Ashford Castle, located on Ireland's west coast has a history that stretches as far back as 1228. Once owned by the Guinness family, it's now one of Ireland's leading Five Star Hotels.  Years ago, in the lobby of a hotel in Rome, flipping through a glossy magazine, a saw a photos of Ashford Castle, its thick grey walls and long, green lawns, and ripped the page right out. The article was in Italian, but the photo was in a language I understand well: decadence.

Voted Best Resort Hotel in Europe by readers of Conde Nast Traveller in 2010, this magnificent Castle on that ripped page has been in a file I have cleverly marked 'Wicked Cool Places To Go'.  That file has been the source of many trips and discoveries over the years, but this ancient jewel, one of Ireland's great gourmet destinations, has eluded me.

The grandeur of the castle from above. Photo: Ashford Castle

This year, as I pondered a post to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, I took a chance and sent a request to this grand castle, and asked if their Head Chef might consider sharing a recipe with you my readers, along with his thoughts on Irish Cuisine in  the 21 Century. Imagine my delight when they said "yes".

At the helm of Ashford Castle's kitchens is Head Chef Stefan Matz: widely considered one of Ireland's top chefs, Chef Matz has received countless accolades for his culinary expertise, including Best Chef in Ireland and a Michelin Star.  Under him a dedicated group of culinary professionals executes an impressive choice of unique dining experiences, each with its own style and ambiance, from fine dining to informal pub-style food.

Fine dining at Ashford Castle and the exquisite cuisine of Chef Stefan Matz. Photo: Ashford Castel

This week, Chef Matz found time in his busy schedule to share his unique insights on a topic that is clearly his great passion, then proceeded to debunk every cliché myth about Irish food --- not bad for a foreigner.  Chef Matz moved from his native Germany in 1990, when his family purchased a small country hotel in Ballyconneely, Co.Galway, where they use to spend their summer vacations.

His soft, German accent is now effected with a hint of the Irish lilt, his manner is professional and completely self-effacing, and he modestly attributes his success to "good luck and timing", and gives credit for the Michelin Star on his curriculum vitae to the constant pursuit of perfection encouraged by his older brother.

"When I started off  [in the late 80's, early 90's] there was no, or very little, good food around Ireland.  So it was great to be here when everything was evolving and developing.  My brother, who was the front of house, was tough on me and he pushed me all the way. In your younger years it's good to have someone push you, until you accept, and agree, and take things on yourself" Chef Matz confided.  There is something to be said for those who push us in the kitchen. Often they see something in us that we don't see in ourselves. "Yes, but I also think my older brother was pushing me just because he enjoyed doing that!"   Hooray for siblings!

Flash forward 20 years to today's Irish Cuisine and we see a great deal of change.  In North America we have a preconceived notion of Irish food: take anything and put Guinness or whiskey in it and call it Irish. But what does traditional Irish food really entail?  I've long been suspicious of corned beef. Is it Irish, or is corned beef to Irish cuisine what deep dish pizza is to Italian cuisine?

"No, corned beef isn't something [the Irish] would have eaten.  The nearest you would come to would be a braised spiced beef at Christmas.  There's very little traditional Irish cooking really.  Originally the cooking would have been templates from England, and most people being very, very poor, they would have just cooked stew type dishes because that's all they had.  They had a pot over the fire and that was their tradition."  ~  Chef Stefan Matz

Light bulb moment; this put into context my sweet little Irish grandmother's cooking.  God help me, but that woman could not cook!  I vividly recall lumpy gravy, and watery stew.  I had never considered that this because her family, who immigrated to Canada during the potato famine, were used to stretching food as far as they could.  "Not just during the potato famine, but up until twenty or thirty years ago in Ireland, many people lived under very poor conditions; without electricity, without running water, without any heating except for a single stove" said Matz.

Amazing the difference a few years can make.  A better economy, the end of a long, drawn out war, better infrastructure and a boom in artisan agriculture, and you have all the ingredients for a bustling culinary scene.

"What is now happening is contemporary cooking [influenced] from around Europe and America, because many of the chefs who had left Ireland at some point, came back after a couple of years, and brought back that international experience with them.  Irish cooking is about the local ingredients more than anything else" says Chef Matz.

"We do have some dishes with Guinness; we feature a Guinness Cheesecake and we serve a little shot glass of fresh, draft Guinness on the side, but those dishes are featured because it might appear interesting to tourists."

In Ireland, the Guinness is for drinking, not for cooking.

Casual Fare at Ashford Castle's Cullen's on the Cottage, and a pint of Guinness. Photo: Ashford Caste

"I think we, in Ireland, are spoiled by good quality raw ingredients such as lamb and beef of superb quality, fish, seafood, shellfish, which are superb when available (if the weather's good enough); that is without a doubt second to none!  

For as small a country as Ireland really is we have some very good, very passionate suppliers.  Artisan producers who make something really special out of those great ingredients.  We have some really stunning cheeses, as equally good as French cheeses." ~ Chef Stefan Matz

This was the part of our conversation where my stomach started to growl and I began longing for Irish cheese and slow cooked lamb, deep water prawns and barley, Chef Matz' current favourite Irish ingredients.

"I really like at the moment the rump of lamb; the quality of lamb here is fantastic.  The rump of lamb, really slowly cooked, below 70*C (158*F), well trimmed has all the flavours; it has all the tenderness.  On the fish side, it would be porcupine prawns, caught on a bank, about 24 hours out by boat, off the west coast; it's a very good quality prawn.  On starches, barley has been a favourite of mine for a while and I still like cooking with it.  There's always some flavours of the month, flavours of the season."

