Continental Drift
Lessons learned – and unlearned – from my time in the Eurozone
story & photos by Bill MacKenzie
Little Italy, Little Bombay, North Beach, Cuban neighborhoods and
a good many other ethnic enclaves. While I always enjoyed seeing
my buddies, I traveled as much for the chance to take in new sights,
aromas and tastes.
In the 1990s my best friend moved to London, where he would
live for 12 years. London was my first trip “across the pond.” While
it was a huge bonus to have a “local” show me some of the sights,
his work schedule left me as a solo traveler much of the time. Not to
fear, as I had already discovered that I traveled best when using the
“trial and error” method. By stumbling upon pubs and little ethnic
restaurants quite by happenstance, I ended up having some of my
favorite dining experiences (Then there was the Pakistani restaurant
that served Lipton Cup o’ Soup as their soup de jour – you can’t
win them all).
very little boy has his first romantic crush. Don’t tell anyone,
but mine was with food: mashed potatoes and gravy, to be
specific. Mom used to tell the story of when the family was dining
at the precursor of Mr. C’s, back in the mid-1960s. Following
dinner the waitress came over and asked me what I wanted for
dessert, since I was a good little boy and had eaten all of my dinner.
“We have chocolate ice cream, and cherry pie,” she offered. “Well,” I
reportedly exclaimed, “what I really want is more mashed potatoes.”
Mom said the waitress looked stunned. She left, only to return
with a small plate of mashed spuds…and the chef. “I want to meet
the young lad who loves my mashed potatoes more than pie or ice
cream!” the chef exclaimed.
And so it went. I later grew up to love more than potatoes,
of course. My next love was blueberry pie: my grandmother’s
blueberry pie, to be specific. I still daydream about those pies.
Our Irish Catholic family wasn’t big on fancy meals. It was pretty
much American comfort food, with spaghetti and meatballs or
lasagna thrown in for a little ethnic variety, and cooked by mom, or
grandma, at each and every home meal. Many of you can relate to
that, I suspect.
By high school at Creighton Prep I had made friends with
other kids from all across town. Most shared the same “meat and
potatoes” background. However several of my friends came from
different backgrounds, and meals over at their homes introduced
me to some real culinary variety, including Lebanese, Mexican,
Polish and traditional Italian. My taste buds responded as if I had
hit the culinary lotto. College brought more friends from across the
country, and they helped introduce me to even more cultural and
caloric variety. Omaha, like America, has blossomed with ethnic
diversity in recent generations. It is almost to the point where it is
getting difficult to find old fashioned “meat and potato” restaurants.
I have long loved to travel; Seeing new sights, meeting new
people, and yes, feasting on new and different (to me) foods.
College friends moved to New York, D.C., Florida and California.
Visiting them allowed me to sample ethnic foods in Chinatowns,
Earlier this year I had an opportunity to spend eleven days in
Europe. A good part of my time was spent attending a conference.
That was fine, as my work helped pay my way, and allowed me
to extend my time by tacking on an extra week or so in Paris. I
traveled with my husband, who has been to culinary school and
owned a restaurant “in a previous life.”
Our travels took us to western Germany and then to Paris. Most
US travelers to Germany fly into Frankfurt, and so it was with us.
The city resembles a larger American city probably more so than any
other European burgh, as it was largely rebuilt following WWII.
Construction cranes and American style skyscrapers dot the sky. I
found that to be equal parts reassuring and off-putting. Oh, and
if you have never spent time in Frankfurt, everybody and their
dachshund speaks English.
This was my first visit to the German interior. Our first
impressions were how forested and green it was, even in late winter.
Our second impression came from our taxi driver, who appeared
vaguely Middle Eastern. He set off for the city center and soon
had the late model Mercedes taxi up to 180 km/h (111 mph). The
ten minute ride truly was quite a rush! The Germans really do love
their cars, and there must be something in the German federal
constitution that guarantees the right to drive at near the speed of
sound, even in urban areas.
It didn’t take long for us to agree on the next big impression
concerning our surroundings. Everyone is thin – pencil thin even.
Well, except for the American tourists. Could this be Germany? The
land of sauerbraten? And Wiener schnitzel? O