staple in my diet) circle the sorbet, with a little honey and a halo of fruity olive oil, topped with a pinch of sea salt.  Two temperatures, several textures, and big, bouffanty flavors.  I have got to make it for a dinner party sometime.

I will say that it's a good place to take yourself on a date.  I wasn't the only solo diner in there tonight -- two guys on the other side of the bar were also eating alone, though I think I totally out-ate them both.   

I've been considering going to Matsalen one more time before I go home, but I'm not sure I want to.  The experience was so sublime, so moving in my mind that I dare not disturb the dream.  But you can bet that the next time I'm back in Stockholm, I'll have a reservation there.

Matsalen
Mathias Dahlgren
Södra Blasieholmshamnen 6
T-bana: Kungsträdgården
Matsalen tasting menu: 1500 SEK (about $200).  Reservations required.
Matbaren 3 courses with 3 drinks: about 1000 SEK (about $130).  Reservations recommended, but there's supposedly always room for a drop-in.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, hold up.

Isn't this already over?

Nej!



We have an eleventh hour entry from Kungsholmens Glassfabrik on Pipersgatan in Kungsholmen.  Located right next to a school, evil bastards.



Exhibit A: Blodgrape Campari (grapefruit Campari) and mynta lime (mint lime).  Manageable sized scoops, dense and firm.  Flecked with pulp, zest and herb.  Smooth, icy, refreshing.  Chase with a shot of rum and stick an umbrella in your mouth.  Nothing funny about that cone, either.  Smells of caramel and vanilla, the way a good våffla should.




Exhibit B: Citronglass and Polkaglass.  Firm, biteable ice cream, stiff enough that it doesn't melt too quickly.  No air bubbles means zaftig dairy body without too much weight.  Citronglass is like milky lemon curd with bits of biscuit in it.  This is not the lemon perfume spritz of Italian crema.  This is sunny tarte au citron.  It's just puckery enough to make your glands pop but not so tart that you can't chase it down with...
...the Polkaglass.  It's ever so slightly pink, like it just overheard a dirty joke.  And it's pepperminty fresh.  Polka is the word for candy cane.  You laugh.  How about a little polkaglass over kladdkaka, Swedish chocolate cake?  Who's laughing now, buddy?



Exhibit C: Small batches in shades of occurs-in-nature pastel.  Enough flavors for you to want at least two, but not so many that they aren't made with intent.



Exhibit D: Swedish kids can enjoy their glass in the company of Chester, the Acne JR. bear.  Matchy matchy.  We get Fudgie the Whale, made of poo and shaving cream.

Cavity caveat: They're a not-insubstantial bike ride away unless you live in Kungsholmen and they close at 4pm on the weekends.  4pm!  Come on, at least pretend you want my money.

Kungsholmens Glassfabrik
Pipersgatan 14
T-bana: Rådhuset
30 SEK for two kula, which is the word for scoop, which is what I am calling my future ice cream shop.

A few general notes on Stockholm life:

• I feel very safe here (knock wood).  Walking around late at night is fine in Stockholm, even under bridges and through tunnels that I would normally avoid in other big cities.
• Walking is the pastime of choice here in Sweden, to be indulged at least once a day, and the after dinner stroll is the best one. There are plenty of excellent walking paths -- just look for all of the walkers.  Those gaggles of gray geese nesting on the grassy banks may be cute, but be careful -- I hear they can be quite aggressive.
• Everyone pays for everything with credit cards.  Though foreign transaction fees can add up, you can rest assured that you can pay for almost anything in any amount with a credit card.  Also, servers have no problem splitting a bill nine ways on nine credit cards. 
  
• Tipping is discouraged by the locals.  Servers are paid good wages, and locals don't want you to ruin the no-tipping thing for them.  10% is very generous on a nice meal, but rounding up to the nearest hundred is sufficient.  Tipping for drinks is unnecessary. UPDATE: My friend Anna, who used to be a waitress, says this is a misconception. You should tip, maybe up to 10%.  Leave a few crowns of change for your drinks.  General consensus still seems to be tip lightly, so follow the lead of the people around you. 
  
• Generally true, but not always true -- expect Stockholmers to want to split the bill exactly as ordered.  So if I had two glasses of wine with dinner but you had one glass, I would be expected to pay more than you.  Makes bill time fair but a buzzkill.
• Lunch is a very social activity.  Nobody eats at their desk.  That means that lunch can be an excellent deal in Stockholm (about 80 SEK or $10) and usually includes bread, salad, coffee and sometimes even cookies.  If you're looking to save cash, eat out for lunch and eat in for dinner.
  