Chef Matz shares with us one of his informal offerings from Cullen's at the Cottage, a small thatch roofed cottage on the Castle grounds with a lean towards hearty, Irish comfort food, with a contemporary flair.  His Char Grilled Scallops with Bacon, Sweet Potato Lemon Thyme Champ recipe is our choice for this season on Food Gypsy, as we celebrate St. Patrick's Day.  A stunning example of Ireland's renaissance cuisine, and not a drop of whiskey to be seen.

Char Grilled Scallops, Bacon & Sweet Potato Lemon Thyme Champ, Chef Matz' recipe in the Gypsy Kitchen.

Despite being among the top hotels in Europe, Ashford Castle offers packages that make it surprisingly affordable; three night B&B packages start at 130 Euros/night and include a full, Irish breakfast.  For those who seek a glimpse into the life of past landed gentry, there are few destinations that are this Castle's equal.

I fancy myself spending mornings on horseback exploring the Castle's 350 acre estate, popping into lunch at Cullen's on the Cottage and trying my hand (or rather, arm) at falconry.  We would, of course, dress for dinner in the George V Dining Room where the man in my life would describe (in great detail) his round of golf, over some of Ireland's finest ingredients... and a great deal of cheese.

Clearly I've been influenced by one too many a Victorian novelist.

 

Top photo credit: Andrew Downs

A very special thanks to Ashford's Chef Matz & Paula Carroll for this rare glimpse into Irish Cuisine.  It has been a pleasure.  

Ashford Castle
Cong, Co Mayo, Ireland
Tel:             +353 94 9546003
http://www.ashford.ie/index.html

 

Voted place I'd be most likely to be found after a day of shooting, the Prince of Whales Bar. I shall immediately start swimming for Ireland. Photo: 501places.com

Fab Food Gypsy Editor, Astrid DesLandes (aka:  The French Girl) is currently gallivanting though the French countryside with fellow countrymen. 

 Residing in Calgary, Canada  where it's still winter(ish) Astrid is enjoying beautiful temperatures from Pairs to Marseille.

Oddly, posts are few and seemingly random until one steps back to see the bigger picture for a bit of Friday fun...

"More wine. Saturday afternoon. For l'Aperitif before the dinner coming up."

 

"The wine that came with dinner."

 

"Les Sables d'Olonne ~ Vendée. Lunch at Le Café du Port. Again???  Seafood and wine!"

                       

                     ~ The French Girl, in fine form

Hmmm... I am sensing a theme here.  Vive la France! 

Have fun mon amie.  Gros bisous~~~~

  

Forward by Gypsy... Food Gypsy welcomes a few new faces in the kitchen this month as we expand the conversation to offer you more.  More voices, from more places and fresh perspectives.

First up... Sandi Harrison (aka Sandi Joy) - BA Ed, MA, is originally from Terrace, BC Canada and currently residing in Dalian, China teaching English to teenage boys.  Sandi is also a talented writer working on her first novel,an avid traveler and our very first Food Gypsy Foreign Correspondent.

Sandi Joy recently returned from a trip to India with colorful tales of her adventures and some stunning photographs to illustrate same.

Officially declaring this Bollywood Week in the Gypsy Kitchen (my alternate reality is a Bollywood Musical - there is high drama, sparkly bracelets and lots of eye liner)  following on Thursday with some spicy recipes from the Gypsy Kitchen.  Including Mango Chicken Curry, Lamb Vindaloo and Gypsy Sultan Rice (nothing like Indian spice mid-winter to really WARM you up.)

But first we take you to the streets of Varanasi, India with a nice, girl raised in a (mostly) bacteria-free environment.

Sandi Joy and the Taj Mahal

• About:  English Language Arts Teacher
• Essential in the kitchen:  Cheese. Oh--and a grater (To make things baked with cheese.)
• Comfort food:  Anything baked with cheese.  (Eat comfort food at least twice a day, three times on weekends.)
• Indulgence:  Homemade pizza washed down with a few bottles of wine.  Wait -- is this an indulgence or a way of life?
• Red or white?  Red for winter, white for summer.
• Secret ingredient:  Cilantro... I put it in everything.

Eating on the streets of India - Don't tell Mom!

~ By Sandi Harrison  Photo Credits: Sandi Harrison and Kelly Thomlinson

We journeyed to India, because we are young and daring, we were determined to try Indian street food.

I’m a big fan of street food.  After years of travel and living abroad, I know some of the best food gems are hidden amongst the clusters of banged-up, three-wheeled carts, down that cockroach-open-sewage-lined alley (hey, at least the cockroaches are out in the open).

But there’s a slight problem: I grew up with a public health nurse as a mother. For years, she would gasp dramatically if I dropped something on our kitchen floor and applied the 5-second rule.

The first time Mom came to China to visit me, I made the mistake of steering her toward a food stall barbecuing spicy chicken skewers.
“That’s dangerous bacteria on wheels,” she croaked, nearly fainting.

We headed for the nearest grocery store, instead.  That voice creeps up every time I try to eat like the locals; I feel like I’m playing Russian Roulette with my stomach.

I had heard that in India, every traveler gets sick.  People (many of who had never visited India, I might add) warned me:

“Don’t eat in restaurants. They leave the food on the stove top forever, and it grows bacteria,” or “don’t eat in 5-star hotels. They leave the food on the stove top forever, and it grows bacteria.”

