Cosi cosi

SAN MARCO


The Doge’s Palace was not something that had made it onto my little historical radar (key word being ‘little’.) It was, as any edifice carved in white marble with gilt-framed paintings at every turn will be, impressive. Sheer scale and age will do that. So will a lack of expectations.

Palazzo San Marco, however, and the Basilica San Marco, was entirely underwhelming and overrated. It is dark and gloomy despite the gold mosaics proliferating on every horizontal service. One can neither sit nor walk in the main body of the church. While I understand WHY this is so, given its significance as a tourist attraction and the troubles in upkeep, it made it difficult to get a sense of it as a place of worship. Much more to my taste were some of the white, airy, simpler churches we stumbled across at every second or third campo.

Once again, while I understand the role of ‘awe’ in the history of religion, and the role played by the intense pictorial representations that abound in Europe’s ‘grandest’ churches, I find them stifling. For me, with my more fluid and spiritual ‘beliefs’, I look upon churches as a place of reflection, to listen, not worship. To open up my mind and let it float and bob along the vaulted marble ceilings. To let the light fill my vision, the quiet fill my ears, the votives tickle my nose…it’s just me and my tranquil soul. No queue required.

Boo-yah!

Sometimes, I leave my brain behind (see previous post.) And at other times I feel so on point I could do a happy dance.

The book....
Wandering around the bookstore of the Museum of Modern Art, very little took my fancy or looked like a book I hadn’t seen at the airport. Until a little, square, brown cardboard cover caught my eye. Bound with black linen tape, and with a simple charcoal-esque drawing of a spoon standing up on its mermaid tail. ‘Venetian Cuisine’. The introduction goes through market shopping tips on choosing your fresh seafood, a Venetian specialty. The recipes are clear, straightforward, accompanied by wine recommendations and more charcoal sketches. The book feels lovely underhand, light enough to hold with just one and quite a stand out in the glossy, luridly colourful world of the modern cookbook. But it gets better. After purchasing the book, we discover they’re the coveted recipes of Al’Trieste, a Michelin Guided restaurant on the island of San Marco. Determined to dine there, we ask our penzione hostess, Maria, to call them for us. She in turn recognizes the publishing house; the owner lives in the same building, just floors above us. The response from Al Trieste (about our Saturday night impromtu plans) is that they are fully booked, but if we call back at 7pm, they may have something available for us.

The eyes...
Not wanting to take any chances, baffled by the possibility of explaining what we wanted in Italian, and fully aware from my restaurant-hostessing days of the power of showing up early with pitiful faces, we rocked up in person. Shining puppy-dog eyes in place, we pinch ourselves at having found the restaurant. Mum whispers to me as we’re standing in the doorway, “Tell them we have the cookbook, tell them we came here especially because we bought it today. Tell them it’s just two of us.” I turned to Mum, who’d obviously gotten used to me speaking French with our Italian hostess, and reminded her that I don’t ACTUALLY speak Italian, thus she was just as capable of saying that as I was!

Regardless, puppy-eyes won out and the waiter, in his IMPECCABLE English (and infinite wisdom) found us a table in the tiny space (just 20 people can be seated at any one time.) His product knowledge was incredibly, and he laughed when we said we only wanted to eat items from the cookbook: “Ahhh. You already know all of our secrets!!” To his immense credit, he eyeballed the menu (printed out fresh every day, based around the catches of the day) and took us through everything that was in the book.

The restaurant...
We watched people show up and get turned away, even some who had bookings, but had failed to confirm them. One American lady on her own tried valiantly to bully her way in, based of course on American customer-service principles. More fool her, she was swatted away and was NOT invited to come back in a few hours. The couple seated next to us had booked months in advance, and duly confirmed IN PERSON two days earlier.

The food...
My entrée was Pilgrims Scallops with peppermint and lemon (gorgeous tiny scallops, 15 of them!) Mum had mussels and razor calms with a fresh ginger broth. Her wine was white and fruity, mine was a refreshing rose. Main course was pumpkin puree ravioli with scampi sauce and baby shrimps. Mum’s was a simple grilled sole. The vegetables of the day, to my surprise and minor dismay, were served in quite a French style. Not a fresh, crisp, glossy salad of riddicio, artichoke heart, eggplant….nope. All buttery and well-cooked. Well, you win you win you win and then you lose some.

