A Family Affair

I knew my cousin's a bit of a celeb around these parts, but I didn't know to what extent.

He couldn't magically make our train arrive on time, but our ocean-view digs at Rapallo on the coast by Portofino more than make up for it. And the magnificent sunshine and summery temperatures? Somehow I don't think he's got connections with God or Mother Nature or whomever you believe is in charge of such things, but it's certainly an antidote to the miserable weather in Milan.


He also arranged a fabulous lunch at Rêve, the ultra-posh, shabby chic, French-inspired restaurant-cum-antique-shop. I'm not sure what I loved more: The squid ink ravioli, the gnocchi in octopus sauce, the Asian-inspired pasta in langoustine tails (and some whole ones for good measure), the warm octopus salad, the fresh porcini mushrooms with potatoes, the stunningly crisp local white wine... Or the tear-jerkingly sweet part, the lovely owner giving my aunt (i.e. my cousin's mom) a gigantic bouquet of white roses to welcome her.

I suppose it pays to be the best (and possibly only real Japanese) sushi chef in the region. Considering his restaurant is the upstairs of a funky, cool, but nowhere-near-fancy bar in Santa Margherita, it's gotta be all about his skill with the knife and his penchant for fresh fish (he goes marketing at the docks early in the morning, just like the guys do at Tsukiji in Tokyo). That and he's a genuinely cool guy, and it was awesome to see how everyone in town really likes him.

He used to work his magic at a chic, glamorous Japanese restaurant in central Milan (which we went and checked out - very schwanky!) but to me, it's obvious he made the right move to the coast. I may be a big city dweller, but there's no way to resist the charm and beauty of the Ligurian coast. The colorful houses with their trompe l'oeil facades, the gorgeous blue sea, the windy roads, the sheer cliffs and green mountains... and a near absence of English-speaking tourists. At least, in the off-season.

While the Portofino area is a playground for the international jetset in the summer, early November seemed to be blissfully... blissful. After four days, it finally felt as though I was on vacation, able to totally relax, and kick back as it was time for someone else (my cousin!) to lead the way.


Unfortunately, it was only to be for a day.

Last night was my last night in Italy. Which in and of itself is bad enough. I always hate the end of a good trip - even one involving getting soaked to the bone in rain and losing a bag of expensive goodies. But it's far worse knowing that I'm on this train alone.

By now, Alannah's with the rest of my family in Cinque Terre for the day - our trains left Rapallo at roughly the same time - and I'm on my way to Torino, where I'll hang out for a bit before catching the high-speed train to Paris in the evening.

If I were a daredevil, I'd have headed down to Cinque Terre for a bit to squeeze out the last bit of time with my wife and family before hopping a train to Torino, but I want a big cushion. Not only do I have to get across Torino to catch the Paris train, but this current train is already half an hour behind schedule.

My sense of utter non-surprise is outweighed only by a silly, juvenile sadness. My wife (and my mom and aunts) will be back in Paris in just a week, but I have this nasty, queasy feeling gnawing at my stomach.

Of course, it could just be all the goddamn food I've been eating.

A Week of Milestones

It's been over two weeks since the last update. Life has been hectic.

The lease on our cute little apartment in the Bastille was set to run out four days ago, so we were scrambling to find a new place.

On top of all that, there was the whole issue of being marooned in the States for a freakin' month, meaning other than what little I could get done overseas, I had a shit-ton of catching up to do at the office. Which I'm still doing. My work hours are hitting the double-digits every day, I'll most likely be working through the weekend, and - oh yeah - we're still trying to find a place to live.

That said, things are coming along. Alannah and I are starting to get more of a hang of the whole apartment hunting process. The other weekend, we made the crucial step of obtaining a French bank account.

This should be easy because, after all, who doesn't want to hang on to your money as a means for them to make more money? I mean, between all the fees the banks charge, you'd think they'd be letting you open as many accounts as you wish. As a matter of fact, you can open all the accounts you want - if you have an address, and a utility bill to prove it. Neither of which you really have when you're living out of suitcases, not having your own apartment and all. Which, of course, in order to get, you need a bank account.

This vicious circle has been well documented on many a web site, book, and any other source for people wanting to make the leap to Paris. But we found a bank willing to break the cycle, and now I've got an account and a debit card, and for an annual fee deemed ridiculous by American standards, a gold card with a line of credit. Because despite being a jetsetting professional with global responsibilities at an established tech company -- I have no credit.

So getting this bank account, this little tiny shred of everyday life, was like a huge victory. And victories call for celebration. And it just happened to be Alannah's birthday.

"What do you want for your birthday, honey?"

"I want to go to that place we went with the guys that one time and have fruits de mer," she said.