More than anything, though, they hissed, voices lowered and eyes wide and shiny with fear, “whatever you do—don’t eat the street food.  It's pure bacteria.”

Varanasi, one of India’s holiest of cities along the Ganges, is built almost entirely of narrow, winding alleyways, each filled with people, motorbikes, bicycles, rats, holy cows, and holy cow dung.  It was down one such alley that my travel partner Kelly and I stumbled upon the holy grail of food stalls.

We saw the cylindrical metal bin first, where steam curled into the cool winter air. We had eaten a simple (read: free) breakfast an hour earlier, and were already peckish.  Kelly grabbed my arm. “Let’s get some street food!”

Unlike me, Kelly did not grow up with a public health nurse as a mother.  She has an iron stomach.  Nothing to fear.  As much as I like the taste of adrenaline, I wasn’t sure if India Roulette would have more serious consequences than the Russian version.  My heart beat faster. 

I didn’t want to seem unadventurous.  Or worse, lame. “Yeah! Definitely!” Came out of my mouth as "oh God, we’re both going to die a slow food-poisoning death" ran through my head.

Street food, served hot.

The 'stall' was more like a tiny, open-air workroom on the corner of a building. It was made entirely of concrete, with two open walls and a floor that was about hip-height off the ground.  Two men ran two separate stalls concurrently from the same space; the masala chai maker from one open wall, and the food maker on the other.

“You!  Come here!  Eat this!” The food maker had seen us eyeing (me, somewhat cautiously) his wares.  Kelly took a firm hold of my wrist and pulled me into his world.

“Yes, please.  Two of that.” She pointed a finger at something white and spongy inside the bin. “And a masala tea.”

He nodded, and ushered for us to climb up, into the innards of the concrete shop.  There was a well-used, stained carpet beneath our feet, and a roughly hewn wooden bench on which he motioned for us to sit.  Outside the shop, crowds of men—only men—ordered chai.  They stood and chatted amicably, sometimes squatting or leaning against the wall.

That stand was the place to be for chai break.

The chai vendor was at work grinding fresh ginger in a mortar built into the concrete ledge. He added the ginger and at least 6 heaping teaspoons of sugar to the milky concoction on the stove.  Each time someone ordered, he poured it into a tall glass cup, leaving just enough room for two fingers to hold it without being burned.

Literally grinding ginger in a hole in the wall.

The food vendor passed out the spongy white bread in heart-shaped, oily leaves; the men ate easily with their right hands, sopping up a sauce and flicking everything expertly into their mouths without losing a morsel.  Children, some barely tall enough to see over the concrete ledge, came to collect food and drink for family members in nearby shops.  Women with downcast eyes and colourful green, pink, or red with gold saris carried chai obediently to their husbands.

Mice scurried between the boxes where the vendors kept their pans and supplies.

The food vendor pulled a cloth off of a tray filled with the steamed bread.  He poked a finger (somewhat grimy, my mother would have added) into the dough, then eased the bread out of the tray and onto a metal tray.  He spooned a grainy, yellowish sauce over it, and passed Kelly and I each a tray and a spoon.

“Eat. Enjoy idli.”

I bit in. The bread, still warm, melted on my tongue. The sauce was unexpectedly—but refreshingly—cold, and spicy.

We cleaned our plates and washed the idli down with a steaming cup of sweet chai.  We sat a moment on “our” bench, drinking in the street scene: the never-ending line of customers who crowded the alley, the cow who effortlessly pushed her way through the crowd, and the moto driver who was having far less luck but making a lot more noise.

The idli vendor leaned in to us.  “I can make pancake. You want pancake? I can make soup. You want soup?” We smiled and told him we would come back tomorrow for pancake and soup.

“Ok, tomorrow. 10 rupees for idli and chai, please.”

10 rupees. 2 cents. 2 cents. We tried to tip them, but the men refused with grins and a profuse hand wave.

As we made our way through the alley, avoiding knocking into men who might spill their chai and sidestepping cow dung, I looked back at the shop.  More men lined up, jingling coins in their pockets and laughing with each other, arms slung across each other's shoulders.

That day was the first of many excellent street food experiences that Kelly and I had in India—experiences we never did get sick from.

India requires its travelers to shake off their fears, ignore the warnings of health nurse parents and the general—non-India-traveling—public, and feast.

It’s worth every bite.

Be smart but eat... everything. Live a little. What Mom doesn't know...

Cab divers are an excellent source of information when traveling. 

Upon arrival at any location, I cross my fingers and hope for passable English, and then pursue a rapid-fire question and answer session on the way to my accommodations.

Never have I had better advice than upon arrival than in New Orleans on a solo business trip in 1998.

My taxi driver, Ray, was an older gentleman, tall and lean with bright blue eyes, and a head of silver hair as thick as his Louisiana backwoods drawl.

I began peppering him with questions, as he drove me to my French Quarter hotel, scribbling notes in a moleskin I keep in my purse just for such conversations.  In the first ten minutes I had the local rundown on the best blues, jazz and hurricane cocktails in town; all with a smile, his front gold tooth gleaming.

Then I followed Ray's recommendations on crab cakes, crawfish and pralines – along with the requisite pronunciation corrections on same.

“It’s PRAW-LEENS dahlin’, not PRAY-LEENS.  I won’t have ma’ gal talkin’ like a Yankee” he said shaking his head.

