A lot like Paris, only with taquerias

Our North American stereotypes of Mexico City are daunting.  Overwhelming poverty.  Air pollution that makes your eyes sting and lungs heart.  Traffic congestion that rivals Mumbai.  Police who demand bribes to avoid jay walking tickets.  Buildings crumbling from neglect, earthquakes, and bad zoning laws.  Rampant street crime and random kidnappings.  Narcoterrorists waiting to gun you down at every corner.

In my previous visits, I have learned to dismiss those negative visions of Mexico City.  Instead, I have developed a deep appreciation for a city filled with some of the best museums in the world, public art around every corner, tranquil parks and plazas lined with cafes, broad boulevards that rival the Champs Elysees, and architecture that is a unique mix of colonial beauty, art deco majesty, and contemporary design.  It's a lot like Paris, only with taquerias.

On this trip, I have been surprised by what is undoubtedly becoming the new, emerging Mexico City.  It is not just that it is a vibrant cultural center and an economic engine for Latin America (the eighth richest city in the world), Mexico City is also...

> Fitness-crazed.
On Sunday, they close the Paseo de la Reforma, the broad boulevard that bisects the center of the City, and allow runners and bicyclists full access.  At every intersection there are ad hoc bike shops, refreshment stations, and free yoga classes.  This morning on my way to class through the Parque Mexico, there was a fully equipped free access outdoor gym, including elyptical machines, filled with people of all shapes, ages and sizes.  Can you imagine a free elyptical machine in the middle of Dolores Park?  

> More gay male-friendly than San Francisco.  
I have seen more public affection between men in the past four days than I ever see in San Francisco.  Young men holding hands casually as they walk down the street.  Older men kissing sweetly in the window of restaurants.  A man stretched out on a park bench, his head resting on his lover's lap.  It's not just in a gay ghetto.  There are gay bars, adjacent to straight bars, with people blending together as they pour out on to the street. Same sex marriage is legal in Mexico City and discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity is strictly banned.  In fact, public establishments must post the anti-discrimination law at their entrances.  Clearly the political change has been lock-step with a broader cultural change.

> Filled with very well-behaved, well-cared for dogs.  
This morning in the Parque Espana I happened upon a dog park filled with dogs, some playing together, some patiently sitting on the side watching the action.  On Sunday, every fourth person on a bike or jogging had a dog in tow.  Like in France, there are dogs in restaurants and cafes.  I have yet to see a single stray dog or (my favorite) hippy street person with a golden retriever with a bandana collar.

> Moving forward, together.
I admit that I have a limited, subjective, tourist-eye view of the sociology of the city, but its gestalt is cooperative, respectful, and forward thinking.  In the US cities of which I am most familiar (NYC, DC, SF), I always sense mistrust, tension and anxiety.  We don't invest in public space or the collective well-being.  We are in it for ourselves and it shows.  Our nation's politics reflect this mood, as anything initiated for the public good is considered flawed or suspect.  Here in Mexico, despite the intensity and chaos, there is a flow of energy between people that just seems more agreeable.  Even when cars ignore red lights and narrowly avoid pedestrians.  Even when you see people crammed like sardines into the Metrobus.  Even when they are vehemently protesting corruption in the government.


Today in class, Hector taught us some new ways to call someone an asshole.  He described that a stereotypical North American approach to a cancelled medical appointment or a disappointing meal in a restaurant would be to complain and demand a refund.  He warned us that to engage in such behavior in
Mexico would risk being called a "mamon." In contrast, he said that the Mexican approach to such situations is essentially to roll with it, "Ni modo, ni hablar."  Essentially, "don't worry about it." Maybe we in the US should adopt a bit of that approach.  Otherwise, we risk becoming nothing but a nation of mamons.

Do you believe in God and the after life?

There I was, gun to my head, and that was the question posed to me.  If I told my truth, would I face a horrible fate?  If I lied and said I believed, would it even make a difference?  And by the way, what kind of question is that for an Advanced Beginner conversation class?  I decided to tell my truth, by saying with irony, "One life is enough."  And then I sputtered on about how we're all energy, and after we die our energy continues in the universe among those who know and love us.  I was second to last among the six students.  Charley, from New York, spoke about how he loved going to church for the music but did not  believe in God.  Maria Luisa, the teacher, summarized the theological discussion by letting the class know that she was very Catholic and believed in heaven, hell, and purgatory for the sinners.