The dessert...
As for dessert, the only match up between availability and the book was Tiramisu (“pick me up”, as in “cheer me up”). Ah life’s hard when you HAVE to eat Tiramisu. I’ve come to it a little bit late in life, but the lusciousness of marsala soaked sponge, marscapone, chocolate sauce and dustings of cocoa is addictive. And this one was, officially, the best I’ve ever eaten. SOMEHOW the chocolate sauce was still liquid. And it came served with what they call sauce spoons, ie. Spatula-like spoons with angular edges so you can get them nice and close to the plate, scooping up every last sauce drizzle, sponge morsel and cocoa speck.

Perhaps the best I can hope for in the balance of life is that I have one of these on point moments for every few ‘betise’ I make. I think Ma may have even forgiven me for forgetting the guide book….

left, left, left my brain in New Orleans with 45 cents and a can of beans

What a ceremonious start to three weeks in Italy. I leave it until the last minute to pack my bags (literally. I went out the night before, not getting home until about 5am...by 6.30 it was barely worth going to sleep but i try anyway.) My packing philosophy was to put everything I wanted to take with me onto the bed, quick eyeball, and then if it all fitted into the case dammit it was all coming. Including the latest h&m wardrobe additions. I tried so hard to do the maths on what time I needed to be at the airport, thus what time i needed to leave home, but it was actually impossible: my little gin-addled tete couldn't figure it out. Erring on the side of caution, then, I arrived rather early, especially for a flight that was delayed by an hour.

Unfortunately, the last minute rush meant I forgot a couple of things. Like one of my guide books. And my italian-english phrase book. Dammit. All the more embarassing because I'm not holidaying alone, I'm gallavanting with my mother for 3 weeks. Upon arrival at venice airport the meet-mum back up plan kicked into action. Despite having 3 simcards at my disposal, it seemed i couldn't get the correct combination of credit/network reception/general functionability. So as planned, I waited at the tourist desk. For half an hour. Given mum arrived well before me, and i was running late, this concerned me a little. Apparently, after doodling around trying to problem solve, the water taxi dsk is not also the tourist desk. The tourist desk, just a few booths away is. And sure enough, there was mumma, waiting patiently. We rolled off to our waiting water taxi and our Venice escape began.

Home, James

Return to Paris

Oxsted, as I discovered the following morning, is a stunning, storybook example of the English countryside. Lush, rolling, verdant green hills dotted with red and goldren trees and inky green hedges. Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, and all those other English tales make sense all of a sudden.

I listened to the tealady on the train platform sharing the local gossip with another customer. It was nice to be able to understand it all, instead of just hazard a guess. I bought an English newspaper to entertain me on my return Eurostar to Paris.

I boarded the Eurostar and found someone sitting in my seat. One seat had been double booked 10 times on my way over, so I was immediately concerned. Happily, the interloper was just keeping his friend company.

My mother always asks me, whenever I take a trip, whether I sat next to anybody nice (she means anybody male-nice). This time, I did; Gino and I chatted for 314 kilometres. And I never did get to read that English newspaper...

London...Sunday morning

Toute Seul

Sunday morning I was on my own to tour the V&A Museum. Knowing how enormous it was, the only part I was absolutely determined to see was the Fashion and Textile exhibit. It was suitably impressive, however the dark, preservative lighting made reading all the tiny plaques difficult. (I will blame alcohol for nothing.) The building itself was gorgeous, and the café is definitely the most glamorous museum café I've ever eaten at. (Not that I make a habit of eating at museum cafés, they're normally so sterile...)

I passed the grey afternoon touring the three levels of Anthropologie with my cousin, gossiping and idly flicking through knitwear, coats, quilts, crockery, scented candles, doorknobs....a little bit of all our favourite things.

