Essex, MA. December, 2011

Anyone familiar with Boston’s North Shore knows that you can’t attempt to eat at Woodman’s of Essex (“A Yankee Tradition since 1914”) during the summer without encountering lines of staggering lengths. Hot and covered with suntan oil and sand, families try to mollify their antsy kids while waiting for freshly steamed lobsters, fried clams, fried everything. Yes, there are other such emporiums in the vicinity, but their lines are not as long, and there’s a good reason for that. Woodman’s, aside from staking a claim as “inventor of the fried clam” (on July 3, 1916, to be exact), serves up the freshest, most skillfully cooked seafood in the area. And if the high prices don’t jive with the plastic plates and utensils, so what. We live not far from Woodman’s, but we only attempt to eat there off season. Each December 30, it’s our tradition to arrive at the near-empty eatery around 7pm for a day-after-birthday treat: the “Down River” fried combo plate ($26.95 this year: clams, shrimp, scallops, fish, fries, fried onion rings), a golden mountain of delight (seen being assembled here) that never fails to please.

Barcelona. November, 2010

Frequent readers of this blog may think that all I did in Barcelona was eat. Not so. Witness this wonderful community arts center that Jay and I visited (OK, on the way to a nearby restaurant) at Carrer Comerç, 36 in the El Born/La Ribera district of the city. A former monastery (started in 1349, completed in 1700), the building has recently been renovated by the city as the Centre Civic Convent Sant Agustí, fitted out with a bar/cafe, gallery and meeting rooms used by locals. It is enchanting. On the warm evening we visited, there was a gallery opening in one wing, a concert by neighborhood musicians in another, a lively scene in the bar and a genuinely welcoming spirit among those just hanging out in the former cloister, seen here.

Los Angeles. January, 1992

This is my long-lost pal, Artie Gaffin. I met him in Boston through my friend Dali and we clicked immediately. Soon after, he left his native Manhattan and moved to Los Angeles to work with various theater groups. In fact this photo was taken on the morning after I’d endured a one-man performance by Stacy Keach in Solitary Confinement at the Pasadena Playhouse, which Artie was stage managing. (Much more dramatic and exciting than the play, however, was the all-night adventure that began with our post-theater dinner being interrupted by a waiter who said Artie’s partner Danny had been rushed to the hospital with a severe back injury. This is in the days before cellphones, and all the information we had was part of the name of the hospital. Thus began a multi-stop drive around LA until we found him and arranged for his painless return home.) The last time I saw Artie was when his production of M. Butterfly passed through Boston and we got together. Years after that, while watching the Tony Awards, I was happily stunned to hear Nathan Lane accept his prize for A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum and acknowledge “Stage Manager Arthur Gaffin.” We had a lot of laughs, a lot of fun.

Cambridge, MA. January, 2011

My goal: to eat at every Indian buffet restaurant in Cambridge. My cohorts (so far): James, Karen, two Michaels, Daniel, Patti and Sandra. A daunting task, actually, because in Central Square alone there is at least one Indian resto per block, it seems. The winning CSQ spread to date: Shalimar of India, hands down. In fact, we like it so much that we keep returning here instead of trying out new places. (Note: a recent lunch at nearby India Castle finds that spot gaining ground.) The buffet has more choices, more variety, higher quality, several kinds of breads, vegetarian options...and their kheer (rice pudding) is so good that even when we’re “full,” we still can manage at least a tablespoon. Or two. Today’s lunch with Karen found us selecting (along with the mandatory portions of chicken tikka masala and whatever fried appetizer is featured) the popular saag paneer, a piquant vegetarian dosa and a spicy minced chicken dish, items not always on offer. Seen here, plate 1 of 2. Eaters, on your mark!

Istanbul. June, 2007

I don’t subscribe to a lot of emailings or Facebook groups or things like that. But one that I do enjoy is Istanbul Eats (a serious eater’s guide to the city). Helmed by Ansel Mullins and Yigal Schleifer, two Americans eating their way through that storied capital, the blog contains excellent recommendations (“We’re talking about serious food for serious eaters, hold the frills”) about great places to eat, what to eat where, the “characters” who do the cooking and terrific bits of cultural context and background. Most of these recommendations are new to me and I stash them away against my next visit to the City of the World’s Desire. These guys have also published some of their finds in a book that makes a great guide for visitors as well as a great vicarious excursion for those of us here at home. Only one problem: I have so many cafes and restaurants and street-food carts on my list now...how can I fit them all into my next visit there? I’ll manage. Shown, foreground: the excellent sea bass cooked in parchment at their recommended Tarihi Karaköy Balikçisi. (We call the place “Screwdriver Fish” because it’s smack dab in the middle of the city’s large hardware market.)

A Esquina da Fé, Lisbon. November, 2010

On our second trip to this hidden-away local restaurant, I had the same treat that I’d enjoyed the first time: sopa à alentejana. A rustic, homestyle soup, it’s made from the simplest of ingredients, often a dish cooks create to use up leftover things. Excellent chicken stock, laced with garlic, is the base and the key to making the broth as flavorful as it is. Slices of yesterday’s bread gone dry. A small handful of chopped cilantro. And a very fresh egg that’s been softly poached in the pot and gently placed on top in the bowl. Filling, nutritious and oh so good, it’s one of a number of bread-based soups from the rural Alentejana region south of Lisbon (also home to porco com ameijoas à alentejana, the famous Portuguese pork-and-clams dish.) Nothing could be better on a chilly November evening in magical Lisbon.

Near Úbrež, Czechoslovakia. July, 1972

My friend Jeff recently told me he likes the old photos I post here and wondered how I remember all of these stories. Well, as my pal James likes to remind me, “You have something to say about everything.” No matter his meaning, I take it as a compliment. And of course I’ve been thinking about these things from time to time through the years and so I tend to remember them. Alas, not always. Take for example, this slide that I found recently. I have no recollection of the circumstances surrounding my taking this photograph. Written on the slide’s collar: “Near Úbrež. July, 1972. Choreographer’s wife + kids + Setka.” The choreographer? Who was he? And why isn’t he in the picture? And why can’t I remember these happy kids? Or the wife who certainly knows how to hold a flattering pose? I have only the vaguest memory of Setka, the grandmother in black whom we met in our behind-the-Iron-Curtain travels that charmed summer. The photo brings back the subtlest recall of her quiet wisdom, her smile, nothing more.