Sinners like my classmates.  Halvard, the Norwegian, answered the question with an expected level of Scandanavian skepticism.  Monique, from Sydney, told the class that she believes in "algo" (something) but not God.  Then continued to share her belief that she lived in ancient Rome in a past life.  Malcom, the Brit, did not even know who Adam & Eve were.  Not sure if biblical ignorance of that level is something to cheer, but go Malcom!  Only Alessandro, from Rome, professed to being Catholic, but his was definitely a cafeteria cultural catholicism.

I tried to make up for my atheism by answering Lucia's question about whether people liked tequila with an enthusiastic, "Absolutamente, tengo un collecion de tequila anejo." (Absolutely! I have a collection of aged tequila.)  Rather than winning her over, she appeared to roll her eyes as if she was thinking, "Of course you do you pretentious gringo heathen."

My greatest sin, however, was probably that I answered the question, "Do you like to dance?" with a definitive, "No me gusta bailar."  Lucia looked at me like I had just said, "I enjoy oral sex with aardvarks."  Even Malcolm, recently released from the British navy, professed to enjoy dancing, provided that he was drunk.  Halvar said that if he had drugs he enjoyed dancing.  Charley actually demonstrated the cumbia to the class.  Apparently, Lucia enjoys taking her classes out dancing.  She said, "I like to take my classes dancing.  Hector, the grammar teacher likes to take classes out to pulque bars.  I guess you won't be coming with us."

Fine with me.  I have always wanted to go to a pulque bar.  Besides, Hector is a very cute, very hip young man, with pierced ears and a pierced nose.  No doubt he knows the best pulque bars.  (Pulque is a drink dating back to Azetcs made of fermented agave.)

How do you say vertigo in Mexican?

My first of nine mornings in Mexico City started with the discovery, one block away, of a locally owned coffee place that not only was not Starbucks (they are everywhere), the coffee was great.  I may have butchered the colloquial way to say "small latte with an extra shot of espresso" but I got my point across.  I sipped the coffee on my way to El Bosque de Chapultapec, the massive urban park that houses four major museums, a zoo, and more chicharones vendors per hectare than any place on earth.   Relying on my map and my memory, I headed down Paseo de la Reforma to what I remembered to be a grand entrance to the park, the monument of Los Ninos Heroes.

Unfortunately, where I thought the entrance should be was a massive construction project.  The only way into the park appeared to be over a temporary pedestrian bridge made of aluminum framing wrapped in yellow warning tape.  Dozens of locals, including women carrying large baskets, young children in various states of running, and elderly people with canes, were casually making their way up the stairs, over the 50 foot bridge, and down to the other side where they could wind their way to the park entrance.  I anticipated no problem.  Then I started up the staircase.  The whole structure appeared to shake with each of my huge gringo steps.  The railings, though likely to code in Mexico, appeared to be six inches below my high center of gravity.  Slowly, carefully, grabbing on to the railing with each step, I made it to the top.  Next, the bridge, created from a series of sections of mesh metal, to enable a nice view of the roaring traffic below.  As old women balancing laundry baskets on their heads skipped over the bridge, I took deliberate, slow steps, trying not to look down, which was difficult given that I had to make sure there were no gaps in the sections before I took my next step.  When I got to the middle, as a twelve year old skateboarded by me, I froze.  It reminded me of a panic attack I had traversing a 18 inch path between two volcano craters in Costa Rica.  That time, I made it across by scootching on my butt.  This time scootching was not an option.  I tried to breathe my way through it.  Deep breaths, then a tentative move of my left arm over my right while gripping the railing and a slide of one foot over a few inches.  Then repeat.  The mocking glance of a pregnant woman with two young children in tow did not help (they were small enough to slip right through the gap of the railing, what if one of them slipped...)  Perhaps the transfer of my anxiety to the children caused a shift, but after they passed me, I started walking gingerly, but facing forward, and made my way to the base of the opposite stairs.