Sunday night I caught the regional train south of London to stay with Blondie at her aunt's house in the country for the night. I walked in to a large, warm kitchen full of cooking aromas. Stewed beef, bechamel sauce, freshly hulled strawberries....I felt at home.

For the second time that weekend I showered in a carpeted bathroom. Which, to an Australian seems strange (on so many levels) but was oh so practical over there. Climbing dripping wet out of the shower and into the steamy bathroom, cool tiles are the last place I want to put my freshly warmed tootsies.

Like in Paris, my bedroom was in the eaves of the house. This house, however, is seven-bathrooms, two-painos and one enormous Argre stove big. Which meant that I actually had a proper ceiling height and no fear of bumping shoulders with my roof as a rolled over during the night.

London....Chicago

Pop! Six! Squish! Uh-uh! Cicero! Lipshits!

My introduction to Chicago was at a school vocal concert. Heaven only knows how a group of 16 year old girls convinced our conservative staff to let them sing some of Broadway's raunchiest songs, but they did and I was hooked. Ever since, I've been a sucker for the musical (I may have been known to perform a hairbrush rendition on occasion...) But this was much, much better than me and my hairbrush. The cast were all incredibly strong, and the theatre small enough that our R-row seats were ideal. Using the little opera glasses almost made the stage shrink. Blame the alcohol, blame the caffeine, blame my addiction to broadway musicals, I'm pretty sure I bopped in my seat the entire show. I would have hated sitting next to me. Except, I was me, so I had a BALL!

Blondie and I exited to London drizzle, so we tuk-tukked our way back to the bar to finish the evening with more dancing and, shock horror, cocktails, with my cousin. Leaving a show, especially a musical, can often leave you feeling flat, or a little lost as to what to do with all the energy you've just been zinged with. I now have the solution- go dancing! Roll those stockings down, rouge those knees, drink that aspirin and Shimmy shimmy shake until your garters break...

London...Saturday evening

Let. Me. Off. The. Bus. N-O-W!



I'm not typically prone to hysteria, but inching down Oxford Street on the bus just about turned me into the crazy Australian lady who bangs her head through bus windows. No matter that I was stuck inside a London icon, the red double decker; I was looking at my watch so often I'm sure it looked like a nervous tic. I was trying to make it to Reagent Street to fly around an amazing shop that was only in New York and London (Anthropologie), then march onto Piccadilly Circus to buy discounted tickets, in time to see a matinée on West End, so that I'd bounce into happy hour in Soho with my cousin.....not having a phone so that I could change my arrangements on the fly was making me demented!

Despite my nervous watch tic, Blondie was calm, collected and very patient. I know people say that patience is a virtue, but I still think it's an underrated quality. We jiggled my arrangements around and managed to a) survive the muppets trying to sell us cut price tickets b) find another ticket box run by a non-muppet c) choose a show we both liked d) Get a late late lunch e) Make it to Jrinks in Soho the instant happy hour started. We even beat my cousin to the bar.

Once again, the universal elements collided and a favourite cocktail of mine, Espresso Martini, was indeed on special (4£!) for the three hours I would be at Jrinks. Ding ding ding! So just how many Espresso Martinis can a girl drink in 3 hours? Five, my dear friend, five. And I loved every minty, frothy, caffeinated sip. But alas, it was once again time for me and my escort (Blondie) to move on. The Cambridge Theatre, most conveniently located a few blocks away from Jrinks, was about to raise its curtain. Chicago here we come!

London...silver, silver everywhere

My mad search for "the" teacup

Having spent countless hours shopping in Paris, I was determined not so spend my precious London time combing the high streets. Not for Harrods, not for Fortnum Mason, not for Harvey Nichols, and not even for that British fashion mecca, Top Shop. The Portobello Markets, however, were another matter. The antique markets were one of the few things to be carved into my London itinerary from the start.

Portobello road, leading to the said markets, is jammed with people well before you reach the stalls. Ducking and weaving, with my friend Blondie, and her friend Blondie 2 trailing behind, I marched down the hill. Dodging the crowds by trotting along the road may have been a little extreme, but I was a woman with a schedule, dammit! (Also, the crowds were beyond ridiculous. Having spent my past year working INSIDE retail, I forget what peak Saturday morning shopping crowds look like. And that's just in Melbourne. The London crowds were infinitely denser.)

