Travel

We know Utah isn't one of the Super Tuesday states but with Jon Huntsman waiting in the wings for an appointment and Romney seemingly on track for the Republican nomination (stay tuned), it seemed fitting to include it in this issue. – The Editors

Food is the epicenter of Mormon culture, which makes it seem like people rarely show up at church events – well, any event – without the expectation of noshing. No food is virtually a mortal sin punishable by social chastisement and tantamount to cultural anarchy. And while much of the layperson Mormon culinary lexicon consists of potentially disastrous gastronomic experiments and everything- but- the- kitchen- sink casseroles, the Lion House in Salt Lake City's Temple Square stands as the pillar of Mormon cuisine, our Le Cordon Bleu, if you will.

Formerly the residence of Brigham Young, the Lion House is part restaurant, part museum and the full-blown headquarters of the LDS (Latter-Day Saint - Mormonese for Mormon) epicurean experience. Being born and bred in the heart of West L.A. put me at somewhat of a (thankful) disadvantage for truly appreciating the subtle nuances of the cuisine of my pioneer forefathers – lime Jello with shredded cheddar cheese or shredded carrots and crushed pineapple mixed in was never quite my thing. But after my first visit to the Lion House with my grandma some 15 years ago, my heart (and stomach) were changed forever.

There is good food everywhere. That's my theory and I'm sticking with it. In some places it is easier than others, to find something delicious. Sorrento is a pretty tourist town just a stone's throw from Naples. Orange trees pop up through the sidewalk and the views of the bay are breathtaking, especially at sunset when everything turns shades of pink and blue and grey. The town inspired many artists and poets and their ghosts are felt everywhere in the gardens, the public spaces and the names of the streets. I'm staying at the romantic Hotel Tramontano perched on the edge of the bay. The history of the hotel makes me feel as if I am stepping into a more refined era.

Most people go to Vermont to watch the leaves change colors in the fall but I like it in the spring when the leaves on the trees are green, 67 colors of green, so that the bonnets of the trees look like a jigsaw puzzle and the tulips are in bloom and the geraniums and the cherry blossom trees – there’s nothing fancy about Vermont, it’s all straight up plain flowers plainly blooming everywhere, as if the earth is starting fresh again after winter and toward the end of May it hits an optimum equilibrium even if it does rain every other day which if you’re only there for a day and a half isn’t very good odds, at least not of skipping the rain.  But people in Vermont don’t mind, they just take out their umbrellas and keep on truckin’….   

“And why are we going to Vermont in May, Mom?  I don’t get it.  Why are we going to Vermont, at all???”

“You’ll see, Anna.”

We knew nothing about Fado other than that our friend, Mark Miller, who had lived in Lisbon for a year and basically planned our recent trip to the city, said it is "a must". He promised great food from a host and hostess who will treat us as family and sing traditional Fado songs. "It will be a long night," he warned, "but still you must go to Sr. Fado." He then added, with a touch of a smile, that he should make the reservations. Sr. Fado is hard to get into but over Mark's year living in Lisbon, he and the owners had become close. He called. We were in.

Sr. Fado is owned by Duarte and Marina Santos, though "owner" hardly describes everything they do. It might be better to say that Duarte and Marina Santos are Sr. Fado. Duarte is the front man, meeting the guests, serving the food and bussing the plates. Marina is the cook. Eating at Sr. Fado is like spending a perfect night in what could be a modest Portuguese home, while eating traditional Portuguese foods and hearing its traditional music.

When we entered the restaurant we were greeted with both warmth and a touch of skepticism. "Do you have a reservation? The restaurant is fully booked," was the first thing we were asked by Duarte. (As the night progressed we more than understood his cautious approach as we saw Duarte turn away at least a dozen walk-ins before the last reserved tabled filled, at which point he simply locked the door.) Yes, we had a reservation, we assured Duarte. In fact we were the friends of Mark's. "Mark's friends!!" he beamed. "Marina, Mark's friends are here" he called into the kitchen. Then the hugs.