In some masochistic twist of fate, the past two days I have continued to find myself at the peril of my vertigo.  It's hit me while riding the glass elevator to the top of the Monument de la Revolucion, traversing another pedestrian bridge (this time a permanent one) over a highway, and staring at the Rufino Tamayo mural across the four story atrium of the Palacio de Bellas Artes.  It's almost like I forget that I have a fear of heights, and then, duh, I find myself at the top of a 20 story monument in a cold paralyzing sweat.  Or maybe, in a dictionary definition display of stupidity, I start the climb thinking this time will be different.  Whatever my subconscious motivations, one thing is true, I am still here.  I am happy to report that I did not fall to my death in the marbled Art Deco splendor of the Palacio de Bellas Artes, nor did I exercise an involuntary impulse to leap from the top of the monument, and I did not end up as a surprise on an unsuspecting driver's windshield.  Maybe that's what keeps me climbing.

Unlocking my potential, part 2

In the days leading up to my arrival in Mexico City, I was feeling very anxious.  Ten days by myself in a big city.  Going back to school.  Taking a spanish class for the first time since I was 16 years old.  And Mexico City itself.  Huge, vibrant, and exciting.  The place where I was mugged thirteen years ago.  I could have been in the warm embrace of some ex-pat community in Cuernavaca, but instead I chose to face my fears.  

I arrived at the airport after a pleasant flight, with a complimentary upgrade.  I grabbed an official taxi, suffered through some traffic, but eventually arrived at my apartment at #7 Calle Tokio, in the Zona Rosa, one block from the Paseo de la Reforma.  My host Francisco was supposed to there to greet me.  He was not there.  Five minutes went by.  Ten minutes.  I was a few minutes early, but now he was late.  The anxiety started kicking in.  My phone does not work.  What will I do if he doesn't show?  Is there an internet cafe somewhere close?  Twelve and a half minutes after my arrival, Francisco arrived.  Conversing entirely in spanish (let the immersion begin!) he showed me to the apartment, a beautifully appointed, ground floor one bedroom in a 40s building.  Anxiety relieved.  The apartment was going to be a great base for my time in Mexico.  

After an hour of unpacking and settling in, I decided to go for a walk around the neighborhood.  I went to the front door of the building's courtyard.  I could not figure out how to open the door.  I put my key in the lock, it would not turn.  I pulled a little lever, but it would not pull.  I unscrewed a pin in the lever, but it would not unscrew.  My mind was racing.  Would I be trapped inside the apartment all week?  Could I reach Francisco via email?  I tried a combination of pulling the door, turning the key, and...the key jammed in the door and it cracked the frosted pane of glass in the door.  Absolute panic set in.  I left the key in the lock and went back to the apartment and frantically emailed Francisco, Airbnb, Peter, anyone who would listen.  About twenty minutes into my panic, the doorbell rang.  A neighbor, or perhaps one of the construction workers, was able to open the door.  Turns out the little pin in the lever pulls out.  Quite easily.  It didn't for me.  I pulled it too hard, or tried to unscrew it when it pulled out easily, or thought that there was some kind of secret puzzle that I had to solve to open the door.  

I know that a key to my Spanish experience here is that I am going to need to allow my archived spanish knowledge to rise to the surface, on its own.  Desperately trying to translate every word I hear will only slow me down.  Worrying about perfect verb endings or gender pronouns will only get in the way.  To unleash my existing knowledge and build more, I will need to pull the pin out slowly, easily.  Allow it to open.  Otherwise, I'll jam it and maybe even crack something. 

The same goes for this new self I am working on.  It was easy to grow a beard.  I only saw the new man in mirror when I stopped trying to find him.  

Unlocking my potential, part 1

When I quit my job a month ago, I committed myself to avoid drifting into a haze of anxious puttering and Law & Order re-runs as I waited for the next thing to emerge.  Consulting projects and income would come.  What I needed was something of a personal re-boot.  I had allowed myself to become trapped in an uncomfortable cocoon of stress and dysfunction at my former job.  It was time to allow a new version of myself to emerge.   