View 4 Days in Stockholm in a larger map

ITINERARY 1, DAY 2: TUESDAY

Shopping!

If you are shopping for Scandinavian design, there are plenty of places to burn through your money.  July and February are GREAT times for sales in Stockholm -- much merchandise goes 30, 50 and 70% off.  Those sales make high end design actually affordable.

For clothing, I like PUB, a small but well-selected department store in Hötorget.  It is a bit like Barney's Co-op, but with housewares as well.  The top floor features lots of young Scandinavian designers, including Carin Wester, Ann-Sofie Back, Camilla Norrback, 2707, and my absolute favorite, Designers Remix by Danish designer Charlotte Eskildsen.  The first floor also has lots of Scandinavian faves like Acne, Rodebjer, Whyred, Fifth Avenue Shoe Repair, Mads Nørgaard and Nudie.

Weekday is the spot for Cheap Monday jeans, the unbelievable painted on denim skins favored by fat free Swedish youth.  I can't rock them, but maybe you can.  Winnie bought a great ready-to-wear Carin Wester dress from the Weekday on Götgatan in Södermalm, which has a broader selection than the Weekday on Drottninggatan and Kungsgatan. 

NK is the Barney's of Stockholm.  I like the Scandinavian corner, with lots of offerings from Malene Birger, Dagmar, Rodebjer, Hope, Acne, etc.  The bottom floor also has a great kitchenware shop and a food hall. 

Filippa K (pronounced Filippa Ko) has boutiques near NK and on Götgatan.  Her clothes tend to look terrible on me, but I like her cool temp color palette. 

I am a fan of Acne's ugly beautiful clothes, so I would recommend seeing the flagship store on Hamngatan in Norrmalmstorg, right by the Filippa K.  I have to admit, though, that I bought a dress from them and I've been too chicken to wear it.  You really have to own it to make it work.  The store has a chic dressing room that used to be a vault.  You will probably also get to see this guy working there.  (For cheaper, previous season stuff, try Acne Archive on Torsgatan.)  

While in Norrmalmstorg, you can also visit the nearby Marimekko shop for the Finnish label's high quality home textiles as well as clothing, accessories, and more.

Speaking of Finnish design, Winnie went to town on a sale at Ittala boutique on Götgatan, the Finnish glass and ceramic designer whose beautiful and very usable pieces everyone has here.   

Stockholm turned me into a label whore!  If you see me wearing weird Swedish duds, though, rest assured I bought them 50% off or more.  (Except for the one Acne dress I'm still not entirely sure about.  But one day, someone will invite me to the right party for it.)

LUNCH: Vete-katten

I am not sure what Winnie did for lunch on this day, but I would recommend Vete-katten.  They have a labyrinthine and quaint kafferum, or coffee room, which is tricked out to look like grandma's parlor.  Try classic Swedish smörgåsar (sandwiches) on house baked bread or baked potatoes with skagen, the shrimp dill mayo salad.  (Sounds a little strange, but trust me, totally delicious.)  What you really want to save room for, though, is coffee and dessert. 


Photo by Winnie Yang

My favorite choklad biskvie in Stockholm can be found here -- an almond paste macaroon is topped with a mound of chocolate buttercream and dipped in semi-sweet chocolate to form a little coolie hat you crack with your teeth. 

If you are lucky enough to be in Stockholm around Fat Tuesday, you must get the semla, a cardamom yeast roll filled with almond paste and chantilly cream.

Vete-katten
Kungsgatan 55
T-bana Hötorget

DINNER: Kvarnen
Kvarnen is one of those classic old Stockholm pubs from back in Södermalm's days as a working class hood.  It's a popular spot for Hammarby football supporters, so don't go in wearing somebody else's scarf unless you want to get your ass kicked.  Otherwise, don't be intimidated -- it's more Sherlock Holmes than Cheers.  The gorgeous, high-ceilinged room has black and white hexagonal floor tiles, funny sculptures mounted on the walls, old wood booths, and lots of stained glass.  


Photo by Winnie Yang

At some point during my stay, I turned from herring-hater into herring-lover.  Which is good because Swedes can really knock the herring back, at least during the holidays.  The smör och sill sampler at Kvarnen is excellent, four types, served with boiled fresh potatoes, knäckebröd (hardtack? rykrisp? hard bread?) and Västerbotten cheese.  Their matjessill, which you have to order separate from the sampler, was the best I have had so far, sweet and salty spice-cured herring served with minced red onion, chives, sliced hard-boiled egg and potatoes in a pool of brown butter. Such sexy texture.  Don't forget to get an ice cold snaps with your herring -- I like Hallands Fläder, but you can go for the classic O.P. or Skåne.