‘Ma’ gal’ in under 30 minutes.  New record.  Roger that, nixing ‘Yankee speak', rounding vowels for duration of stay.

Soon Ray was weaving through traffic using only his elbows, as hands were required to fully illustrate his point, giving me the skinny on “grits & vittles” in the French Quarter, the directions taking me down lesser traveled alleys and through back doors.

But it was his after dark advice that truly won me over, his blue eyes suddenly steely in the rear-view mirror...

“Naw, I don’t want to see a nice gal like you, all the way from Canada, flashin’ her titties for beads. The gals that do that get themselves into a heap a’ trouble thinkin’ it’s all fun and games. It’s not.

I say the same thing to ma’ own daughters... yo’ titties are worth more than a string of plastic beads!”

Truer words were never spoken.

Not really a big fan of plastic myself.  When I say “shiny” I mean “SHINY”.  Silver perhaps.  Then dinner.  At the very least a crab cake or two, a bit of candlelight, perhaps the gentleman would care to submit a financial statement...

And even then --- I dunno.

Ray became my on-call cabbie for the duration of my stay, going so far as to walk me to my door when the party was on in the French Quarter.  I remained safe and sound and extraordinarily well fed in the midst of the chaos that is New Orleans with his sage Cajun advice, and became a big fan of New Orleans and her people.

Funny. Kind. Makers of many things truly delicious.
Believers in cream, butter, pork fat, spice and great music.

Glad to see New Orleans tourism recovering after Hurricane Katrina and the people of the city below sea level bouncing back once again.   The city legendary for its party certainly did not let me down.  One current wish on my life list is a return to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, along with ‘Carnival In Rio’ and ‘Tom Jones, live In Las Vegas’. What can I say, I love a good party... and Tom Jones.

With Mardi Gras right around the corner (March 8, 2011), thought we would do a little Cajun tribute on Food Gypsy with a simple menu that includes a spicy Jambalaya and classic Beignets for a little Louisiana heat and sugar (or as Ray would say "sugah"); no matter where in the world you may be.

In honour of Cajun Ray and savvy cabbie advice - everywhere.

Click here for Gypsy’s Spicy, Saucy Jambalaya Recipe and here for Ben’s Beignets de Carnival.

(Flashing is optional.)

Gypsy Note:  Sadly, all of my archive photos (on 35mm), including shots from that New Orleans adventure remain in storage.  It won't be long before they're rescued.   Even then, no shots of Ray, he flat out refused to have his photo taken claiming a voodoo curse was on him... then he laughed.  To this day I'm not sure if he was kidding.

Cantina Habenaro's Ed Hoffman... a very, very good man.

A sad piece of news from south of the border reached me this weekend, Ed Hoffman, proprietor of Cantina Habanero & JJ’s Cantina in Puerto Morelos, Mexico passed away suddenly on January 14th, 2011.

He leaves behind is lovely wife, Nataly and their two small children Jessily and Jeremy.  I can only imagine the shock felt by his friends and family.  I am so sad for your loss and the deep wound it will leave on a little seaside town in the Yucatan.

As I launched Food Gypsy, traveling through Central America this spring and summer, Puerto Morelos became my second home and jumping off point, and Ed became a fast friend.  A rare charismatic character, Ed had a talent for making people feel like part of the family in his establishment, for caring about people and for running multiple businesses, his family life and promoting business in Puerto Morelos with deep passion.
 

I remember well a conversation with Ed this past April over a big juicy burger and a strawberry margarita (hair of the dog moment) discussing the industry at length, its challenges and its rewards.

I had just sold my business (the Dragonfly Inn) and was exhausted from the heavy responsibility of providing not just for myself and the business, but the staff and their livelihood.  It was a burden that I was happy to release to others.

Ed shook his head and sympathized with the struggle, but his words stayed with me “I love that people depend on me. I love that I wake up in the morning and I know that I have not just my family to feed but those of my staff and my suppliers. It is what drives me. I don’t know what I would do if I weren’t doing this... it’s my juice.”

That gave me pause. It reminded me what a very rare opportunity it is to feed those around you – in every sense.

The food & beverage industry is filled with colourful characters.  It is not for the faint of heart or those with mild manners.  It is an 'in-your-face' daily grind that can chew you up and spit you out... unless you bite first.

And while we may discuss at length this entree and that wine on Food Gypsy... it is the people who make it happen. People like Ed, the passionate professional who seeks out the best beef, real cheddar and fresh produce, cooking his ribs for hours until tender, making his enchiladas so authentic you swear you are in a kitchen with a Mexican grandmother.

My piece on Cantina Habanero was one of the very first articles I posted on Food Gypsy. http://www.foodgypsy.ca/eating_out/mexican-not-so-fast-food-cantina-habanero/

I am a big fan of the town and its people.  Deepest condolences to all who knew him. I miss him already.  Where will I go now for truly funny off-colour humor?!  Who will pester me endlessly on Facebook, peppering me with naughty comments?!

His sudden passing rocked his family and his neighbours, who care about him enough to set up a memorial and donations page with a Pay Pal link to help Nataly fund her future. http://www.cantinahabanero.com/Memorial.html

We are a community that is scattered across many miles, joined at the heart.  Ed, you will be greatly missed.  I’m sure there’s premium scotch where you are my friend.

Cheers to you.

Cantina Habenaro Enchiladas... in the heat of July in Mexico. Thank you Ed for your kindness, hospitality and FILTHY jokes!

