of Juliet, the Magazine volume 2, part 1

of juliet v2. p1. 2019 $20

"This is everything I hope you can see."

art by Sara Mikula

art by Sara Mikula

In This Issue Front Pages

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We Hold These Myths

Sunday at Red Rooster

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by Joshua Lewin

An Optimistic Proposal

by Nina Coomes

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Layers

photo essay

by Katrina Jazayeri

by Marni Berliner

The Art of Seeing

by JR Fisher

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Inside an Airplane

by Kristina DeMichele

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Peking Ravioli

by Leah Mennies

Features

Back Pages

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57

Rome for Eternity

by Sam Mangino

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When in Rome, Eat Gnocchi on Thursday

by Crystal King

In Conversation: Katie Rosengren

by Will Deeks

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A Good Egg on Howe Street

by Arnold Clickstein

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Chasing Waves

by Katrina Jazayeri

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Essays + Recipes

by Katie Parla

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Unexpected Silver

by Mark Lutz

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CURTAIN NOTES

Welcome to the opposite of everything we have done before. To begin this second year of publishing at of Juliet, we have reversed our perspective, reversed our method of distribution, and made some big changes to how we think about building a stable financial base to continue to do this work with our team.

As these things go, some of this reversal is exactly by design — but so much more of it reflects things that we thought might be necessary, or possible, but in the end are being expressed in very different ways that we had thought they might be at first. Some of these changes reflect an acceptance of things that we actively thought we would not do, but were wrong about.

For one thing, you’ll notice that we’ve largely abandoned ads. At least ads for sale. We have adopted an entirely pay what you can model for all revenue coming in through magazine operations. More on that in a minute, but functionally, this represents an abandonment of our initial print only focus. All of Juliet print content is now available online, for free. Most of it before it comes out in print.

Now, this is not to say that we are abandoning our love of and appreciation for being able to hold this work in our hands, and that you would like to hold it in yours. We hope that you will come to see these carefully plotted pages as something worth collecting. Pay what you can supporters at $5 per month or more will be guaranteed print copies of every issue while they remain on the roster...and only 50 print copies above those already spoken for will be available for purchase off the shelf. So, if you are interested in continuing to support this new paradigm in our work, we hope you will keep on

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collecting. We have a few minimal expenses, after which, 80 cents of every dollar will go right back to our contributors and creative team.

Speaking of that team, of Juliet has made three staff positions available, in addition to Katrina and me, and we are welcoming Managing Editor, Katie Rosengren, Features and Special Projects Manager, Samantha Mangino, and Director of People and Process, Will Deeks. All of these are faces you might be familiar with from Juliet...the restaurant.

So, welcome to our 2019. A year which has purposely rotated our editorial vision 180 degrees, from the inward, self searching inaugural issues of last year, to looking outward at the community and communities, small and large, that we are a part of.

To this end, in addition to the fully redesigned website, ofJuliet.com, which has made room for all of our print content, in its entirety, we have added a new section of travel guides, all of which are based on the locations that inspired the original lineup of menu productions at Juliet. This will be a section only open to supporters, at any level...so starting at just one dollar, but our first section, on Barcelona, will be free forever. Come along.

This is everything I’d like you to see,

Joshua Lewin

Cook and storyteller; craft as immersive performance. Aspiring to something‌ I almost know what at Juliet + Company

JulietAndCompany.net ofJuliet.com

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Home Of Somerville’s Most Unique Dining Experience As well as Juliet Café and Romeo’s At Juliet.

Gratuity Free Dining.

Living Wages.

Great food.

Great jobs.

Great company.

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Juliet is:

Katrina Juliet Jazayeri, Proprietor/ Wine Commander/ Set Designer Joshua Lewin, Creative and Culinary Director

Katie Rosengren, General Manager Ariel Knoebel, Service Manager Rachael Collins, Executive Sous Chef Megan Mooney, Sous Chef

Staff, in order of appearance: Reggie Tarver, Carlos Ponce, Carlito Pineda, Rosa Quintanilla, Gilberto Santos, Elvis Reyes, Liz Peters, Emma Hendryx, Vivian Luo, Sergio Rodriguez Garcia, Jin Lin, Walter Vasquez, Gabriel Bellegard Bastos, Jill Petersen, Nora Connolly, Lauren Adams, James Kilgallon, Jessica Azagoury Lutwak, Norlando Duarte, Andrew Jefferies, Zoya Pearlstein, Katlin McFee, Gideon Travis

Of Juliet is:

Joshua Lewin, Editor at Large Katrina Jazayeri, Design and Illustration Katie Rosengren, Managing Editor Will Deeks, Director of People and Process Samantha Mangino, Features and Special Projects Contributors: Katie Parla Nina Coomes Leah Mennies Crystal King Arnold Clickstein JR Fischer Kristina DeMichele Mark Lutz Bob Luz Marni Berliner

Produced and managed by the staff of the award winning restaurant, of Juliet is not only a fulfilling creative project, founded on Juliet’s characteristic excellence in craft, but also an experiment in developing economically viable support structure in the arts.

Contributors and staff share in the profit of the project. Like the restaurant itself, supporting this endeavor not only provides a unique and fulfilling experience for fans and readers, but an opportunity to develop skills and be paid for them, for those involved in the creation.

Free to read online since 2019, of Juliet is supported through optional subscriptions, accepted on a Pay What You Can basis; learn more online, at ofJuliet.com.

Your support will go directly to sustaining our minimal expenses, 80% of revenue collected above that is returned right to our contributors. Revenue retained by the company is reinvested in new projects in media, and new opportunities for our team.

Prospect Tower Observation is the self-produced, diy friendly, media tentacle of the hospitality group behind some of the Boston area’s most highly acclaimed, and highly independent, restaurants, Juliet, and Peregrine, by Joshua Lewin and Katrina Jazayeri.

www.JulietSomerville.com www.ofJuliet.com www.JulietAndCompany.com

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Contributors Katie Rosengren

art by Sara Mikula

is the general manager of Juliet, a job which combines two of her favorite things, making spreadsheets and eating food. After a decade plus detour in New York, Katie and her husband- both native Mainers- are happy to be back in New England and call Somerville home with their son, Henry. In her spare time, she likes to fight the patriarchy, eat all the food, and watch lots of TV.

Will Deeks

is a Boston based cook, writer, and musician.

After working in a number of kitchens throughout the city, Will has settled in as a sous chef at Juliet and Peregrine. Whether he is at the stove there, or occasionally touring the country with various bands, he works to provide insight to the human experience through hospitality and art.

Sam Mangino

Sam Mangino is a third generation restaurant industry professional. Originally from Yarmouth, Maine, Sam came to Boston to study at Emerson College where she graduated with a degree in Journalism. She is a writer of all sorts with food and hospitality always at the center of her work.

She takes her martinis the Juliet way — gin and olives.

Nina Coomes

is a Japanese and American writer, performer, producer, and artist. She was born in Nagoya, raised in Chicago, and currently resides in Boston, MA. Her writing has appeared in EATER, Catapult, The Collapsar, among other places. Her debut chapbook, haircut poems, was published by Dancing Girl Press in December 2017.

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Crystal King

is the author of Feast of Sorrow, about the ancient Roman gourmand, Apicius and The Chef's Secret, forthcoming Feb 12,2019, about the Renaissance chef, Bartolomeo Scappi. A culinary enthusiast and marketing expert, her writing is fueled by a love of history and a passion for the food, language, and culture of Italy. She has taught classes in writing, creativity, and social media at several universities including Harvard Extension School and Boston University, as well as at GrubStreet, one of the leading creative writing centers in the US. She lives in Boston.

JR Fischer

graduated in 2010 with a BFA in Painting from UWRiver Falls. After dabbling in a variety of jobs postcollege, she found a career in the transportation industry. Her passions include travel, art, and food.

When she’s not traveling, she enjoys spending her free time at home caring for her houseplants, collecting vintage cow salt and pepper shakers, making homemade cards, and painting. She currently resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Kristina DeMichele

is a writer and Senior Content Editor for Cook’s Illustrated magazine. A graduate of the University of Dayton, she moved to Boston in 2013 and earned her Master’s in Publishing and Writing from Emerson College. Cooking fuels her soul with joy. You can usually find her with a cup of herbal tea and a slice of chocolate babka (it’s her humble opinion that Juliet makes the best babka in the greater Boston area).