The terrace houses that give way to the markets all shared the same bright, colourful palette, lending to the upbeat atmosphere. And then, it started. I didn't realise that yes, the word market might mean roadstall, but it can (and here, does) also mean narrow shop fronts, six or ten little stores deep. Silverware seemed to be the most prolific item, and every second stall bristled with teapots, ladles, magnifying glasses, hairbrushes, gravy boats, bundles of cutlery and buckets of silver(ish) miscellany. Fascinating, but I just hadn't prepared myself for silverware shopping! My mission for the day was a pretty teacup for my collection and perhaps a not-so-pretty-but-cheaper-and-practical teapot.

The perfect antique teacup had eluded me ever since I arrived in Europe. Preferably in greens and/or pinks and with the classical curved sides, not a straight-sided coffee cup. (The French, annoyingly, seem particularly fond of the angular shape.) At last, I found her. In the dark and tangled depths of chickenwire that separated out this particular set of stalls, she called to me. The perfect shape, with a feature pink rose on the saucer and inside the teacup. Gold-gilded, with just a simple double stripe around the outside of the teacup. Blue is the featured colour, but she's so pretty I forgave her for not wearing my chosen team colours.

I should probably admit she's not the only thing I found. I also bought an old red OXO tin (a traditional English brand of beef stock cubes) and some letters that were once used in the old method of type-set printing, when individual letters were placed in racks to print newspapers.

Next stop, Oxford Street insanity.....

London...to market, to market

This little piggy went oui oui oui oui oui, all the way home. And THEN off to the Portobello Market.



After breakfast it was time to bid H goodbye- she was off to her aunt's country cottage for a long weekend. A quiet one with family and some fashion coffee table books (you know, like that Chanel biography I haven't finished yet or a tome of Manolo Blahnik sketches). Sounded great to me, but the London sunshine was calling. (That is not a typo. It was positively beaming.)

So my entourage of bags and I rolled off to take in Kensington High Street on our way to the Meineger Hostel at Baden Powell House. (Practically opposite the V&A Museum, and directly opposite the Natural History Museum, pictured above.) All was going well, until I double checked the address on my confirmation text, and discovered the last word was missing. This was an issue given the prolific number of "Queen's Gate _______" in a very small area. Fortunately I came across a helpful postie who knew exactly where to send me. (I later found out the postal service was intermittently striking, so I was definitely wearing the lucky pants that day.)

Once there, I used that antiquated piece of technology, the pay phone, to touch base with my awol friend, Blondie. From her I discovered that the Circle and District lines were closed for the weekend, which meant she was on a bus still trying to get to me. So, we arranged meeting point number two, and I headed off to catch my own bus to meet her. This sort of to-ing and fro-ing continued my entire weekend. It was at times incredibly frustrating, because it often made feel in a rush to get to the next meeting point. That, or I was dragging my heels because the other person wasn’t going to arrive for sometime yet. It’s amazing how used we are to continuously tweaking our arrangements. I noticed this especially because I was in an unfamiliar city, with routes and distances that meant little to me in terms of travel time, and I was bouncing between two friends and a cousin trying to fit one of them in with each activity. But, it could have been much worse. I could have had a stroller and Little J in tow!

I got caught out by the double name-game again, this time when I jumped off my bus a few stops too early in my hunt for “Notting Hill Gate”. It seemed London was also going to be a city of brisk walks from place to place! Not that I minded. The weather was gorgeous and the road very English. It is, after all, on this surprise walk that I discovered this fantastical tavern, with its blooming façade.

London...breakfast

La Petite Nicola at Holland Park (Saturday AM, day two of four)


Saturday dawned crisp, clear and blue. Friday night had rained like I’d only seen once before, in Vietnam. I now understand the upside to such a downpour; the streets were washed clean, the sky emptied of clouds and the parks painted an extra lush shade of green.