Deep in the Caribbean in the Bay Islands off Honduras is a living gem – Roatan, Honduras.  Island paradise.  To the north is the island of Utila, backpacker haven, amazing coral, and if we turn east we find Guanja with it's man made channels, they call it the "Little Venice' of the Caribbean.

This is Jacques Cousteau country, a living paradise.  There are few sites that compare to the rare beauty of the Bay Islands both above and beneath the water.

On my “Life from Scratch” tour Honduras was 'revelation'.  After 'rest' in Mexico,' recreation' in Belize, 'resolution' in Cuba; Honduras was both a slap and an embrace.  I arrived with a traveling companion, but in a sudden turn of events I quickly voted him off my island making Roatan officially - mine.

Just as I let go of one thing I found myself letting go of a great deal more...  15 pounds more... in about three weeks.  Honduran spa?  No, intestinal parasite.  I often joke that I’m "only one intestinal parasite away from my goal weight"'.   While thrilled with the results, not exactly a recommended weight loss program (trust me on that).

The Food Gypsy website launched as I locked myself in a small apartment, a sandy 500 meter walk from West Bay Beach, above a tiny strip mall that housed a deli and a coffee shop.  These kind folks fed me (and cared about me) until I was well enough to return to adventure.  And return I did, with enthusiasm.  After all, I had to make up for lost time, in paradise.

In the last two weeks of a six week stay I crammed in as much diving, snorkeling, scooter adventure, beach time and FOOD as I could.

For a real taste of Honduran Cuisine, I took myself on an Adventure in Island Cooking.

The combined effect of turquoise water and sunny skies made it the perfect day in paradise, 28 degrees, palm trees swaying in the breeze; a day for Roatan adventure.  My captain, Billy Conner,  is a strapping island man; with a boat.  It seemed like every time I saw Billy he was wet from mid thigh down, after anchoring his boat and wading to the beach.  Like all Bay Islanders, he is polite to the extreme and was constantly apologizing for soaking wet clothing.

Don't worry... it's an island, my friend, you're gonna' get wet.

Captain Billy Connor... "have you ever been to sea Billy?"

There are a cast of characters that work the beaches of Roatan; West Bay Beach and West End Village, snorkeling tours, fishing excursions.  Groups large and small.  Billy makes his living talking to tourists, selling his chartering business face to face.  He's a big, kind hearted man with an easy smile, a gentle laugh... and a big family.   It’s a living, when business is good.

Billy's clients rave about his trips... the snorkeling is good... he knows where’s he’s going...he will sing to you, tell you stories, he's charming and funny... but LUNCH is amazing. 

"You HAVE to go!" says Mark from Oregon, USA "that was one of the best meals I've had here!"

Why is lunch so special?  Because it’s cooked, at home, by Billy’s Mom...

Mrs. Dolse Conner, our hostess.

Mrs. Dolse Conner is an island cook of wide reputation.  The cook for 25 years on the Palmedo Bay Plantation, she now cooks for Billy's clients and has the daily task of cooking for an extended family that exceeds twenty.  Four generations under one roof.  The laundry hanging to dry under the stilted house is a testament to how busy this woman is in her daily life.

“My Mom is a great woman,"  says Billy as we glide across the water on the way to Mom's after spectacular wreck snorkel on the shallow reef  that rims Roatan "well, I think so but, she my Mom.” 

As we walk along the shaded path that leads from the dock to the village we're greeted by a mother hen with several chicks, free-ranging, a friendly dog or two and a group of chatty kids, running along with us, hamming for photos and leaning out of windows.  We pass a group of men playing dominoes and Billy calls out to the nighbourhood children to introduce me.  I felt a little like a celebrity.

Mrs. Conner is a devout Christian woman and before entering her home, in Crawfish Rock Village (celebrity or not), one slips something more presentable over one’s bathing suit and then one apologizes --- for being wet.  (It's an island thing.)

The salty smell of the ocean in my hair was overpowered by the sweet smell of bread, butter, thyme and curry.  The dining table was positively COVERED with food.  Black beans.  Rice.  Coleslaw. Fresh island snapper, fried in butter with Mrs. Conner’s "special seasoning" and plantain chips ("platanos fritos"), sliced so thin they're translucent.

Plantain chips ("platanos fritos"), so perfect...

The food in Honduras is not so different from what we're familiar with in North America, on the mainland and scatted throughout the islands, you find many of the big chain fast food outlets you're familiar with - KFC, T.G.I Friday's - but in the islands food represents a particular challenge as almost everything is shipped in, making food an expensive commodity.  No more expensive for a tourist (prices are reasonably comparable to other resort locations) but for an Islander making a very modest living, it is an entirely different scenario.

Island food is simple, every meal is accompanied by beans and rice served separately or together (one way to feed a family on pennies a day).  Seafood is a truly essential part of the diet; if you can catch it, it's free.  Living on Roatan, on the protected marine park however, presents it's own challenges.  Those that fish must do so outside the limits of the park.   Endless varieties of fish, shrimp, lobster and of course the versatile Conch are fished in these clear, blue waters.

Yes, this was "lunch"... a post lunch nap was necessary!

Today's snapper was caught in the early hours of the morning, before we set off for adventure, Billy was up fishing for his family.  On this day Mrs Conner's kitchen fed 24 people, including me and several neighbourhood children come to Mrs. Conner's door for meals.   The beans, mixed with onion and garlic, cooked to a thick stew; were tender and packed with favor.  Her coleslaw was perfectly balanced and cold on a hot afternoon.  The snapper was tender and flaky, cooked  in butter and spice.    