Katie Parla

is a Rome-based food and beverage educator and journalist. Originally from New Jersey, she has an art history degree from Yale, a master’s degree in Italian Gastronomic Culture from the Università degli Studi di Roma “Tor Vergata”, a sommelier certificate from the Federazione Italiana Sommelier Albergatori Ristoratori, and an archaeological speleology certification from the city of Rome.

Mark Lutz

is a Boston-born chef who now works internationally. He has cooked in 45 countries, traveled in many more, and can often be found behind a stove in some of the most far-flung corners of the world. During the summer, he is the Chef de Cuisine at Winterlake Lodge, a luxury flyin lodge in Central Alaska.

Sara Mikula

is an artist and writer from Upstate New York. Her writing has appeared in Petrichor Magazine, The Sea Letter Journal, Burnt Pine Magazine, and Chronogram Magazine. Her artwork made its debut showing at Aeronaut Brewery this past winter. She currently lives in Medford, Massachusetts.

Marni Berliner

is a food enthusiast and amateur dumpling reviewer living in Cambridge, MA. She has recently started writing food and travel stories, and enjoys exploring the connection between the two. You can usually find her at the farmers market, in the kitchen, or exploring outside. Instagram: @a.dumping.a.day

Arnold Clickstein

is a traveler, as well as an executive, career, and life coach focused on positive results. He happens to be father to few great children as well…one of whom is a sous chef for Juliet + Company.

Leah Mennies

is the Group Editor at John Brown Media, where she

oversees the content agency’s U.S.’s editorial programs, with a specialty in food content strategy.

Previously, she was the Senior Food Editor at Boston magazine, and in 2010 she launched the Boston restaurant vertical of NBC’s The Feast. Her food writing has appeared in regional and national publications including Bon Appetit, The Washington Post, Coastal Living, PUNCH, Food & Wine, Gather Journal, Lucky Peach, and The Boston Globe.

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art by Sara Mikula

We Hold These Myths to be True Are we there yet? or the mystery of Sa Tonnara

by Joshua Lewin

I loved Rome. Every step, sight, and breath of it. But I was surprised to love it so much. So many people had told me how they didn’t enjoy it. In so many different ways.

Didn’t enjoy Rome? Seems a silly thing to be able to find complaint about — visiting Rome.

Right?! I guess in their defense, the common theme in their dislike was just the busyness of it all. The sameness.

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Sameness?

Sameness to what they already see every day. The urbanity.

Urbanity can be found right here at home, so why fly to the seat of classical civilization just to be confronted with more of it. Something like that?

Yeah, something like that.

So what was different for you?

Well, that’s just it, I didn’t see Rome that way at all. Sure, it’s a city. People live and work there. People love and die there.

Corporations divide it up and build there.

I guess when I close my eyes and think of Italy, all I see is sheep and goats, sleeping under olive trees, weathered hands kneading pasta with open palms, and the sound of

wind in the leaves. That sort of thing. I guess that doesn’t make a lot of sense though.

Those places are there. But you don’t go to Rome for that. You can rustle under the olive trees in Sardinia.

Well, and a lot more places than that.

Yeah, but if you’re in Sardinia, you can wake up and surf Sa Tonnara.

What?

Nevermind. But here’s the thing. If it’s just sheep you are after, you can find that in Vermont. Seeing a place at rest isn’t all that is worth traveling for. Rome is alive. With its people, and its history.

Boston is full of history, too. So why travel for that if you won’t travel for sheep.

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What? 300 years. Sure you can trace Paul Revere’s ride here, you can pace the lines of a world changing revolution. But compared to what? One breath of the air in Rome and this history might as well be contemporary.

Hey, what’s the most difficult thing for you — today?

Thing? Most difficult thing? What are you talking about?

I’m talking about whatever you want. What is tough. Right now. Today. For you?

Sounds a little cliché, but, just...finding time, I guess. Work drags on without end, Netflix ques grow by the second, I’m walking around collecting to-dos, things I have to do and things I want to do, but I never seem to have a second to actually do any of them. I can’t keep up. Home, office. I feel like no one can.

I’m with you. We all are.

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So, that is why people take these vacations, just to relax. Right? No one wants to see the sheep wake up and get to work. Turn out the lights.

Sure, but look: In Rome, you can take ten steps from the action and look face to face with 2,000 years. You can live inside of it. You can breathe it in. Names, places, deeds, wine to drink, all preserved in terra cotta. There’s no rush, even right in the middle of it all. At least there doesn’t have to be. The rush is young. American. Like a five year old on a car ride...either ‘are we there yet, are we there yet’ or passed out, head in their lap. But you grow up, and you grow out of it, and you learn to enjoy the changing landscape as you go.

So Rome is a car ride.

Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story for another day. We’re never going to be there yet. Or we always have been.

art by Sara Mikula

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AN OPTIMIST PROPOSAL

by Nina Coomes The ring stared him in the face. It glinted, gaudy now.

The silver band had seemed so tasteful, so elegant in the store, the dour salesman holding it at an angle in a green silk cushion. It had shone out at him, projecting visions of frantic, happy weekdays and lazy weekends spent together. A lifetime, clicking through the projector of his mind, hypnotizing him. He had been overjoyed at the purchase, plunking down the tarnished purple credit card he still had from his college days. It was neither the biggest, nor the smallest purchase he’d ever made money-wise, but as he left the store, the collar of his jacket standing up against the Boston chill, he felt taller somehow, more grown.

**

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art by Sara Mikula

He had mentioned over the phone earlier in the week that he had a surprise for her—a Big Surprise. She hadn’t said anything to him then, only laughed into the phone after a long pause he thought might be pregnant excitement. He had marveled at his luck an hour earlier as she strode out of the Logan Airport Arrivals Gate, her camel colored coat flying, her heels clicking, still wearing the tailored suit she opted to fly in for business trips. She had looked blazing, purposeful, a woman with direction. When she saw him, her mouth turned taught, flipping up at the edges in a coy smile. On the car ride over to the restaurant, it seemed she was almost speaking past him, such was the force of her cheeriness. She’s nervous, he had realized, his own palms growing sweatier on the steering wheel as he struggled to parallel park on a crooked Somerville street. In his jeans pocket, the ring, now free of its velveteen box, seemed to vibrate a hole into his thigh.

animatedly about their respective employments. Behind them sat an older couple, perhaps in their 50’s, sipping wine pairings and remarking upon different flavors coming through the bouquet of each beverage. Perhaps, one day that’ll be us! he wished, suddenly fervent.

Over dinner, he sipped at an Old Fashioned while she sucked down her white wine, the pear-colored liquid creating a silvery trail down the side of the bell-like glass. She ate ravenously, her fork and knife clinking against the plate. Bread was swished through an additional oyster stew, ordered after the first was consumed with alarming gusto. He felt the same wonderment from the airport lodged in his gullet, warm as a live coal, overjoyed at her vitality. The Old Fashioned further warmed him, making everything seem amber-colored and jovial. Across the room, a chorus of Happy Birthday!’s rung out from a table seated with well wishers. At the bar, two sisters sat across from each other, talking

Incongruously, he was reminded of the way they’d met; in college, at a Model UN conference. She went to a different, better university and had somehow decided to attend as the mock-delegate for North Korea. He’d watched this same intensely focused look cross her face as the towheaded blonde boy speaking on behalf of the United States went on a long diatribe about the supremacy of democracy. To him, her expression had seemed to be one of acute annoyance, surveying an obstacle she knew she would have to somehow circumvent. After the blonde US boy had finished his soliloquy, she’d gone on to rip him apart, her rapid fire speech mismatched with the look of easy elation crossing her face, victory

Emboldened by this jollity, he wordlessly reached into his jean pocket, fished out the silver band and placed it on the table cloth between them. He had intended this to be a simple, profound gesture but instead fumbled the ring, causing it to spin slightly, wobble, and fall to one side.

She froze, her knife and fork poised predator-like over a piece of medium rare filet. The color stalled in her face, leaving her mottled and curdled looking. Her eyebrows hugged the bottom of her brow bone, dense in concentration.

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so surely in her grasp. Later that night at the annual Model UN wrap party, she had crossed the room toward him looking like a different person, her face flushed with cheap boxed wine, the buttons on her crisp blue shirt undone to her collar. He had no idea why she was talking to him, this phenomenal, star-like, pitbull of a girl, and yet there she was, laughing, and throwing her hair over her shoulder. He was rooted to the spot, in awe of her smile, the ivory of her teeth glinting in the dim light.