My gal's got expensive tastes. We'd gone to a seafood restaurant on rue Montorgeuil with some friends one night and dug into a big, icy plate of raw seafood, and we'd been dreaming about it ever since.

"Ok, that place was really good... but maybe we could go up to Deauville and get it right out of the ocean," I suggested.

Before I could twist her arm, we were on a train out of Gare St. Lazare up to the northern coast of Normandy.

Deauville is one of those "playground for the rich" type of places. Despite sharing weather patterns with the English, it's considered the Riviera of the north, what with its chi-chi boutiques, beach clubs, and star-studded annual film festival. It's beautiful, peaceful, and tons of conspicuously wealthy people have drinks and overpriced meals on the boardwalk overlooking the beach.

Trouville, just next door and sharing a train station, is like the slightly less attractive sister... who puts out. A bit shabbier (but still charming by all means), it's less expensive, less pretentious, and it's easier to get a table without a reservation.

And so we chose that path, sharing a three-tiered plateau de fruits de mer at a restaurant not just overlooking the beach, but on the beach. We chowed down on ginormous crab, langoustines, prawns, boulots, clams, and a nicely sized whole lobster, washed down with a bottle of rosé. Had I not smelled like a fishing boat and had my fingers not been pruned up from handling all that seafood, I swear, I could've been mistaken for Thurston Howell, feasting on the seashore in my black blazer and sockless loafers. Luckily for me, the wife looks more like Ginger than Mrs. Howell, so despite it being her birthday, I felt like I was the most blessed guy on Earth. For all the stress and misery and not knowing what the immediate future holds, it was so nice just to be on vacation for a day.


The area is famous for its artisan ice creams, so we went and shared a cone of caramel de beurre salée flavor as we walked around town. Now I've had my share of ice cream over the years, and like to think of myself as a bit of a connoisseur, so it amazed even me when I kept thinking, "This is the best... ice cream... ever!" I reluctantly let Alannah finish the cone, but only because it was her day. Or so she thought.

By nightfall, we had to head back to the reality of Paris (how awful that is, I know) as we shared a train cabin with a group who'd just bought bagloads of the region's other specialty: Soft, ripe, stinky cheese. I love the stuff, but it goes without saying that we did not close the cabin door at all on the way home.

We were back to our (new) regular lives, and back to the stress of finding an apartment. One morning last week it got kind of ugly. Stressing that we had only a few days left in our place, I spent the better part of a day looking at rentals and mapping them on Google and trying to figure out how the commute would be. Of course, apartment hunting during weekdays digs into work, even more so when you're behind and trying to hit deadlines. The management, not pleased with this, decided to take matters into their own hands, booking us into a new temporary apartment... of their choice.

The new place is in the 17th arondissement, which is much more residential, somewhat more dull, definitely more expensive, and much more touristed than our old neighborhood in the 11th. Things are more expensive, there are too damn many Americans living around here, and it's really... umm... white. (Except for all the ethnic nannies taking their little caucasian charges out to shop or play.) But in the prime interest of my handlers, it's a total of five minutes on the train from the office. You know, so I can spend more time there.

I dunno - it's not ideal, but I suppose I could get used to this:

I Repeat, This Is NOT a Vacation

Sure, this trip has all the hallmarks of a vacation.

An all-expense paid trip to Paris, the luxury of WiFi, the feeling of pride when I successfully communicate in a foreign language...

But once again, it was nearly an 11-hour day in the office.

Sure, I got to take another leisurely lunch, this time finally going in for the kill on a plate of steak frites, washed down with a bottle of Badoit and some warm chocolate cake bathing in creme anglaise. And don't forget the obligatory coffee.

That may sound extravagant, but such fuel is a necessary evil. Meetings. Punctuated by a protracted product launch. More meetings.... get the picture? This is work, people! If you told me before this trip, "Have fun in Paris," and caught me rolling my eyes, surely now you can kind of sympathize.

I actually did make it out before 8:00 pm, in time to get to the pharmacy to pick up one of those wondrous only-in-Europe ointments for my mom. You know, the kind the FDA won't approve because it'd rip the bottom out of the market for the major players.

And that was about the highlight of my night. I got back to my hotel in time to put some mild fires out on the homefront, exchanging instant messages, shooting off emails, and updating servers like a madman. A product launch is a horrible time to be away from the desk. But things eventually calmed down, and my boss urged me via IM to try out the restaurant he'd recommended.

A Bonne Table. About 10-15 minutes' walk away, this place has anachronistic maritime decor - part old schooner, part ultralight yacht. I politely asked the lovely hostess/waitress/busser if it's ok to dine alone. My last trip having been to Japan, that's the norm. She looked at me like I was crazy for asking such a thing, but politely replied with, "Mais bien sur!" Or - "Of course we're willing to take your money, you poor bastard from a country whose economy is in recession, thus making any meal short of a kebab about equal to half a week's salary."