It was a magnificent meal, made even better by the key lime pie, made from scratch with fresh island limes and a sweet, delicate meringue in a flaky pastry, still slightly warm.  Pure satisfaction.  The children in the backroom, waiting their turn, peeked around the door's edge, eyeing the pie that remained on the table.  I love pie.  There is something so completely comforting about it that says: "you are welcome here."

After lunch we sat, chatting about food and cooking , me working my magic to worm her secrets out of her.  Dolse Conner is a woman of great pride and few words, but she was more than happy to welcome me into her kitchen.   (I respect a cook with five pressure cookers.)  Each day she bakes enough bread to feed the many shining faces that come to her home.  Dinner will be a pork stew (marinading in spices in the fridge) with black beans and rice.

"What’s that gooey concoction in the corner?" I asked with one eyebrow up.

"That be my Guava Cake" said Mrs Conner with a smile and a nod.

Made with ground guava, flour, sugar, eggs and spices,  it's more of a 'pudding' than a 'cake' reminds me of "Pone" or Sweet Potato Pudding that I loved so much in Belize, truly a Caribbean specialty.  She immediately cuts me a piece.  I just ate a HUGE slice of Key Lime Pie, how can I possibly turn down Guava Cake – right?   That would be impolite.

Mmmmmm... guava cake!

When pressed will she reveal her ‘secret recipe’ for the fish?  I have been known to have a reasonably accurate pallet, often being able to replicate a dish after tasting it once... so I take a stab at the ingredients...“Thyme, curry (or cumin), salt, basil?”  Mrs. Conner laughs.  “No.  No curry... no thyme... no basil...” Seriously, not one?   Wow bad day for the taste buds.   Did that horrid little parasite ruin my palette?

She leaves the room to jot down her recipe, while Billy and I chat.  Her feathery writing on a scrap of paper reveals her secrets the first line reads:  "half a cup of butter" (I love this woman) and then I smile knowing that my taste buds are just fine; her key ingredient is a seasoning combination very popular in the Caribbean called 'All Seasoning'.

And what’s in 'All Seasoning'?   I've already sluthed the local spices so I know:  thyme, cumin, salt, basil and MSG.  Ha.   Nailed it.

A day in the kitchen, is worth two on the beach.  A slice of life on an island paradise that became home for a time, and a rare privilege to be a part of Mrs. Conner's extended family.  And how was the  Guava Cake?   Sweet and sticky, served ice cold for breakfast along with a steaming cup of hot Honduran coffee.  

Island living, is sweet.

GYPSY TRAVEL NOTE:  Wondering how you might enjoy Mrs. Conner's fine home cooking on your next trip to Roatan?   Sorry, no website, phone numbers could change at a moment's notice (IF the phones are working) so you're just going to have to rock it old school... take yourself to West Bay Beach, have a cocktail at the Thirsty Turtle (Bananarama Diving Resort) and ask the bartender where to find Billy Conner.  If you're lucky, he might be singing a song or two that night with the band... and he'll probably be wet... but he'll apologize for that.  Tell him I sent you and,  give my best to Mrs Conner!,

For more wonderful images of Roatan, check out our Facebook photos  or our Flickr feed. CHEERS!  Gypsy

In the heart of Old Havana, off Plaza de Armas, lined with book sellers and merchants, is a large awning covered outdoor restaurant lined with potted flowers and ferns – Cafe La Mina.

The open breeze and the colourful scenery of the square makes it an enjoyable spot of lunch or in our case, dinner.

The menu was huge, massive in fact.  Perhaps this is a testament to the fact that it serves 24 hours a day.  Personally I’m a big fan of any restaurant that houses chickens and peacocks... as pets.

That’s just not something you see every day on the way to the ladies room... a peacock... or a rooster.  Ways you know you’re not in Kansas Dorothy.

Perhaps more than any other food in the world, Cuban food has been shaped by politics.  Embargo's, restrictions and shortages dictate availability and to thrive, Cubans adapt.  Many restaurants are owned by the government and those that are privately owned are governed by extraordinarily strict rules that include not serving shrimp or lobster.

When looking for something traditional, the true flavour of a place, a country, a city, sometimes all you have to do is ask.

 “What would you recommend for a traditional Cuban meal?”

Low and behold, a whole different menu appears, one that does not include pizza or hamburgers.  Now, this is what I’m talking about.

The Cuban Pork Stew, black beans and yellow rice and a traditional pork dish in mojo.

In Cuban cooking mojo is any sauce made with garlic, olive oil and a citrus juice, traditionally sour orange juice. Yellow Cuban rice, flavored with achiote or annatto oil to give it that yellow colour and slight peppery flavour. This plate looked gorgeous - colorful and comforting - but as soon as it hit the table my nose went into overdrive.

“Don’t eat that...” my companion, Texas, put down his fork.  “Do you smell that?” he said holding up the plate.  “Oh yeah, I can smell that.”  Nothing worse than rank meat.  How the kitchen could miss it, I have no idea.

It only takes one bite of anything “off” to ruin a holiday.  This Gypsy’s rule of thumb:  Never, ever eat something that smells bad – unless it’s cheese.

Not every meal can be perfect, mistakes happen and sometimes, as diners, we need to send something back to the kitchen.  How an establishment deals with that can make or break a dining experience for me.  This was one of those times.