Now, seven years later, he felt the same thrill of awe and confusion crest over him. He studied her posture, the fork and knife still clutched in her hands. She seemed almost to be holding her breath. A vein jumped in her neck. The merriment of the evening still swirled in the restaurant, but a pocket of stagnant quiet seem to mushroom over them.

Her eyes rolled upward, studying him.

He cleared his throat.

“I guess.

I’ll take this back to the store then.”

He placed his palm flat over the ring, as if to cover it from view. Suddenly the thought of their empty shared apartment overtook him; how cold it must be, the unfed cats making testy, ampersand shadows in the living room,

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the unforgiving blue light slanting in from the alley way. After the entree, after dessert, they would drive back to that silent one-bed home. The thought filled him with a staticky desperation.

He placed the ring back into his pocket.

The bubble of silence around them seemed then to pop. She put her fork and knife back down toward her steak, attacking it with enthusiastic alacrity.

Her eyebrows soared back into her hairline, the warmth of the room traveling back into her cheeks. There was a new case at work, she told him.

Something about a complication in international tax law and an estate left behind by a well-traveled millionaire. A fleck of béarnaise sauce decorated the corner of her sleeve. Behind them, the older couple remarked on their next wine course, a dry cider tasting of pleasantly of rosemary and peppercorn.

The birthday well wishers were well into their third and fourth drinks, their laughter buoyant and elastic. At the bar, the sisters argued happily over who would pay the check, ultimately settling for the promise of another dinner to even the score.

Slowly, the static in his chest eased.

Warmth crept back into his extremities.

The ring dislodged itself from its place clamped to his thigh, dropping unnoticed into the depth of his pants pocket. Perhaps some other time, he thought to himself, admiring her across the table, her eyelashes skimming her cheeks, her lips pursed in a thin line of pleasure. Yes, I’ll try again.

photos by Katrina Jazayeri

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Layers.

by Katrina Jazayeri Of paper, of stones, of paint, of time. Walking the streets of Rome, it’s hard to overlook the layers of wheat paste and spray paint that exist side by side with ancient ruins and renowned architecture, the ancient foundations of modern art and architecture, and the new artists making their mark.

These photos were taken in January, 2019.

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I was listening

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art by Sara Mikula

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Sunday Morning at the Red Rooster

by Marni Berliner art by Sara Mikula

M

ineral Point: Where the library is 4 times the size of city hall and the newspaper’s front page is an ode to the lakes of the Yahara River (“Our Sparkling Jewels”).

Where strangers lend you their flip phones to track down your buds, or let you in the back of their shops to play around with wire cutters and pliers.

Where a wedding stays set up all night because - heck - why ruin the party vibes breaking down tables?

Where An expert in just about anything is within 2 degrees of separation. The spinach quiche has pieces of ham. Where the only food available for purchase after 9pm is pizza at the Midway Bar, and the only

place for breakfast on Sunday morning is the Red Rooster Cafe.

[What is the dark side of Mineral Point? A man with some quilts told Val that the dark side is just across town lines: Dodgeville. A place with disregard for tradition, with houses from a catalog and more fast food restaurants than local cooks.]

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Entering Red Rooster (7am): A single man in a black t-shirt sits at the bar reading the paper.

A burly man in flannel saunters through.

Another with gray hair perched atop a leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet sits and reads the menu. He hopefully asks for blueberry pancakes but ends up settling for spinach quiche with a side of ham.

Meanwhile, the Original Man slowly savors a skillet full of biscuits and gravy.

[How does one small town have so much great facial hair? The mustaches alone - oh my!]

Slowly, the bar fills up, with men eating alone, together.

[“Each lake - Mendota, Monona, Waubesa, Kegonsa, and Wingra - has its own characteristics, quirks, and foibles” - Wisconsin State Journal, Steven Verburg]

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The Lady in Red roams the bar, coffee pot in hand, offering fuel for those in need.

I look up from the paper, and just like that, the Original Man is gone. Snuck out without a word. Took his goatee to his next stop.

As Motorcycle Man gears up to go, I casually remark to him as he’s walking past: “nice jacket.” His face lights up as he tells me the story of said jacket; he’s “the victim of fashion, after all.” By a stroke of fate he ended up with a $200 vintage steal in Indianapolis. He learns about my origins and travels, and beams when he describes riding along “The Rise” in CO in the summertime.

We talk about the mystifying charm of Mineral Point. An outstretched hand: “nice to meet you, I’m Eric.” And he’s gone.

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By 8:30, the bar is empty (except for me).

Conversations in booths transition from a quiet murmur to an excited buzz. “The chicken’s cookin’!” a woman yells to the lady in the kitchen before heading out.

[Opinion page of the local paper: The headline on the front reads “Socialism Surge?” The page features two equalsized articles, separated by a vertical line. Harold Myerson explains why democratic socialism is having its moment, while Cal Thomas blasts that the “spoiled children of America are drawn to failed ideas.” An energetic photo of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez looms above them - her hand hand outstretched as if to say: Stop.

Consider.]

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Two stylish young ladies sit at the corner of the bar. The day goes on.

[I move to a more comfortable chair to finish the paper. I read a farewell piece to Jack Lussier. Seems like a mensch.]

A family comes in with a baby. The tables in the sunny front section start to fill up.

The town is awake.

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The Art of Seeing

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by JR Fischer

art by Sara Mikula

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S

ike many of us these days, I live a life that combines my responsibilities and my preferences. I am an artist, by default, formal education, and desire. But as my life has been molded into where I am today, I also make my way in this world as a Travel and Hospitality Services Professional. Perhaps think of me as a considerably lesser-cool version of Anthony Bourdain… if he were a hostess his whole life rather than a chef… with a thick Fargo-esque Midwestern accent… and instead of a television program, he had a mediocre

Instagram account. Perfect.

In visual art it often becomes important to take a common perspective, whether it’s your own or the world’s, and to simply change it. This can sometimes be in the form of an abstraction, a peculiar angle or point of view, or something as simple as a new frame. These changes, which sometimes can be drastic, have the incredible ability to allow the viewer to walk away with a new understanding or experience of what an image has the potential to become. The image may also have the power to evoke varying emotions with how the artist

presented the visual information.

Travel, which I undertake often as an obligation, gives me the opportunity to take this idea of shifting perspective and to turn my walking and working in this world, as an act of understanding art in itself, and then having the ability to share it with others. As I move about, privileged to make a living being far and away, observing life from new angles and varying heights, I am repeatedly surprised to humility.

I am grateful that my understanding of this world is being continuously redefined.

The following places are a few examples of my stopping to notice with new eyes.

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The House on the Rock, Spring Green, Wisconsin

For those who aren’t quite familiar, The House on the Rock is about 40 minutes outside of Madison, Wisconsin. It initially opened as an architectural attraction due to its unique location (yes, on a rock) and its Frank Llyod Wright-esque style. Over several decades, Alex Jordan, the mastermind, filled “rooms” with his vast collections of items and random inventions. I feel obligated to refer to rooms in quotations due to the scale. These are hardly rooms, but more like airplane hangar or warehouse-sized spaces. These rooms include the world’s largest indoor carousel, an entire self-playing orchestra played by mannequins, massive music machines, an indoor old-time village, and much, much more. It’s all things kitsch…on steroids…with a touch of creepiness. It’s as if Willy Wonka had an extreme fascination with dolls and Tiffany lamps, rather than chocolate and candy. It also could be a good candidate for an episode of Hoarders.

When I first visited The House on the Rock, I spent three hours walking through, which I feel is a pretty substantial amount of time to spend in any one place. But by the end of it, I was already planning when I would return. It was completely overwhelming in the best way possible, a complete visual and audible feast. It would be impossible to absorb every detail in a day, a week, or even a month. I felt compelled to include The House on the Rock because of the hope and inspiration it instilled in me as an artist. I felt an intense appreciation for the creator, and if it weren’t for his imagination, this amazing house full of mystery wouldn’t exist for so many people to enjoy.

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La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona, Spain

I had the opportunity to visit this basilica in October of 2016. I was going off of a strong recommendation made by a coworker from the previous year. She knew I was an artist, and was very adamant about me going to see it. She eagerly showed me photos on her phone of the towering scroll-like pillars and detailed façade, and much like anyone being shown travel photos, I acknowledged them in a semi-interested-yet-skeptical fashion, but appreciated the enthusiasm and passion that she expressed while sharing.

