food – Old Lady Writing

Is there anything more universal than ice cream? That’s a rhetorical question; I was just thinking how many memories I have tied to it throughout my life, starting long ago and oh so far away…

Like everything in the Soviet Union, our ice cream was *supposed* to be the best. Of course it seemed that way, because we had nothing with which to compare it, and of course I loved it, because I was a child. In my town and in my time, we had two kinds, and two kinds only—“creamy” and “plombir”. The first one cost 13 kopecks and came in a waffle cone; the second one, 19 and in a paper cup. Both came in one flavor, basically sweet cream (not vanilla; all that is white is not vanilla). At this point in my life, I would not be able to tell the difference between the two, if I ever did, but the important difference was that if someone had a 20 kopeck coin and someone else had 5 kopecks, or someone had 15 and someone else had 10, you and a friend needed to only come up with one kopeck to get two “creamys”, instantly making it a party. The constant search for the elusive missing kopeck is a vivid memory of my childhood. On one particularly desperate occasion, a friend and I contemplated selling her baby cousin whom we were watching for as many kopecks as we needed for a “creamy”, but that is another story for another time…

Once my mother took me to the famous ice cream café Cosmos in Moscow. Having never had anything more exciting than the above-mentioned, I was significantly overwhelmed by its choices. I ended up with something covered in chocolate sauce and hazelnuts. Whenever in doubt, I will always choose hazelnuts, but chocolate sauce and I have never really been friends, whether on ice cream, on waffles, or on anything else. The buildup to it was greater than the experience itself because I think I expected something life-changing, but instead, like everything else in our Golden Domed capital of that era, it was hectic, harried, preceded by a very long wait in line, and basically ended up a “creamy” in disguise.

When I was visiting in the waning days of the Indestructible Union, wandering around town with my BFF, I suggested we grab a “creamy” or maybe even a “plombir” for old times’ sake. Her response? Ice cream is not always available this time of year. It was May. Enough said.

[Fast forward to 2003] When I was in Kyiv with some clients, I was very hopeful for some tastes of childhood. Our first encounter was with an American-style ice cream cart that sold the same products that you will find in any American convenience store’s freezer—good stuff, but not nostalgic. But when we encountered a café on Khreshchatyk, my client Peter went inside to investigate, and emerged with several bowls of ice cream—and several forks. Why not spoons, the rest of us asked, quite logically. Well, because forks were offered gratis, and spoons cost extra. Not that Peter could not afford spoons, but it was the principle of the thing. And this, much more than the taste of the ice cream, was enough to instantly remind us of our shared Soviet past.

Meanwhile, back home in Ann Arbor, Stucchi’s opened in 1986, when frozen yogurt was new and exciting. Most Fridays, I would meet up with my two best gal pals for a scoop of frozen vanilla yogurt with chocolate covered almonds (for me; I did not pay attention to what they had), and then we would head over to my apartment two blocks away and talk about boys until late into the night. Best times! And best ice cream, that sadly went the way of my beloved Breyer’s Vanilla Chocolate Almond Swirl Ice Cream. https://oldladywriting.com/2022/01/29/murder-at-the-marsh/

Credit: https://localwiki.org/ann-arbor/Stucchi%27s

Another college memory is a weekend field trip to Barcelona during my study abroad in France. That weekend deserves a story of its own, but at one point, my classmate Lavonne and I discovered a brand of push pop that all these years I thought was called Calypso—but brief internet research revealed that the name is Calippo. It was some kind of tropical flavor that must have contained crack, because Lavonne and I spent all of our pesetas and most of our time scarfing it down all over town. No one else in the group was affected by this temporary weekend madness. I know, it was not technically ice cream, but it was a frozen treat that deserves to be included.

There was also a couple of ice cream producing events which, while I would hesitate to classify as fiascos, were less than entirely successful. One of my selfsame besties owned (maybe still does) a hand-cranking wooden bucket of sorts in which you can make ice cream with the aid of rock salt entirely without electricity. It was a rigorous exercise, taking turns with that thing. We lost steam several hours in, at the point of having created a milkshake, earning every calorie we consumed that night.

Another time I made my own ice cream without the aid of the wooden bucket. Well, it was something about freezing milk and sugar and adding lavender flowers to it. I planted a lavender bush just for this occasion, eagerly waited for it to flower, and was way too impatient to grind them into the milk. It was flavorful, and entirely too chunky and raw, and one time was enough. Not too many, but unequivocally enough. And the bush has since died, though from causes unrelated to ice cream.

Honorable mention goes to the Hӓagen Dazs store at the now defunct Smith Terminal at Detroit Metro Airport. My mom and I had a tradition of getting a scoop of Rum Raisin, to which I added going to the neighboring bookstore and buying an Agatha Christie mystery before getting on a plane. By the time I returned after a few years away, the ice cream shop was gone, then the bookstore, then the entire terminal. Some things have certainly improved in this particular airport, there is no question about that, but I do miss this special custom of my younger days.

This is a Hӓagen Dazs kiosk at a nearby mall. They do not serve Rum Raisin. Are they barbarians?

The most delicious ice cream I ever tasted was in Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen. I took a break from my steady diet of brie and borrelnootjes and treated myself to a scoop before ducking into Madame Tussaud’s (I NEVER miss a wax museum. Ever.). It is difficult to recall what was so special about it, other than the almost celestial creaminess. I still think of it as a transcendent experience. I have known other people who have traveled to Copenhagen, and no one ever corroborated this. If I ever make it there again, right after visiting the Royal Treasury which I could not afford to see last time, I will go in search of this amazing ice cream. Or maybe not, because I cannot bear to be disappointed…

A gratuitous photo of borrelnootjes, a complete nutritious meal. I have lived off of it for weeks at a time.