Away it went, quickly replaced by the Traditional Cuban Combo - a massive meal.  Reminiscent of a large Italian meal served in four courses, but rather than the Italian style of relaxed leisure this was a Cuban rush.

I believe this may have been due to the fact that I had my big, fancy camera out, taking pictures of food.  Drinks arrived.  Then more drinks arrived... along with course after course in rapid succession.  Thought I might burst... but the flavours were so subtle and truly enjoyable, worked my way through as much food as I possibly could.

Tamal En Casuela

Corn, a staple through the Caribbean is handled differently everywhere.  In Mexico, we have the tamale;  a corn porridge, wrapped in leaves, layered with pork and vegetables then steamed.

In Cuba Tamal En Casuela; a similar corn porridge, cooked in a pot,  used as a base for tasty stews, served on the bottom of the bowl or served alone as an appetizer, which I just loved.   Like Grits; made with corn meal, savory as opposed to sweet, an amazingly filling treat.   Black Bean soup is among the few indigenous foods that have remained part of the modern Cuban cuisine.  Tender beans are mixed with garlic; onions and spices, then cooked low and slow to thicken often accompany a mail meal.

There is always a pot of black beans in a Cuban kitchen alongside - or mixed with the rice (I truly love a good 'dirty' rice).

The fish was a grouper, barley seasoned.  Cooked over a high heat, seared perfectly.  If there is one thing I could never complain about in Cuba it was the fish.  It was never over cooked, always completely fresh and served in the simplest fashion.

Melted in my mouth like butter.  With fish this fresh why would you mess with it?  In Cuba... order the fish!

As a special treat, a glass of freshly squeezed sugar cane... and I do mean freshly squeezed.  Cranking the mechanical arm and pressing the fresh cane through the machine a creamy milky juice emerges, skimmed and served.

It was decadent... along with a Cuban coffee...

Cuban Coffee, a rich medium roast.

Nothing like Flan... served cold on a hot day.

To finish - Flan de Clabaza, a light custard style, short crust desert.  Sweet, smooth custard baked and served in a sugary syrup, beautifully plated, was the perfect end to a rather massive meal.  Thought I was going to need a litter to carry me through the streets of old Havana to hail a cab.  Instead we enjoyed a walk along the sea wall, the salt breeze making the night complete.

On warm evenings Cubans line the seawall in Havana, socializing, drinking enjoying a picnic.  Lovers, families, grandparents, some with a line in the water in the event that tomorrow’s dinner might come along.

When asked our cab driver (and local guide) Ernesto about this,  he laughed  “Well, if you like your girlfriend you look at her, so beautiful, sitting on the wall... the ocean wind in her hair.  And if you don’t... you just push her over.” 

The boys laugh and laugh.  Ha ha ha...

Think I’ll skip that Cuban tradition and stick to the food thingy.

*rolls eyes*

Men.  Gotta’ love ‘em.

Cafe La Mina     Obispo 109 esquina Oficios
La Habana, Cuba 10100 

 Phone:+53 7 620216              

On this little “life from scratch” journey Mexico was... rest.  Belize was... recreation.  And Cuba?  Rebellion?  Revolution?  Nope.  Resolution. 

Resolved... to find the food that fuels its lovely people, the food that sustains its pulsating beat, I was determined to find... FOOD!       

By day three in Havana I had to ask “Where do people shop?”  Translation: "I’m just a nice girl from Canada, please direct me to your grocery store."        

I’m used to stumbling into them, food in the streets and fruit on every corner and fish at the local dock... like every other corner of the Caribbean... but food was much harder to find on the streets of Havana.  Like everything else in Cuba, food is highly regulated.  There are limitations and regulations on everything from how many seats a restaurant can have to how much any one farmer is allowed to sell and... where.          

Restaurants were hit and miss.  Street food was limited - sandwiches mostly but on beautiful Cuban bread.  Cuban bread reminds me of European bread, light and flavourful with great body and a thin, crisp crust.  Turns hard as a rock after a day or two.    There's pizza... ever have a tuna pizza, with mayo? No?  Hmmm.  Think tuna melt... had to try it, right?!       

One of my best finds was this amazing little bakery about five blocks from La Floridita on Calle Obispo, the pastry was light and sweet with a heavy Spanish influence.    And everywhere there is flavoured ice... and rum.  There is always plenty of rum.  Good rum, no GREAT rum.  At the "Revolution Museum" you can have a drink at the bar... what could be more appropriate than a Cuba Libre?!  Yup... had to.       

Where were we?   Right.  Take me to your food... woman can only live on rum for so long.  People fish over the seawall, but were is the fish?       

This... is what taxi drivers are for!  “Take me to your market!”  Ernesto obliges!        

First stop, in New Havana a market for the locals... fresh meat... fresh fruit... fresh veg... fresh herbs and flowers.  The market is a frame with a roof, and a small side building - all the vendors huddle in the shade on this particular 30* day.  Open from 7A to 1P... get it while it’s fresh before the flies do.        

Meat is kept on ice, in coolers.  Fruit and vegetable are picked in season and ripe... eat it, cook it... now.  In Cuba (and most Caribbean countries), the food is cooked to death, so I had no issue with eating anything, once I found it.        

Next stop... Old Havana.  An old warehouse, and Farmer’s Market.  The roof is half blown away and the walls look like they may collapse at many minute but inside you can get what you need.        