When I first arrived at the site, it was swarming with crowds (much like every other church or notable landmark in western Europe.) I have a tendency to get quite anxious within crowds, so I was initially hesitant and not overly excited to be added to the shuffle of people. With audio guide in hand, I ventured around the exterior, it was raining off and on, so I kept it brief. The moment finally came to enter (insert dramatic angels choir sound bite here.) It’s really hard for me to not be cliché’ in describing this moment, but it was truly as if the crowds disappeared and all became quiet except for a light hum. I have never seen or experienced a church like this! I was raised Catholic, so believe me, I’ve put in enough time spacing out and staring at gaunt Jesus’s, backlit apses and dramatic ceilings to feel the general church vibes. This was nothing like the Catholic Churches I was used to.

What pulled me in first was the light flooding through the stained glass. It was a cascade of warm pinks, oranges, blues, and greens across the walls. They were calming and fresh. Next, my eyes took me to the treelike pillars that towered over and branched out. My eyes followed them up, as they connected together into starbursts on the arched ceilings. Much like the creator of the House on the Rock, I felt an immense rush of gratitude for the artist and architect of this building, Antoni Gaudi. Although La Sagrada Familia is technically a building specific to the Catholic religion, the space felt very welcoming and open to all bouts of faith, almost comparable to being out in nature. This experience stood out to me, I had never experienced a church with that sort of energy, and it was completely refreshing to be surprised in this way.

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Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park, Glen Arbor, Michigan

Last summer, I ventured out on a solo camping trip that made a loop around the Midwest. Starting in Minnesota, into northern Wisconsin, up and over the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and down into mainland Michigan. My main goal was to spend a few days at Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park. After having a notso-great travel experience the previous month, I was desperate for some quality time in nature and to get some solid use out of my camping gear (which is sadly neglected for at least 5+ months out of the year.)

I was able to nab a campsite for a few nights at a campground within the park.

There was a trail that led to Lake Michigan close to the campground. Early that evening, I walked over to take a quick dip. I’m typically a pretty big wimp when it comes to diving into cold waters, but I was on Day 4 of not having access to a shower, and my dry shampoo resources had been completely depleted.

Swimming was purely out of necessity at this point. The water was cold, crisp, and clear. The initial shock of the contrast, turned into an appreciation of how refreshing it felt. Eventually, it felt more enjoyable to have my body submerged in the water than exposed to the cooling, evening air. After the dip, I returned to land, wrapped up in my towel, and sat on the pebbled beach in a meditative state, staring out at the bluish sunset. My hand started seeking out the smoothest eggshaped pebbles and piled them into a mix of greys, whites, and charcoals.

The next day I took a hike up to the dunes and found a spot to sit and journal.

Glen Lake was presented in front, and

Lake Michigan behind. As I looked out, I watched the breeze shift the sand, and then continue to gently sway the tall pieces of prairie grass. The sand had this amazing ability to transform and wash away any sign of humans from the day before. Once again, I was lulled into a calm, meditative state of mind within this beautiful National Park.

My automatic reaction after traveling to this park was to compare and rank it to other National Parks that I have visited.

By no means does Sleeping Bear Dunes NP have the super dramatic scenes that draw crowds of people like the Grand Canyon, Zion, or Yellowstone. It’s a slow burn, and spending several days there made me appreciate it even more. The details slowly emerge, the views of the clear lake, the beach filled with tons of smooth pebbles, and the diverse habitats that varied from woods, to prairie, and then to the actual sand dunes. These small, subtle moments all added up to create a really powerful and positive feeling, which completely transformed my experience.

The beautiful thing about travel is that these impressionable moments can be found near and far. Whether sitting on the grass in a local park or flying across the ocean, the opportunity to be surprised and learn new things will constantly be there. Much like viewing art at a museum, the world is a collection of opportunities waiting to be experienced, interpreted, and noticed.

The feeling may reveal itself immediately, such as the La Sagrada Familia, or it could take a little longer to realize, such as Sleeping Bear Dunes. As the details of my travels slowly get lost and muddied within my memories, the impact of that initial feeling is something that I carry with me always.

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When we rise above the clouds, we remember the sun’s been shining there all along.

by Kristina DeMichele

Inside an airplane, my gaze latches itself to the window.

The view is best in the early morning— the sunrise sparkles a rainbow of hues, illuminating the ocean, magnifying the edges of the shore.

The warmth of the sun caresses my face.

Closing my eyes, I let that glow touch every tip.

Late at night, the view sparkles, too.

Lights below build formations and I wonder who exists in the gaps.

Thin, wispy clouds soak up the fluorescent light.

The sight makes me think about my own light, and what clouds it, and what the difference is between clouds that dim and clouds that reflect.

Sometimes the only way to reach this perspective is from above, inside an airplane.

To see the expanse of the world in a single line of vision, to take in the light and let it (ful)fill you— that is what it means to fly.

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art by Sara Mikula

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The Story of Peking Ravioli

By Leah Mennies

Peking ravioli are to dumplings what dollar slices are to pizza: even at their worst, they’re still good. Doughy, greasy, and crisp-bottomed, they are the kind of dumplings that beg to be chain-eaten straight from the container, on the couch.

However, just as with Hoodsies or frappes (milkshakes), it can be tough to find a Bostonian who realizes that Peking ravioli (sometimes called just “ravioli,” or even “ravs”) isn’t a term used anywhere else in the country—they’re that ubiquitous on Chinese takeout menus across Boston.

Name aside, they’re hardly unique. Peking ravioli is the same as guo tie, or panfried northern Chinese-style potstickers. (Peking ravioli can be served boiled, steamed, or deep-fried, but it’s generally agreed upon that pan-searing brings out their best soft, crisp, juicy selves.)

To delve into their name, though, is to get a glimpse of Boston’s culinary past. And as with much of the Chinese food in the area— from moo shu and Peking duck to scallion pancakes and the all-you-can-eat buffet—it all starts with Joyce Chen and her seminal Mandarin restaurant, Joyce Chen Restaurant, which she opened in Cambridge in 1958.

In the era B.C., or Before Chen, Chinese food in Boston meant egg foo yung and gloppy chop suey. In Saugus, what’s now the over-the-top tiki fantasyland known as Kowloon was on the cusp of introducing pu pu platters and mai tais to suburbanites. More adventurous eaters could find Cantonese cuisine in Chinatown, 33

but traveling there at the time was a sketchy endeavor due to the neighborhood’s proximity to the “combat zone,” aka Strip Club Central. “It was by contiguity that Chinatown took this on. It was part of general Boston sleaze,” says Merry White, a professor of anthropology at Boston University. “In the fifties, we still had blue laws and the Anglo supremacy of Boston culture, saying ‘That’s not what we do.’”

This mentality also helps explain why Boston was so far behind diverse epicurean centers like San Francisco and New York when it came to adopting regional Chinese food, White says. “The Anglo dominance in Boston meant that we weren’t supposed to pay too much attention to food anyway,” she says. “Boston was very politically against taste and expanding our horizons.” Even through the seventies, Chinese takeout in Boston often came with sliced French bread instead of rice, which was available on request. A heavily Irish-Italian population at the time didn’t consider a meal a meal unless bread came with it—and so it did.

Chen, who was born in Beijing and later lived in Shanghai, moved to Cambridge in 1949. Opening Joyce Chen Restaurant meant introducing a number of northern Chinese-style dishes that Bostonians had never seen before—including guo tie. Chen’s son, Stephen, says that his mother waffled back and forth on what to call them. “She was contemplating the difference between ‘dumpling’ and ‘Peking ravioli.’ She was afraid people would think of an American dumpling, like you’d get at Cracker Barrel—a thick, doughy, noodly thing,” Stephen says. “She really wanted to say something about it that [implied] it would have a filling in it.”

Ravioli seemed like it would have a better shot at communicating the filled nature of the thing, and 34

Peking was a shout out to Beijing, where Chen was born. But “ravioli” wasn’t even a widespread term yet, according to White. “We in Boston began to know ravioli in the mid-sixties. Only Italians knew ravioli,” White says. “[Chen] was borrowing from a cuisine which was just becoming fashionable across [ethnic] borders to represent her cuisine, which was just becoming fashionable across borders, too.”