After discovering Beaujolais Nouveau on a trip to France in 2017, followed by some social-distanced celebrations on the Third Thursday of the Eleventh Month during The Plague Years, I decided to add the visit to this annual event, Les Sarmentelles de Beaujeu in the heart of the wine region, to my bucket list. Spoiler alert: I was saddened, but not entirely surprised to discover that my wine and charcuterie consumption has a limit. No, I will not tell you what that limit is, because it is kind of embarrassingly low. In any case, even before the trip, I correctly guessed that merely drinking copious amounts of wine will not be enough for a European vacation—and decided to add the heretofore unknown to me the city of Lyon to my travels, due to its proximity to the festival.

For reasons that are passing understanding, quick online research resulted in a portrayal of this city as crowded and crime-ridden, with traffic jams for days. This gave me some measure of anxiety, despite the fact that I (1) drove in Munich on the opening weekend of Oktoberfest, (2) drove in Scotland, (3) drove and lived in New York City, and (4) you know of some of my other more colorful misadventures, including being attacked by monkeys. I discovered Lyon to be just what I expected (once the sane voices in my head, including that of Rick Steves, prevailed), a lovely French town with rich history and interesting food. Here are some highlights:

The food. Lyon certainly has its own gastronomic style. I will try anything once. Once.

Andouillette sausage: Our very first meal upon arrival was to order sausages, Lyonnais and Andouillette. I just knew “sausages”, and how bad can they be? I do not eat them at home, they are gross to me, but I enjoyed them in Germany. And with all the emotional and historical baggage set aside, I have to admit—Germans do them best. Lyonnais was covered in mustard, which was fine. The other one was made of tripe. I am sure Rick Steves warned me, but I forgot. (Also forgot to take a picture of this delicacy; probably for the best)

Brioche praline: I am not a fan pralines. It is the texture for me. I was raised by dentists, and have bad Soviet-era teeth, so I am forever conscious when crunchy things come into contact with them (although the biggest villain in my dental saga turned out to be Laffy Taffy—took one of my crowns clean off). Spouse and I watched people with intriguing colorful packages walk by, and were determined to try whatever extremely popular item they contained. The actual store turned out to have a line to enter snaking for almost a block. We demurred, but managed to get in the next day during a slow time. Having bought the small brioche (which was still quite substantial), we parked ourselves on the nearest bench, in the courtyard of St. John Cathedral, and eagerly unwrapped our package. It was as expected. Brioche would have been fine without the pralines. It would have been better with coffee. My advice is, get the coffee, and leave this thing alone.

Pike dumpling: I read that one of the Lyonnais delicacies is dumplings. I was as game for that as I am for everything else. I love baos. I expected a stuffed bun. I got something completely different. It took me a bit of time to figure out that the word is not “dumpling” but “soufflé”—confusing, because “soufflé” is literally a French word, so why not use it? So I basically got a fish soufflé. It was very airy and delicate and not fishy (and I do not say “fishy” like it’s a bad thing), and I enjoyed.

Cervelle de canut: It is a creamy cheese spread with herbs and spices, a bit tart courtesy of added vinegar. To me, it was a less salty, less chunky version of the Austrian Liptauer spread, with which I am more familiar. Basically, “creamy”, “cheese”, and “spread” are three words that go together in the best possible way. Speaking of three words that do NOT go together, I have not tried Salad Lyonnais. Bacon, egg, and lettuce together is neither my idea of a good time, nor does it seem interesting enough for a vacation meal. Sorry not sorry.

Kir: It seems that every region in France has its own take on this drink. I love it in every variation, which is ironic, because I hate black currants. When I was growing up, I loved the delicate white and red currants, but always found the thick-skinned black ones a bit too aggressive. Crème de cassis, however, is delicious when diluted with champagne to make Kir Royale. In Brittany, I discovered Kir Breton, which substitutes apple cider for white wine. In Lyon, they unironically serve up Communard, with red wine in place of white. Next time I host a party, I need to offer a flight of Kirs. I just came up with this idea, and hope I will not forget it.

Murals: Lyon has a lot more to offer than just eating and drinking, and one absolutely amazing feature of the city is its murals—specifically, the trompe l’oeil kind. I was really only looking for that one that is in all the tour books and pops up on social media whenever one sees anything about murals, Le Mur des Canuts (“Wall of the Silk Weavers”, the largest mural in Europe), but the handy paper map that we got at the hotel listed a few more, and so we went on a quest. The best part of this kind of treasure hunt is that, because they are on outside walls of random buildings, they just sneak up on you. You walk along, and there is a fake cat on a windowsill, or a fake windowsill, or a fake window. After a while, you start questioning every door—is it real? Is it just painted on? Special mention goes to the Diego Rivera Mural which even has a small part that replicates the magnificent Detroit Industry Murals, as well as a portrait of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin; I sure recognized his familiar face.

Lumière museum—In college, I took a couple of French cinema classes, including during my very first trip to France for my semester abroad, so the Lumière name was familiar to me. This is not a French cinema museum (there is one in Paris, also very cool), but specifically, a museum of the Lumière family legacy and the early days after the invention of the cinematograph, in their actual villa. Auguste and Louis were brilliant scientists, businessmen, and artists, and the world has not been the same since they were in it.

For the rest of the sights, the other museums, cathedrals, etc., check out a reputable tour book and do not trust the keyboard warriors—and I am unanimous in that.