Step one:  grow a beard and stick with it.  I've dabbled with vacation stubble off and on for years, but this time I would suffer through the itchy weeks and live life as a bearded gentleman for a while.  A few weeks into it, I had a remarkable experience.  I had just negotiated the final details of my exit from my job and took myself out to lunch for a vietnamese bun sandwich to celebrate.  After lunch I went to the restroom to wash up and as I washed my hands in the sink I took a glance at the man looking back at me in the mirror.  For the first time in months, if not years, I saw myself.  The stress of my job had created a veil that obscured an essential part of my spirit.  In a split second, my internal voice rattled off a conversation, "There you are.  Good to see you again.  Ready to move on?  Let's do it."

Step two:  Exercise.  I have often said that "I don't run."  A lifelong swimmer, sometimes at a competitive level, my chosen exercise was always in the pool.  The problem with swimming is that you need to find a pool with either a team or very low attendance during lap swimming hours.  Otherwise, swimming becomes a crowded freeway of frustration, avoiding the heads-up breaststroker who errantly found his way to the Fast lane, dodging the too-wide stroke of the triathlete who thinks they are faster than they really are, or gasping in amazement when the woman in the flowered cap decides to circle swim in your lane. When I left my job, I had been out of swimming shape for months.  I was ready for something new.  I would try running.   My first day was an utter disaster.  Taking the advice of my ultra-marathon runner Paul, I decided to do a mix of running and walking.  Two miles into a disciplined routine of 2 minutes running, one minute walking,  I found myself knocked to the ground on Crissy Field, with a leg cramp that felt like a ruptured tendon.  Little by little, I've worked out the cramps and have run as much as 6.5 miles up and down Golden Gate Park.  I run on the levy along the Russian River where I've been greeted by a coyote.  I have perhaps prematurely boasted that I want to do a marathon before I turn 50 (in 17 months), but as I progress, I can start seeing that goal as achievable. 

Step 3:  Go on an adventure.  To mark the change in my employment situation and open this new chapter, I decided I needed to get out of town.  I thought about a road trip, but early January, with short days and iffy weather, was probably not the best time to drive to the Grand Canyon.  I thought about a writing workshop, but (surprise), I could find no workshops open for enrollment two or three weeks before they started.  So, I landed on doing a Spanish immersion program in Mexico.  I debated between an array of cute colonial cities, Oaxaca, Morelia, San Miguel de Allende, but ended up deciding to spend ten days in Mexico City.  I enrolled in an intensive five day program with five hours of classes each day. I found an apartment to rent on Airbnb.  I bought my ticket and started anxiously awaiting the trip. 

Feeling Crabby?

After the annual haggling over pricing, the Dungeness crabs have arrived.  Around Sonoma County, we can soon indulge in crab-eating orgies in support of various Rotary, Kiwanis, and Soroptomists.  Or, you can grab whole crabs yourself for just $5.59/lb boiled and cleaned at your favorite supermarket.  As a Northern California native with deep New England roots, Dungeness crab season has always been my opportunity to demonstrate my ability to wield a nutcracker around a tasty crustacean. Bring your bibs, I can make a mean Ciopinno.  I can go pan-Asian and create a ginger and lemon grass-infused coconut milk broth for my succulent & crabby friends.  Or, if I really love you, I am more than willing to spend the time cracking and picking to create a mound of shell-less crab meat.  Last night, as a welcome home gift to my husband who had just endured three days in Houston, I decided to shell the two crabs. Shelling a lobster starts with the satisfying bounty of big claws and tail, and de-volves into the only-for-expert job of sucking meat out of legs or the daring, but blissful reward of the green tomalley -- the lobster's liver.  Shelling a Dungeness crab is a much more consistently rewarding process, provided that you embrace the briny challenge.  Not only do the legs and claws offer up tasty chunks, the body itself is a mother lode of easily accessed treats.  So, after a delicious lime & bourbon cocktail and 30-40 minutes, I had myself at least 4 cups of pristine crab meat. From here, the possibilities were endless.  I could eat the whole bowl myself before Peter came downstairs to check on dinner.  I could mix it with some of my home made chile & lime sauce for a Crab Louie.  I could make a Ciopinno for the lazy -- essentially a shelled tomato-based crab chowder.   What I decided to do was to make a simple pasta dish:

Ingredients:

> 4 cups shelled Dungeness crab

> Linguini, angel hair, or similar pasta

> Zest of one Meyer lemon or a lime, chopped finely

> Juice of one Meyer lemon or a lime

> 1/3 cup dry white wine (Sauvignon Blanc)

> 1/3 cup half & half 

> 1-2 tbsp chopped parsley or cilantro

Process:

Boil the pasta

Right after you drain the past while it is still hot, toss all of the ingredients, except for the parsley, together

Toss the parsley or cilantro on top of each serving

The choice for wine was easy.  The matching of Chardonnay and Crab is obvious, but I wanted something deeper, richer, and more luxurious to reward my crab-shelling effort.  The 2008 Bedarra Reserve Chardonnay, Dry Creek Valley was the perfect match for the dish.  It's the wine that reminds me that I can love Chardonnay.   

Also posted on: http://tastelocalwinesblog.com/

Pinot, Pumpkin & Praeternatural December Heat Waves

Fish Stew Served in a Whole Pumpkin

Climate change be damned, there is nothing like a drought-on-the-horizon mid December day in Sonoma County. Yesterday I awoke to brilliant sunshine, frost on my roof and all three dogs under the covers. By mid day, I was sweating in the garden pulling beets, clipping kale, picking the last of the serrano peppers, and wondering if I needed sun block. By sunset, I was lighting a fire and contemplating a stew for dinner. No time for slow-braised short ribs or coq au vin. A sea food stew would have to do. I remembered a fish stew served in a whole pumpkin that I had at a hole-in-the-wall Brazilian restaurant on Valencia & 24th back in the 80s. A tropical stew for a cold winter’s night that came hours after a what felt like a warm summer day. Here’s what I did:

INGREDIENTS:

The pumpkins

• Slice the tops off of two sugar pie pumpkins (the small ones about the size of a softball or grapefruit)
• Scoop out the seeds
• Bake at 350 for one hour; then turn off the oven and allow the pumpkins to sit in the oven for up to an hour more

The stew

• Dice, separately:
• 2 red, ripe Serrano peppers
• 1 shallot
• 1/2 of a fennel bulb (about 1/2 cup)
• 1 leek
• 1 large carrots
• 1/2 lb Crimini or white mushrooms

DIRECTIONS:

• Heat a small amount of olive oil in a heavy bottomed pot
• Add the pepper, shallot, and fennel and saute for about 3-4 min until soft
• Add the leek and carrots and saute for about 3-4 min until soft
• Add the crimini mushrooms and 1 cup dry white wine, cover and let cook until the mushrooms have released their juices
• Chop into 1/2 inch cubes: approximately 8 oz. snapper or other flaky white fish
• Add the fish along with 1 cup water, cook until the fish dissolves
• In the mean time, rinse and mix together 1/2 lb selections of other seafood (I used bay scallops, tiger prawns and calamari). Squeeze the juice of one lime over the fish along with 1/2 cup white wine, salt & pepper, 1/2 cup chopped italian parsley and 1 one diced Serrano pepper. Let sit while the snapper dissolves.
• 10 min before serving, add the fish to the stew, bring to a simmer, lower the heat and let it simmer for 10 min
• Place the pumpkins into plates or soup bowls, ladle the stew into the pumpkins, sprinkle with chopped cilantro and enjoy.

So what wine should we pair with this creation? A Praxis Viognier to capture the tropical mood? A Saracina Sauvignon Blanc to meet the citrus notes? Nope, I chose the Eric Ross 2009 Pinot Noir. Red wine with fish? A Pinot with spicy sea food? No problem. The fennel and mushroom based stock met the earthy tones of the Pinot perfectly. And the fruitier notes mingled with the sweetness of the pumpkin and the shellfish provided a perfect counterpoint to the spice of the Serranos. Fish and white wine pairing orthodoxy be damned.

Also posted on: http://tastelocalwinesblog.com/