On Chen’s debut menu, Peking ravioli occupied the #4 slot, just below the barbecue spareribs and above the fried wontons. A description ran beneath the entry: “Delicious Crescents—stuffed with meat and vegetables, served panfried,

Rome For Eternity

by Sam Mangino

It hit me on a rooftop in Rome. At LITRO wine bar to be exact – with a

glass of fizzy, peach-toned wine and a plate of salted anchovies draped over buttered toast in front of me. The Eternal City was in view. I sipped my wine, eavesdropped on the group of American expats chatting next to me, and pretended to read my book. That day, my second evening in Rome, I knew this was a perfect place. A destination that felt impossible to leave because it wasn’t somewhere you wanted to just stay for a few days – instead you could spend your whole life here. That night I strolled down the hill into a square in Trastevere, got my second cone of apricot gelato and then leisurely traveled back to my AirBnB to rest. It was a night of a vacation that I could imagine becoming an every day.

As time moves forward, the city of Rome does too. It isn’t trying to escape or leave anything behind.

The dishes served on tables and the buildings left standing are all reminders of Rome’s ability to just let anything be as it is. The Colosseum doesn’t need to be rebuilt to look just as it had on its opening day. Instead it can remain a ruin, and tourists will still come.

The classic pastas of Rome will stay on the menu because diners will still order them. So much of Rome can never be changed because of how it chooses to honor its own heritage. Menus may change. New contemporaries may be born. Yet, the classics stand tall.

In Rome, I would stroll down streets navigating with a map. I let

go of the attachment to anything giving me notifications about a message or email or post I was missing. I wandered the streets letting Rome surprise me. Just around the corner from where I stayed, I was struck by the delicately carved sculptures just tucked away on a building on this regular intersection. Moments later, I turned down an alley and met the Trevi Fountain nearly without warning. Humbled by its beauty, I understood why 50 people at a time were trying to take a photo of it on their iPads or with selfie sticks.

Don’t dismiss the profound sites available to you in Rome. But anywhere you may find yourself traveling, don’t go just for the sites.

You should see them, of course.

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boiled, or steamed.” The original, made-from-scratch Peking ravioli were delicate creatures, with thin skins and edges that were “pleated, and almost looked like the edge of an apple pie,” Stephen says. They deviated from traditional guo tie only in their meaty proportions. “That was the primary characteristic —they were almost all meat,” White, who grew up dining at Chen’s restaurants, remembers. Dialing back the vegetable content of the dumpling helped it appeal more to American palates, and this remains true for the Peking ravioli you’ll find today, which have fillings that are almost meatball-like in shape and texture.

The name stuck immediately and survived throughout the decades, in large part due to the Chen diaspora; the cooks that moved through her kitchens eventually opened their own places, and kept the term on the menu (and, in some cases, on menu slot #4, to accommodate language barriers). Chen restaurant alumni can be traced to Mary Chung Restaurant in Cambridge, The Wok in Wellesley, and Chung Shin Yuan in Newton, all of which offer Peking ravioli. You’ll find them on the menu at takeout spots, too—though many of these thick-skinned, greasy versions are squeezed closed by machine, rather than hand-pleated, and produced by the Chinese Spaghetti Factory in Roxbury.

At its zenith, the Joyce Chen empire encompassed four restaurants, a line of cookware (including a patented flat-bottomed wok), a cookbook, a line of bottled sauces and condiments, and a PBS cooking show (find Chen’s Peking ravioli episode here). Nationally, she was seen as the Chinese answer to Julia Child—someone who introduced home cooks to the wonders of sesame oil, soy sauce, woks, and cleavers through their television screens. Chen died of Alzheimer’s in 1994, and the last of her restaurants closed in 1998.

Today, her son Stephen, now 63, runs Joyce Chen Foods, a line of condiments and frozen potstickers, from his home in Acton, Massachusetts (and her daughter Helen sells cookware). In 2006, he decided to introduce frozen Peking ravioli to his repertoire, which, after issues with FDA, are labeled as “Ravioli Peking” and now sold at the New England-based grocery chain Market Basket. Using his mother’s recipe, he manufactures them at a facility in Southern California that spits out eight thousand dumplings per hour. Since 2006, Stephen says, he’s sold thirteen million frozen Ravioli Peking dumplings—from Boston, “if you put them end to end, it would almost reach Washington, D.C.”

This essay was originally published on Luckypeach.com on February 25, 2015

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art by Sara Mikula

Stand in front of the Trevi Fountain and feel the water gently spritz your face.

Take a picture so you remember how beautiful and blue the water is as it reflects on the smooth, precise stone sculpture. Stand in the Pantheon and let amazement wash over you. Be surrounded by the nearly two thousand year old structure.

Look up at its oculus as it fills the entire room with a beam of light – the only light source in the temple. Visit the Colosseum and stand in its grandeur. You will feel so small being in its massive structure but also because you will be reminded that you are just another moment in time at this place. A thousand or so years ago, it was a place to go for amusement and entertainment. Now the place itself is the attraction, and you are the spectator. Rome preserves much of its history through these sites giving the entire city an air of grandeur that can come off as just a place filled with attractions.

If you get it right – and aren’t there just for those sites – and instead are looking for the experience of trying out a life you can only get there – you’ll be in for something spectacular. You’re in store for a slower lifestyle where you can walk anywhere in the city and be in the shade of thoughtful architecture. Days start later here. At 6 o’clock - American dinner time -begins aperitivo time. A few hours to ease into the evening with bitter drinks or glasses of wine to arouse one’s appetite. Dining and leisure are experiential and integrated into the culture in a way that encourages good quality food and beverage.

The meals are enlightening, familiar but elevated to the highest degree.

Breakfast could just be a yeasted bun filled with whipped cream, a Maritozzi, from Pasticceria Regoli. Beside a cappuccino, such a simple meal felt like a luxury. Or from Panificio Bonci, a perfect sandwich is just 4 euro and is freshly cut porchetta on a roll that was made earlier in the day. There’s not special sauce or extra 37

toppings. Instead the tender fat that accompanies the soft meat melts into the bread, crunchy roasted pork skin providing a crunch.

A perfect evening begins at Il Goccetto, a simple wine bar with a wine list posted on their blackboard and paper menus with typed words crossed out with handwritten replacements. You can lounge on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette or petting your fellow drinkers’ dogs. A simple salad of honey, apples, celery and Primo Sale cheese is served with a large basket of rustic whole wheat bread. It’s thoughtful, with ingredients I’ve often had in my kitchen all at the same time, yet I’ve never thrown together. Their wine list is made of rotating bottles from well-respected natural producers. I met Arianna Occhipinti’s SP68 Bianco for the first time there. It was handwritten on the menu with the words ‘(orange wine)’ squeezed in just beside it. It was like nothing I’d ever had before – crisp, herbaceous like basil, with a deep golden, nearly orange haze. In Italy, I’d assumed that these standards and traditions of wines were simply perfected and unchanging. Yet, finding something new to my palette, a wine that felt like a departure from the classics, yet a classic in its own right.

Later at Roscioli, the only reservation I had made well in advance, the meal was full of foods that I had encountered from my childhood, the recent trends in American restaurants, and what I made when I only had basics 38

in my fridge. Katie Parla, an ItalianAmerican journalist who is based in Rome, had met me for a beer the day prior and as we talked about freelance writing and the changes of Roman cuisine over the last hundred years, she asked me what my eating plans were over the rest of my trip. For my trip to Roscioli, she provided clear instruction on what to order: start with the mortadella and burrata, then get any one of four classic Roman pasta. I followed her instructions precisely, choosing cacio e pepe for my pasta – a dish I’d had many times even making it for myself. You can have a meal plenty of times, just like you can see pictures of the Colosseum or the Trevi Fountain in books and movies, but there is nothing like eating it from the people who create these meals everyday. The simplicity of these dishes is impeccable when they come together to taste like exactly what they are supposed to,enjoying each ingredient in the dish while experiencing the way they interact to complete the whole.

Rome feels achievable. It’s a place that with all of the novelty and fame still feels like a place to be at home. There’s a way of finding familiarity in the places that you’ve seen in photographs before ever seeing in real life. There’s a lifestyle waiting there that feels different but comfortable. It’s the leisure of vacation incorporated into everyday. And it’s the embracing of fine things. There is so much left lingering in Rome as historic ruins remain standing but time never slows. There is history still being written

When in Rome, Eat Gnocchi on Thursday

By Crystal King

The first meal I had in Rome was the worst I have had in nearly a decade of trips to the Eternal City. My husband and I were tired, forcing ourselves to stay up to stave off the worst of the anticipated jetlag. We found ourselves in Piazza Navona at an overly touristy cafe eating terrible pizza and drinking cheap wine.