I sat down and made my selections, and the hostess recommended a delightfully smokey Saint-Véran. I sipped on it delicately as I ate my amuse-bouche of fried salted-cod potatoes, feeling extra self-conscious because I was dining solo. When you dine alone, it feels like everyone's eyes are on you. In fact, one of the other diners in the restaurant kept looking over at my table, wondering if my dining companion would ever show up. But who cares when you're eating little morsels of deep-fried fish-n-potato when they're being washed down with such an incredible wine? My appetizer sealed the deal, though - foie gras imbued with langoustine tails. It was a combo I'd never even imagined, and each forkful was made extra special with the variety of garnishes, each bringing out a different dimension of the fattened duck liver and mini-lobster tails before me.

I could hear my main course sizzling on the grill as - BZZZT BZZZT - my phone vibrated. It was the office. No matter. I'm in the middle of dinner. They can wait. BZZZT BZZZT. One new message. Whatever. BZZZT BZZZT. Incoming call - the office. I glanced up at the waitress and politely excused myself to the front vestibule.

"Hello. What's up?"

It was one of my coworkers.

"I think something's wrong with the installers."

"Umm, what? I'm in the middle of dinner here, but I'll be done soon. I can be back at the hotel pretty quickly."

*sound of the phone being handed off*

"Omid - we've got some customers screaming. Please get back to the hotel now!"

So much for my boss telling me to go to his favorite restaurant in this neck of the woods...

The waitress was kind enough to box up my dinner (amazing in a country where doggy bags are a sin punishable by flogging), and even put a plastic stopper in the remainder of my bottle of wine.

I felt so tacky. So gauche. So... American. I apologized for my sudden need to leave.

She apologized for my need to work.

So I've been back at my hotel, scrambling to see what's wrong, and things are calming down. In the meantime, I've eaten my dinner out of a box and drank my wine out of a tiny plastic cup. And the scary thing is - it's still really, really, amazingly good. The scallops are seared to perfection. The mashed artichoke hearts and fried artichoke leaves are like something from another planet. Planet Ecstasy. And I needed this wine now more than ever.

Somehow, despite consuming it out of plastic and skipping out on a proper dessert and coffee, I had a fantastic meal. One worthy of tonight's megadose of stress.

I need to get to bed now. I have to wake up at 6:00, catch a cab by 6:45, and be at the airport by 8:00. Luckily, there are no scheduled strikes. But traffic on the Périphérique can be a bitch, so I have to start at an ungodly hour.

Unfortunately, I may not be able to sleep. I just caught the story about Mike Huckabee wanting to put more God in the US Constitution. Hell no!!!! I'm gonna pray he can't do it. And yes, I realize the irony of that statement.

Thank you, good night, and God Bless... fancy French food.

Omakase. It's What's for Breakfast.

This is it. The centerpiece of my trip to Tokyo.

We got to Tsukiji Fish Market around 5:00 am and walked up and down the narrow stalls, dodging two-stroke powered carts zipipng by with nary a honk or warning, checking out just about every creature that can be fished out of the sea. There are millions of pieces of seafood here, almost all of which is bought and either re-sold or served right up today.

If there's any question as to how fresh your seafood is in Japan, just make a trip to Tsukiji. And if you want the freshest, tastiest seafood possible, then it's best to just hit up one of the many reputable sushi restaurants in the Tsukiji Market itself. The thing is, you might wait. A lot. For instance, eating at Daiwa - the most famous and coveted sushi bar in Tsukiji and possibly the world - warrants at least a two-hour wait, queueing up tightly with the masses in the morning cold. There were at least a hundred people in line...

Of course, that was when we left, after having had the best omakase ever. It was simple, yes. Nothing too exotic - just ebi, uni, toro, tamago, ika, ikura, etc.... And then there's the tuna, the reason all those people pack like sardines into the line for Daiwa. My piece of maguro was laid in front of me and I thought my sushi had been topped with steak. And it almost tasted like steak. And the toro? Fatty, light pink, and looking like another slab of prime meat. But it was fish. And tender, as such. It was ridiculous. Over the top. And it really made for an excellent breakfast at six in the morning.

And because we got there so early, we weren't in the line pictured above. We waited maybe twenty, painful, saliva-inducing minutes before we struck seafood gold.

Ladies and gentlemen, I may have just had the best sushi on the face of the planet. If I thought before that this trip was over, that I had seen the ultimate, tasted the most insanely extraordinary, or experienced anything coming close to the be-all and end-all, I was wrong. This was it.

If I lived near Tsukiji, I'd be having sushi for breakfast every morning. All at a cool $35. A bargain anywhere in the world for food this good.

My eating tour is over.