Stacks of papaya and pineapple.  Bags of beans and rice.  Herbs for cooking and for medicine.  Right next door... the meat.  Still running around.  Now that’s fresh!        

Cuba made me realize, like never before, just how spoiled I am.  Spoiled by choice and selection.  Spoiled by convenience in a consumer driven economy.  We are so very, very spoiled.       

Gypsy confession: I don’t want to kill my own chicken.  Don’t get me wrong, I grew up on a farm.  I’ve done that stuff... pulled calves, plucked chickens, ate stakes that had a name on them... all part of life.  My grandmother always said "if you give something a good life it passes that life on to you."        

I am grateful to the pig... for bacon, but I like that bacon in a brown wrapper.       

Thank you... for bacon.

In Cuba, there is no such thing as a MacDonald’s or Wendy’s or a jar of pasta sauce or a frozen pizza .  You have two choices:  slow food or no food.  I'm down with that, but think about it...  how many different kinds of frozen pizza are there are your local super market?  Did a little recognisance on this, popped out in the middle of writing this (back in my comfortable life) to the local grocery store and counted.        

Seven different brands and...  78 different frozen pizzas to choose from.         

Feeling... spoiled yet?        

The markets, a colourful day of Cuban resolution.  Seeing, smelling, tasting... FRESH Cuba!      

Ernesto... our guide for a week in Havana, old and new... thank you!

The long awaited fries...

It was an adventure just getting there, two hours by scooter winding over the winding, pot-hole ridden jungle roads of Roatan, down a steep gravel road rutted by recent rains, through the fishing village of Jonesville, to the boat dock, where you take a water taxi to the floating restaurant known as “The Hole in the Wall”.   

Whew.  I'm beat just writing that.      

Open for lunch and dinner, famous for their all-you-can eat BBQ Sunday dinners and Lobster Fridays, the Hole in the Wall, along with one gift shop is the only concession to tourism in Jonesville and everyone is more than willing to point you in the right direction or take you there by boat.     

The floating, open air dock pushed up against the other side of the bay on Blue Rock perches on the edge of the mangroves where the pirates that once inhabited Roatan would simply... disappear... the Hole in the Wall is the perfect place for a cold beer, a hand rolled cigar (compliments of your host, Bob), you can write your name on the wall, like many before you or contribute a t-shirt or licence plate to the colourful decor.    

Dam if they didn’t have rather a nice Chilean sauvignon-blanc, first decent wine I've seen in weeks, it's been tequila in Mexico, rum in Belize and Cuba, now in the heart of pirate country and I'm sipping a lovely white with club soda on the side.  "Arrrr... wench, bring me me spritzer !"  No?  Not making the pirate cut?  Well, there's always tomorrow.     

 
My friend Texas,  raved about the cigar. Still moist and fresh... he went so far as to give it the “great smoke” award besting even the Cubans he’d just bought days earlier. “A free cigar in the middle of nowhere Honduras and it’s the best cigar I’ve smoked in years.”  My.  High praise indeed.     

But... where’s our food?     

It was also, I thought, the perfect place for a Blue Cheese Burger. Juicy, tangy, salty... it was a gorgeous burger.  Should be, it took forever. In fact I went to ask about our food after about say - an hour - and was told that they had run out of potatoes and had to go get some for our fries.  (Ooooookkkkkkkk.) Which begs the question... where did they go for potatoes?  One of life’s great mysteries.  Good thing the fries rocked. Crispy shoestring fries. Salty. Real Heinz ketchup. Thought I was going to go out of my mind.     

Did I mention that hunger had set in on the journey? I could have eaten the hind leg off a donkey.     

Done right, really there’s nothing quite like a great burger it is my great indulgence, in fact by now if you've been reading along you're wondering "Geez Gypsy, ever eat anything OTHER than burgers as you traveled central America?"  Hell yea!  We'll get to that.  But THIS was perfect.      

Seasoned beef, creamy blue cheese dipping down my hands...  almost didn't need extra goo.  (but I had it anyway) The menu is deeper than just burgers and sandwiches - giant salads, seafood, fried chicken, pasta, tacos - islanders rave about the lobster and the BBQ on Fridays and Sundays (the mear mention of it made me crave ribs). Perhaps I’ll have to make another trip to The Hole in the Wall... on a Sunday.  Reasons to return to Roatan... like I needed any.     

An adventure I won't soon forget. 
http://roatanholeinthewall.com/     

"Mmmm... doughnuts" - Homer Simpson

Mexico has become a jumping off place for me, in and out and constantly on the move, it is also a place where I 'discover' I'm hungry, like now.  This section on "Mexican Quickies" is a tribute to all the wonderful little places in the Yucatan that fed me... fast and cheap.  

We called them 'Blind Guy Doughnuts'  the name’s not very politically correct, nor is it as catchy as Krispy Kream, but there’s potential. He has a white cane and a guide, you see him, going shop to shop, house to house in Puerto Morelos, Mexico selling little bags of fresh, warm sugary doughnuts.  What’s his name?  No one knows. Does he make these doughnuts himself? No idea.  Cleverly, he cruises teh streets in the evening, as sun sets and taste buds turn to the sweet side of life. 

Cookies, cakes and doughnuts. 

Warm, surgery bread doughnuts, the sugar melting on the tip of your tongue the soft, tender dough melts in your mouth... personally, I love the photo.  Being Canadian, I have a soft spot for doughnuts, it's a national identity thing. 

Among the many wonderful street food sweets in Mexico.