But despite that, I had never been happier. I was in Rome, the city I had only dreamt about visiting. I was sitting in the same spot where Augustus Caesar’s troops might have exercised, where Emperor Domitian’s stadium had once stood, where Michelangelo might have bought his vegetables. In that moment, it was the best worst-tasting piece of pizza I had ever had.

Later that evening, we had our first proper meal in Rome. We were still tired, but determined to eat a little better. After getting lost in the dimly orange-lit streets of the Jewish Ghetto, we finally stumbled upon Ristorante Vecchia Roma. I remember the waiter leading us through an endless, cavernous series of rooms with scenes of Roman life frescoed upon its walls. I had a creamy gorgonzola stringozzi pasta and my husband had one of Rome’s most traditional dishes, carbonara. We also discovered the delicious fiori zucca--fried zucchini blossoms stuffed with ricotta cheese. It’s an appetizer that remains one of my favorite, and thankfully due to hothouses, is one that can be enjoyed year round.

Over the next week we would learn that Rome’s restaurants had a lot of similarities--many of which, over a decade later, are starting to change as more tourists come to Italy and a new global influence has infiltrated many of Rome’s traditions. One of the big 39

shifts I’ve noticed is that the weekly Roman menu no longer holds sway.

Some Americans might remember the weekly menus of their mothers and grandmothers, particularly if they were of Italian descent.

Many of my friends growing up always ate spaghetti on a specific night of the week.

Even today, my 95 year-old Italian landlady still cooks sausage and peppers every Sunday for her family.

During that first visit and the one that followed a year later, we quickly figured out the schedule of dishes. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday seemed to vary depending on the restaurant, but Wednesday was usually coda alla vaccinara, oxtail stew. Thursday was gnocchi, Friday was fish (generally baccala), and Saturday was trippa, tripe. Nearly every menu we saw across Rome had these same plates featured on the same days.

For my novel The Chef’s Secret, I dove deep into the Renaissance cookbook, L’Opera di Bartolomeo Scappi, penned by a famous Roman chef who worked for a number of cardinals and popes. My study of that cookbook gave me some insight into how the daily Roman dishes came about. In L’Opera (which simply means “the works of”), chapter three is dedicated to “Dishes Proper for Lean and Lenten Days,” and contains 286 recipes

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suitable to eat on those days when you wouldn’t eat meat. On lean days, Christians would do penance and would reflect upon the life of Jesus or the various Catholic saints.

Different eras and regions chose different days as their lean day, and over time it generally became accepted that Friday was the day to abstain from meat. There were also a number of holidays that were lean, including Lent and some days of Advent.

Since Friday is a day of repentance and usually the meals eaten on that day were much lighter, digging into a hearty meal the day before was preferred. Gnocchi is simple, yet very filling, and it soon found its way to being the standard for dining on a Thursday before “fish Friday” commenced. On Friday, you’ll find most restaurants across the Italian peninsula will serve some form of fish, generally baccala, salted cod.

How tripe and oxtail figure into that weekly mix is a bit more unclear, but tripe on Saturday has been a long-standing tradition.

Romans love trippa all romana, which is always made with honeycomb tripe, slowly stewed and then covered with a boatload of tomato sauce and topped with Roman mint (a variety closer to pennyroyal than the mint we know) and pecorino cheese. You don’t often see it on menus these days as offal has largely fallen out of favor, particularly by tourists.

One thing that has remained is the popular Roman proverb, “non c’e trippa per gatti,” which dates back the turn of the 19th century, when the Roman mayor declared they could no longer afford to feed the cats of Rome with tripe, which had been a major expenditure to help control the city’s rat population. From then on, the cats would have to fend for themselves and that’s when the expression was born. Today it means that there won’t be any chance of you achieving what you want, no matter how much you try.

The cats like tripe, but no one is going to give it to them!

Tripe can still be found in Rome, but not necessarily as a staple on a Saturday menu. In recent years, the weekly menu seems to have largely fallen by the wayside. Gnocchi is found on most menus any day of the week, and in many trattoria it will still be called out as a special on Thursday, but for the most part, the weekly special meal is not as special as it used to be.

I appreciate that the Italians are starting to be more adventurous in their food choices. The types of meals we ate those first few trips felt repetitious because it seemed like all the restaurants generally served the same thing.

And while many of the osteria and trattoria of Rome today are still delivering up the tried and true dishes of cacio e pepe, pasta alla

art by Sara Mikula

gricia, saltimbocca, and bucatini all'amatriciana, they are starting to branch out and experiment. Diners today want to try a variety of dishes, not stay true to a traditional regimen.

Tastes change, and with them, tradition.

There is a small part of me that feels sad at this shift from having the same things on the same day. A little familiarity is lost and a little of the past disappears. This is Rome. If there is anything that the Eternal City is, it’s everchanging, even amidst the ruins, it is everevolving.

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art by Sara Mikula

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Chasing Waves, part 1, Italy our unofficial guide to the rumored to be best surf spots on the globe.

Sa Tonara: our personal favorite wave in Sardinia (and the inspiration for one of Juliet's favorite martinis).

Sardinia features beach breaks from the entire length of the western coast. Best times to find surf are SeptemberNovember, or March-May. Ostia: a stones throw from Rome's Fiumicino airport, you'll find Lido di Ostia with the perfect spot for all ages to enjoy a day of surfing. The swells here are typically small and windless, making it a fun spot to learn.

Cefalu: tucked out of the way along Sicily's north coast, is Kamikase or Cefalu Big. This is a point break with reliable surf during all stages of tide. This spot it almost never crowded--but beware the submerged rocks.

Catania/Siracusa: these big sandy beaches draw more of a crowd to the east coast of Sicily, but generally the surfers are relatively few, so it's not unlikely to have the waves to yourself. The sea floor drops off sharply in this area, giving the waves more power. Conditions highly effected by wind. collage by Katrina Jazayeri

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Vigilia di Natale Christmas Eve *excerpted from Food of the Italian South: Recipes for Classic, Disappearing, and Lost Dishes

In Italy, there’s no such thing as the Feast of the Seven Fishes, the popular Christmas Eve meal enjoyed by many Italian American families. Somehow, the Vigilia di Natale, the December 24 fish bonanza, got whittled down when it reached American shores. In the south, serving a mere seven fishes would be sacrilege—snag an invite to a Christmas Eve dinner for proof, and if you can, get in on the days of prep that go into this elaborate holiday meal.

The reason for eating fish for the Vigilia is, naturally, related to the Catholic Church, which used to mandate lean, meatless meals on sacred holidays.

Although these rules have loosened considerably, the custom of eating fish on Catholic holidays has stuck around. Today, however, the concept of eating moderately on those days has vanished, and instead, families go all out, serving a huge amount of food and many dishes for the purpose

of celebration rather than solemnity.

In Bari, Puglia’s largest city, Christmas Eve starts with a lavish spread of crudi (raw fish), and crustaceans like oysters, cozze pellose (the local “hairy” mussel), tartufi di mare (meaty warty Venus clams), followed by Insalata di Polpo con le Patate, baked scallops, fried baccalà, spaghetti with seafood, and whole baked and fried fish and eels.

In Reggio Calabria, zeppole alle acciughe (anchovystudded fritters), are a typical starter, while in Naples, the classic Christmas Eve dishes include marinated anchovies, seafood salad, spaghetti with clams, Insalata di Rinforzo and, of course, fried eel and baccalà, two items that are enjoyed on virtually all tables in the south during the holidays.

Regardless of where it’s celebrated, you’ll be impressed by how moderate the Feast of the Seven Fishes seems by comparison.

WRITTEN BY KATIE PARLA PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF KATIE PARLA ....................................................................................................................................................................................................

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SCAPECE a l l a GALLIPOLINA: Fried Marinated Sardines with Saffron

Serves 4 to 6 1 cup white wine vinegar ¼ cup water 6 to 8 saffron threads Neutral oil, for frying 1 cup all-purpose flour 2 pounds whole fresh sardines, cleaned Sea salt

In a small saucepan, combine the vinegar and water and heat over low heat. Just before it boils, remove it from the heat and add the saffron.

Set aside to bloom.

Meanwhile, line a baking sheet with paper towels.

In a medium frying pan or cast-iron skillet, heat 2 inches of oil to 350°F. Place the flour in a shallow bowl.

Dredge each sardine in flour, shaking off any excess. Working in batches as needed, fry the sardines, turning once to ensure even cooking, just until golden, about 1 minute. Drain on paper towels and season with salt. Be sure the oil returns to 350°F before adding the next batch.

