Travel

We cut through the sprawling, meticulously manicured park amidst the morning haze, humidity and blare of cicadas and car horns. By 11am we had reached the stark wrought iron and glass doors to Grandmother’s towering apartment complex, a node of Shanghai’s stupefying development. We took off our shoes in the narrow halogen lit hallway outside her 12^th story apartment and stepped into plastic slippers waiting at the door. The warm smell of an active kitchen beckoned. The dining table was set with teacups and chopsticks. We were asked to take our seats.

Since we had arrived in Shanghai as the guests of our dear friend Lynn, Noam and I had been trying to navigate the customs and culture of the city by way of its incredible cuisine. Lynn’s grandmother pressed in universal grandmotherly persistence to discover the favorite food of us two foreign Jews. We responded with an immediate and unanimous call for dumplings, or gyoza. And so here we were, the privileged guests of a personalized dumpling brunch.

An excerpt from "Around the World in 80 Dinners"

The approach of evening lures us irresistibly into Singapore’s red-light district, discreetly hidden in residential quarters among the street-side shops of Geylang Road, a major artery. If you know the city-state’s reputation for paternalistic morality, you might be surprised the sex trade flourishes here. The government bans “adult magazines” such as Playboy and even requires ones with “mature content” like Cosmopolitan to carry a warning on the cover, but Big Brother approves of prostitution, as long as it isn’t merely for oral sex (legal just as a prelude to conventional copulation) and doesn’t involve sodomy, a heinous offense punishable by brutal and bloody caning.

I remember a conversation with my good buddy and talented food writer, Monica Parcell, a few years back. The gist was the proliferation of food bloggers and the common themes. We basically bitched  “we don’t care about your vacation to France” (because it’s always France, and maybe sometimes Tuscany).

So here I am, talking about my recent trip to Indonesia. But, it’s not just about sharing vacation memories, it’s about Banana Pancakes. When we weren’t staying at a hotel with a buffet breakfast (like the Phoenix Hotel in Yogyakarta – with the lovely morning adventure of fresh exotic juices, spicy soto ayam – chicken soup with condiments, rice porridge, tapioca with coconut cream, eggs sambal, fried noodles, platters of fruit, cheesy yogurt, fresh donuts, etc.) our choice for breakfast was between “banana pancake” or nasi goreng – fried rice with veggies topped with a fried egg and a few shrimp puffs. I always opted for the nasi goreng – it was too good to pass up. I love spicy food- even in the morning.

When trekking in Sumatra to view orangutans, we camped out on the river near Bukit Lawang one night. Oudin, our camp-master fixed us an amazing dinner, then for breakfast, Banana Pancake. The pancakes were like the others served on Java and Sulawesi, but impressive in that they were fried in a well-seasoned wok over an open fire in the middle of the jungle.

There are two faces of Carnival. Friday night my husband and I stood next to Hermes parade newcomers from Dallas, and when they asked where to eat I peppered them with questions to find the right restaurant. It's my favorite food writer challenge. They were looking for casual so I recommended SoBou from the Commander's Palace family for cocktails, Crescent City Brewhouse for brunch with a balcony, and Elizabeth's for fried chicken if they make it out of the French Quarter to the Bywater -- ask for Erin. We parted friends, and I hope their bellies benefited from the exchange.

On Samedi Gras, the Saturday before Mardi Gras Day, I had two goals: 1) See my artist friend Shannon Kelly's American Eagle in the Krewe of Tucks Parade; and 2) Stock up on coffee. Enter the other face of Carnival. A woman walked a wheelchair next to the parade barricade and stood on it as floats passed by, while flashing her pasties for beads. This was during a day parade surrounded by families. When a throw didn't make it close enough, she jumped the barricade to grab it and climb back over.

That was a bridge too far for the policewoman patrolling the parade route. “The next time you do that, I'm taking you to jail,” she told the reveler. “I'm DISABLED!” Pasty shouted as she angrily climbed back atop the wheelchair. I hope she really does need the wheelchair and was miraculously healed for two hours by the Ghost of Friar Tuck. But I doubt it. And I miss the Friday couple.