Husmanskost, or classic Swedish comfort food, really sticks to your bones.  I like to imagine old school Swedes eating a huge meal like this with pitchers of ale, passing out at the end of the day, and waking up in the morning to chop down trees in the snow.  As long as you have a hearty appetite, you'll appreciate the cream gravy moistened älg Wallenbergare (elk burger), served with sugar snap peas and mashed potatoes.  The stekt strömming (fried herring) was beautiful, strewn with diced beets and capers. 


Photo by Winnie Yang

Pytt i panna is my favorite kind of dish -- it's like an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink hash, topped with a fried egg, which you spoon up with slices of cooked beets.  It's the kind of dish you only want to eat at a place you trust not to throw past-due horse meat in.  Unless past-due horse meat is your thing. 

Warning: if you show up early for dinner, pace yourself -- hefeweizen comes in a glass you could give birth in.  In fact, if you can really run yourself ragged during the day, you'll feel a lot better sitting down to a meal this heavy.

Kvarnen
Tjärhovsgatan 4
T-bana: Medborgarplatsen
Reservations not required in the summer, but call to make sure

After dinner, take a long, digestive walk back to wherever you're staying, preferably over some hills or along some water. 

I found Stockholm's best ice cream at Stockholms Glasshus. 

The end.

---

So maybe you're thinking, wait, how can you have already found the best ice cream if you've only been to two places? Here's why:



On top is fläder, or elderflower, sorbet.  Not too sweet, fine fine ice crystals, a touch of perfume, a kiss of citrus.  I love all things fläder, and I love the word fläder.  Ask a Swedish person to say this to you and just TRY to not crush out on Swedish. 

Under Neat that is Teheran gelato.  That's right, it's called Teheran, as in Tehran, Iran. 



And it's made of vanilla, pistachio, squiggly threads of saffron and rosewater. I detected a hint of orange as well. It's eggy and smooth, like a shorn mink for your tongue. Surely this is what the most devout teetotaler Muslim virgins get served in heaven.

Jealous much?  Hate me now!  

In the interest of journalistic integrity, I may try more ice cream places.  But I will probably resent them for taking up space in my arteries that could otherwise be occupied by Stockholms Glasshus glass.  But the reportage will continue -- you know it's true, everything I do, I do it for you.    

I've decided to make it my mission to find Stockholm's best glass, aka ice cream.  Copenhagen's Paradis set the bar pretty high.  Oh, sure, there are articles I could put through Google translate, but I don't know which critics to trust.  Besides, it'll give me something to do with all my free time.

Anyway, we start today with Glass on Dalagatan near Kungstengatan in Vasastan.  There are about 25 flavors, advertised as "importerad från Venedig" (imported from Venice).  This boggles my mind.  I don't want to know that my ice cream sat on an airplane for several hours and had to pass customs before it got to Stockholm.*

I got two scoops on recommendation from the cashier -- croccantino and hazelnut. 

Croccantino was a kola (caramel) variant, and it was awful -- like a gritty cross between those penny candy butterscotch discs and hard water ring around the bathtub.  My burps taste of cheap vanilla Glade.  Hazelnut was alright, but I kind of hate hazelnut flavored things and I don't know why I agreed to get it. 

I like my ice cream either eggier or ice milkier, and this was in that boring in-between place, with a couple too many ice crystals for that classic velvet gelato mouthfeel. 

The verdict: Fine to scratch a glass itch, and there are probably better flavors, but I think I'll save my calories for somewhere else. 

*This baffles me almost as much as this sign advertising "Bagels direct from London" does.
 


The locavore movement has not hit Stockholm yet.  In fact, there are no farmer's markets.  No farmer's markets!  I don't know where to get real deal produce.  People keep telling me about the wonder of the new potatoes, and the local strawberries, but where are the farmers?  I can't very well trust Daglivs and ICA to provide access to the most loving farm fresh food.  Stockholm, have faith in your own abilities to grow and make food!  Go local!

UPDATE: Commenter Anne says there is a farmer's market!  If my translation is correct, it's only open 3 Saturdays in May and 2 Saturdays in June until August.  But I'll only be in town for two of those days.  And then my job here ends on August 14.  Blerg!