Layer the fish in a glass or ceramic dish. Pour the vinegar mixture over the fish. Cover and refrigerate for 2 to 3 days before serving.

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LICURDIA Tropea Onion Soup Serves 4 to 6 2 tablespoons pork lard 2 pounds Tropea onions, halved and cut into ¼-inch-thick slices Sea salt 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 5 cups vegetable broth, warmed 6 slices rustic bread 7 ounces caciocavallo or scamorza cheese

Melt the lard in a large pot over medium-low heat. When the melted lard begins to shimmer, add the onions and season with salt. Stir, then cover and cook until the onions have wilted, 12 to 15 minutes.

Uncover, increase the heat to medium, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onions are browned and caramelized, 25 to 30 minutes.

Dust the onions with flour and stir to combine. Slowly stir in the vegetable broth and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low and simmer until the onions are falling apart, about 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, preheat the broiler to high. Place the bread slices on a baking sheet. Shave or grate the caciocavallo on top, distributing it evenly. Broil until the cheese is melted and toasty, about 2 minutes.

Serve the soup with the bruschetta on the side, or place the bruschetta, cheese-side up, atop the plated soup

Rame e Terracotta Copper and Terra- Cotta WRITTEN BY KATIE PARLA PHOTOGRAPHY BY PHOTOGRAPHER'S NAME

As recently as the 1970s, it was common practice for women in the Italian south to bring a dowry of sorts to their marriage. Depending on the village, the bride and her family might be responsible for stocking the bedroom linens or cooking implements, or both. Bringing copper cookware to the marital home signaled that a woman was both a skilled cook as well as a valuable one, her worth bound to the metal from which the pots were wrought. In addition to their symbolic value, copper implements carried the practical purpose of being essential to the south’s soulful stews, braises, and broths, which require even, moderate heat to reach their fullest expression.

Copper pots were often very large, intended for one-pot meals—only in the late nineteenth century did eating in multiple courses become the standard in Italian households of the south—and would be suspended above hot coals or woodfueled flames to simmer vegetables, legumes, and meats. Terra-cotta, kilnbaked clay, served a similar function, although unlike copper, which heats quickly, terra-cotta is slow to warm up.

This makes terra-cotta ideal for long, slow cooking, essential for tough proteins.

Terra-cotta vessels called pignate were particularly popular in Puglia, where octopus, goat, horse, or lamb might be placed inside with seasoning, the pignate were either covered with a clay lid or sealed with bread dough, and the meat cooked for hours.

Not surprisingly, these items were ascribed such enormous value that many women transported them in their luggage when they emigrated to America around the turn of the twentieth century.

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PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF KATIE PARLA

PHOTOGRAPHS COURTESY OF MARK LUTZ 48

Unexpected Silver

By Mark Lutz

The soldiers were the first thing I noticed as we approached the stout, ocre walls of the border station. Not the soldiers themselves - all were dressed in identical desert camo uniforms, polished AK-47’s slung across their backs - but the sheer number of them. What a terrible first impression, I thought, worried that all the rumors, media-hype, and state department fear-mongering had actually been true for once.

Under the raging desert sun, and between two razor-wire topped fences, our bizarre caravan of cyclists and Sprinter vans idled awkwardly, the soldiers eyeing us curiously. Uncomfortable would be an apt word to describe the atmosphere. But then something miraculously unexpected happened: more soldiers appeared, wielding not automatic rifles, but silver platters of individually wrapped cakes and cold fruit drinks. They smiled and distributed their wares and shook our hands and invited us in to the checkpoint building. After several hours of paperwork and tea, we were free to continue on our way, and I began my month as an American chef working in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

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I had no idea what to expect in Iran. I travel often for work, cooking for groups of long distance cyclists on crosscontinental tours, and had been to some pretty far out and ‘generally regarded as unsafe’ places. For some reason, however, the thought of travelling through Iran on our Beijing to Istanbul route gave me pause, more than Sudan or Colombia ever had. Maybe it was the constant bombardment of news clips of burning American flags and giant ‘DOWN WITH USA’ murals I grew up watching on the evening news.

Quite frankly, I was apprehensive.

We met our translator and fixer for the next month at the border. Hamed (name changed) was an Iranian-Kurd. He had spent his childhood in refugee camps, his family displaced during the Iraq-Iran conflict of the 1980’s. He had learned English from a Madonna cassette given to him by an aid working in the camp, and over the years had achieved fluency.

Hamed’s story may have been unique, but his ability to speak English was not. Many Iranians speak English; the road signs are in both Farsi, the national language, and English, as were most shop signs and products sold in stores. My attempts to learn Farsi were generally unnecessary, as most responses to 50

my desecration of the Iranian language were in English.

Hamed was wonderful - kind, generous, intelligent, curious, and proudtraits I ultimately found in almost every Iranian I encountered. I spent a lot of time with him. He guided me through market stalls full of an incredible assemblage of agricultural products, bakeries churning out bread in variations alien to me, and tiny restaurants with Persian dishes crafted over millennia. I was lucky enough to be cooking in Iran through September, and many of the best crops were coming into season - melons, pomegranates, apricots, apples, all bursting with a flavor and sweetness you can taste only at peak season. Hamed and I perused the wholesale markets of Gonbad, where the traders refused to let me pay and insisted on a group photo. We visited the bustling bakeries of Bojnurd, where bakers enveloped in white clouds of flour poured loose blobs of very wet dough onto hot gravel to make Sanjak, a focaccia-textured Iranian bread.

We camped in an apple orchard one night, where the resident beekeeper shared his pink-speckled green apples, and cut thick slabs of honeycomb for us to eat with sticky fingers. “This honey isn’t a gift from me” he waxed, “it is a gift from God; I am merely the conduit.”

One night, over dinner at a restaurant in Tehran called Khoone (Farsi for “like home”), we were joined by several of Hamed’s friends. We simultaneously dug into bowls of tachin, an aromatic and texturally-

thrilling baked rice dish, and the Iranian political and social situation. “Ninety five percent of the Iranian population does not love our government. We don’t love the American government either, but there is no animosity toward the American people.”

Hamed explained how the vast majority of Iranian people want to be part of a global community, to freely enjoy the foreign goods and culture they had been forcibly segregated from for decades. The strict religious and moral codes were generally unpopular. My girlfriend, who was traveling with me at the time, recounted a tale about meeting a mother and daughter, and them asking her opinion of the headscarf she was obligated to wear: “It’s not so bad,” she told them. “Talk to us after wearing it for twenty years,” was the response.

People had been encouraged by the newly ratified “Iran-deal” (now since scrapped), and saw a path toward a gradual, but peaceful change in government. Our dinner hosts told us that there had been undercurrents of revolutionary talk during the Arab Spring of 2011, but it was ultimately felt that the stakes were too high and the outcome too unpredictable. “We looked to our neighbors in the west (Iraq and Syria), and what had become of their states, and thought ‘We don’t want that’” The next evening, myself, my girlfriend, and a coworker took a very long taxi ride across the city. Tehran is massive and quite cosmopolitan in parts, with a population of 15 million people and an area to match. Hamed 51

The next two weeks were as idyllic and eyeopening as one could hope for traveling anywhere.

had invited us to a party at his girlfriends house. We arrived first, and were treated to a smoked eggplant dip - Kashke Bademjan - and cocktails made with either Chinese knockoff Johnny Walker or aragh, a raisin based moonshine, legally produced but illegally distributed by the Iranian-Armenian Christian population of Iran. Hamed’s friends streamed in over the course of the night, and by about 11 pm approximately 20 people had congregated in the 5th story walk up apartment. I found myself in conversation with a young professor who was at the party, as he articulated his views on USIranian relations: “The United States and Iran are like families in two neighboring houses. The parents of the families are fighting; therefore, the kids cannot play together in the street.” The same professor messaged me on Whatsapp about two months later, the day after the 2016 presidential election; “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for both your country and mine.”

The next two weeks were as idyllic and eye-opening as one could hope for travelling anywhere. The hot dry days and cool autumn nights made for wonderful camping, the food only got better and better, and the kindness never evaporated. That being said, Iran is a country plagued with serious issues.

Human rights travesties are the norm, with an oppressive and corrupt government. We were detained by the secret police on one instance, when a member of our convoy attached a GoPro to one of our vehicles for a time lapse, and we were released only when an Englishspeaking Tehranian intervened for us.

Restrictions on Americans travelling in

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Iran have also increased since the US withdrawal from the Iran nuclear deal - recent visitors have reported extremely stringent rules on movement and access.