After our house party on Friday night, H and I tugged ourselves gently to Saturday breakfast. We cut through Holland Park, deserted so early in the morning. The oval, covered in dew, sparkled like an emerald in the sunshine. The trees were turning their leaves from green to gold. Even the park gate made me smile, with its long hinges and wooden cross bar.

Phillies was full of English/Italian charm. Black chandeliers and substantial timber communal tables, paired with a real latte and a real breakfast menu made it very worth our while to be up at that hour. (Well, for her it’s only across the park. For me, it’s across the channel.) I was tossing up between some English favourites, perhaps the porridge or the eggs+bacon+baked beans combination. I asked the waitress for advice, and her response was “It’s Saturday.” I ordered the eggs.


The French attitude often seems to be that they possess all the culinary prowess they need; I would humbly suggest they can’t make a proper breakfast to save themselves. Given that the French don’t eat breakfast, however, it’s no surprise they don’t ‘do’ breakfast. The English, meanwhile, deserve credit where credit is due. They love breakfast, they eat breakfast, they ‘do’ breakfast!

Petite Nicola goes to London....

FRIDAY (DAY ONE OF FOUR)

Finally, that long weekend across the channel I’d been dreaming of. The land where people speak English, and eat baked beans. Land of my vicarious, Enid Blyton childhood.

I emerged at Piccadilly Circus Station, delighted I’d made it this far with my mini suitcase, carry bag and handbag trailing behind me. At 4.30pm, I bought a hop-on hop-off tourist bus tour ticket, thinking I could fill in my spare 90 minutes or so with a visual crash course of London.

I hoiked up the station stairs with my luggage. To at last see the flashing lights, black cabs and big red buses of “old London town” was thrilling. With difficulty, I managed to find the correct bus stop in the grey drizzle. Despite being one of only two passengers, the live tour guide ascended to her booth on the top of the bus. From there, she commenced her stream of sarcastic commentary about London’s heritage.

By 5pm, I was cold (the bus was breeeeeezey), lost (I tried to use the cartoon style map to orientate myself, but the lack of lights on the bus made that a challenge), anxious (my French mobile refused to cooperate with the English system. I’ve heard that story before…) and highly skeptical about the supposed magic of London (Big Ben was disappointingly small, and as for Marble Arch! I peered through the window at their piddly excuse for an arch. That’s not an arch! That’s just a really nice mantelpiece. I practically live on the Champs Elysees. Come to Paris, we’ll show you how to build an arch… The most interesting thing about the arch was that Queen Victoria didn’t like it so she had it removed. And brick by brick, it was deconstructed and carted away, only to be rebuilt out of her sight. I’m not sure they should have bothered.)

And my bus guide wasn’t exactly sprinkling fairy dust on the experience. “Over here we have the Ritz Hotel. You can go to high tea at the Ritz. Beware it will cost you 40 pounds. Per head. But, that is all the cucumber sandwiches you can stuff in your gob.”
Or this little gem, “Here we are at Hyde Park Corner. It’s not actually called Hyde Park Corner, but people nicknamed it that because it’s on the corner of Hyde Park.”
To be fair, however, her favourite view of London was also one of mine. Looking back at the Houses of Parliament, with their lights reflecting into the Thames, was a wow moment.

My bags and I alighted at Westminster, hoping that the iconic red phone booth on the street would help me get in touch with H, my hostess for Friday night. I opened the door, only to be assaulted by the stench. Oh the STENCH! of urine. Peeing in a phone booth is NOT more polite than peeing in the street! Tentatively, I opened the one next door. Really, it was just as bad but when a girl’s gotta call, a girl’s gotta call. So with my bags balanced on top of the mystery puddle on the concrete floor, I tried to scrounge up forty p. Not enough. What about my credit card? Not compatible. Notes? Not a chance. I shimmied my way out of the stink-booth and stood in the rain to contemplate my next move. I was now cold, lost, anxious, highly skeptical about the magic of London, AND wet and hungry. I descended into the tube station, rustled up some coins and called H. Success! A voice I hadn’t heard in nearly five years, but it was just as warm and familiar. So I tripped of into my Friday evening (ops, not West-bound Petite Nicola, East-bound!), confident it would end better than it began.