Despite this, Iran remains one of my favorite travel destinations. I often wondered to myself what reaction an Iranian

cycling or driving through the United States would illicit would the meals be free, as they were for me?

Would people stop them in traffic to offer gifts of fruit and pastries? We all know the answer.

However, maybe someday, we can at least play in the street together.

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art by Sara Mikula

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In Conversation, with Katie Rosengren

By William Deeks

Katie Rosengren

Some aspects that I like about film are also satisfied

Hometown: Sanford, Maine

working in restaurants. Working with a team of people

I like. Something is always happening, and you having

Katie Rosengren has had a big year. Working at Juliet

to figure out how to adjust course and keep things

as a General Manager, organizing forums for the

moving. Constantly being on your feet and problem

community to come together to discuss important

solving.

topics (environmental impact of restaurants, workplace

harassment) and most importantly, having her first kid.

After i graduated I thought I might want to do it. But

We were still able to find some time to sit and down

over time I realized that I didn't want to be a PA

and talk just as she was coming off of her maternity

(Production assistant) for the rest of my life. By then I

leave. In restaurants people spend loads of time

was already way into working in restaurants, and

together, but there isn't normally a chance to have in depth conversations. Here we were able to touch upon her time working in New York, her original plan to become a filmmaker, families in and out of the restaurant, and storytelling.

What was your first restaurant Job? My first restaurant job was in Maine. It was the summer I turned 20. A family restaurant that doesn't exist anymore. I told my mom while I was home for the summer that I was going to get a restaurant job to practice for when I graduated film school. She thought it was funny. I was serious.

What made you want to go into film? Had you decided while still in school that you didn't want to do film?

I really liked telling stories. So film was a way to tell stories with the visual. I have found in my life now, writing is a better outlet for that creativity.

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realizing that I was good at it.

grew into becoming a full time manager.

What were the films that inspired you to be

And then eventually you made your way to

interested in that sort of storytelling?

Boston?

Well, my favorite movie is The Princess Bride.

Yes. My husband and I knew we wanted to have a

It has everything: romance, action, family,

baby. We knew that we didn't want to have it in

comedy, drama, and Billy Crystal. Then taking

New York. We moved to Somerville without jobs.

a turn, Taxi Driver. A very interesting movie

Everyone thought we were crazy for moving

stylistically. It was very influential to the films I

without jobs. I had been thinking that I was going

made, and plus, young Robert De Niro.

to work in an office, looking back on it- to me, the

idea of me working in an office was actually the

So after Maine, you worked in restaurants in

crazy part. I applied to Juliet. I told them I wanted

New York City?

to work during the day and not as much on

Yes. I worked at a fine dining place. Very old

weekends. Josh and Katrina were very open to

fashioned place where all the servers were

that.

men. I was encouraged to wear the shortest

skirt possible to work. My title was

It must be crazy to think back on that now. Now

reservationist. I was very young and had a

that you are coming back from maternity leave.

different view on my work. When I was

Katrina and Josh are very good about learning

younger, I was like- ‘well that's just how it is’- I

what their employees goals are, not just at work,

didn't have the same viewpoint on respect. I

but in life. I told them early on that I wanted to

didn't care as much about being disrespected.

have a baby. They were very supportive of that.

Or being called on my days off to be yelled at

On top of that I could plan things with a little more

for something being wrong.

certainty because I wasn't working for tips.

Over time you moved on through different

So what are you excited about for the future?

restaurants, when did it start to feel like a

Its weird to think about my future now. My world

career? Feel like you were hitting your

feels focused on the present, because I just had a

stride?

kid. I would like my future to be working at Juliet

I remember wondering what I was doing with

and hanging out with my family. People at Juliet

my life. Then my co-workers at the restaurant I

are really like family to me. I want Henry to grow

was working at the time suggested that I

up in the restaurant, and any other kid I have to

manage brunch. Anyone who works in the

grow up there as well. The more one can be a part

restaurant industry knows that brunch is its own

of a community, the better someones' childhood is

beast. I became the brunch manager and then I

and without having blood relatives close, having a restaurant family is really important.

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art by Sara Mikula

A Good Egg on Howe Street by Arnold Clickstein This past summer my wife and I decided to travel to someplace exotic or unusual, while at the same time spend our money in the United States. We chose Alaska,in particular its southeast coast known as the Alexander Archipelago. Our research convinced us to cruise our way up, leaving either from Seattle or Vancouver, British Columbia.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon, we

took off on a 6 hour flight to Vancouver. Passing through customs was easy and partly automated. Before we realized it, we were in a taxi cab and headed for the Metropolitan Hotel on Howe Street. Fifty minutes later we were in the city, amazed at the busy nightlife. People seemed to be flowing into the streets. At the hotel, a uniformed man in his early thirties took temporary command of our

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luggage while we registered, and then he led us to our room on the 17th floor, which looked out at office buildings still lit. As bell boys are prone to do, our new guide pointed out the finer aspects of the room and mentioned the hours of the dining room for breakfast. Then he, recommended we take our breakfast where he does at least once a week, Scoozis right down the street from the hotel. He said the hotel serves breakfast, but we would get a much better one at Scoozis. I tipped him and said goodnight. It was now midnight, and we were hungry and tired. We ate junk food from the room’s bar/refrigerator.

The next morning, Sunday, we woke up famished. We were eager for a good breakfast so we slowly made our way down Howe Street, which was empty of pedestrians and vehicles. We stopped to peruse other possible breakfast venues.

One was just setting up for breakfast; others were still closed. We continued down the street until we came upon Scoozis, a pleasant and appealing Mediterranean style restaurant, its small courtyard filled with tables and outdoor umbrellas. The air was still a little chilly so we chose to eat inside the simply decorated dining room.

The owner, Michael Stamoulis, greeted us and told us to sit wherever we wanted.

We sat in a booth with a view of the kitchen and perused the breakfast menu.

We were surprised and amused by the first item on the breakfast menu, Famous Scoozis Breakfast Pizza; a mixture of scrambled eggs, spinach, lean ham, fresh tomatoes, and mozzarella cheese. A

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similar dish called Breakfast Deep Dish had the same ingredients baked together in a deep dish covered with a pie crust.

We were impressed with the other selections, but our eyes settled on Traditional Eggs Benedict. That was going to be more satisfying to us as we contemplated the beginning of our voyage north through the inland waterway.

The waitress soon came to our table, we gave our order and then sat there anticipating our poached eggs covered in hollandaise sauce in the same manner that we always did over the years at other restaurants. Within ten minutes, our eggs arrived sitting on top of a slice of lean ham which of course was resting on toasted, warm English muffins, most of the plate covered profusely with the hollandaise sauce. On the side were well roasted sliced potatoes,as well as a small glass dish with bite sized, delicious, fresh and exotic fruit. We dug in. The eggs were cooked perfectly: not too runny, but

definitely hot and slightly firm. The sauce was faint yellow, lightly spotted with red pepper.The flavors mixed together in that first bite for an excellent culinary experience. The sauce was extraordinary, with the red pepper giving it a slightly soft and piquant bite. We looked at each other and exclaimed that the eggs were excellent, no outstanding. In fact, I said to my wife that this was the best eggs benedict that I’ve ever had. Sue quickly replied that she was thinking the same thing.

We savored every bite, wallowing in it’s umami. This was epicurean bliss. The potatoes were perfectly crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. There was nothing left on either of our plates. Well, maybe we left a little fruit salad.

On the way out, we thanked the owner for the experience and noted our thoughts about the eggs benedict. He thanked us and pointed to the chef at the stove, Alex Perez. “He’s the one that needs to be thanked. We did, and he looked embarrassed. The owner asked us to come again, and we promised we would. The menu offers a good selection of food for lunch and dinner including Mediterranean entrees such as lasagna, cannelloni, spanakopita, and moussaka. The next time we are in Vancouver, we certainly will dine at Scoozis.

Scoozis has been in the same location since it was opened by Michael Stamoulis in 1986. Its current chef is Mandy, who was trained by Michael. Mandy has been cooking there since its opening. Alex has been on board for the past twenty years.

Scoozis is at 445 Howe Street, Vancouver, British Columbia.

Its website is www.scoozis.ca. It is open daily from 6:30 A.M. Dinner is served until 10:30 PM with the bar remaining open until later. On Sundays, only breakfast and lunch are served.

Go there for breakfast, but go also for dinner. You will not be disappointed.

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