The Way to My Heart [is Through My Stomach]

Last night, I had occasion to eat dinner on my own at a restaurant. (Suffice to say that my husband was wearing his infamous CrankyPants™.) I took the opportunity to leaf through No One Cares What You Had for Lunch while I was eating and, being appreciative of irony in nearly all forms, was inspired by the suggestion that I blog about three or four of my best meals ever.

This is hard for me, though, as my mother is an excellent cook and there have been many wonderful meals over the course of my life. (And I'm not just saying that because my birthday is coming up, I swear.) Rather than sorting through them all, I offer the following:

Four Excellent Meals Eaten in Another Hemisphere

Potato-leek Soup and the Toasted Special, Pitlochry Scotland circa 1997

First of all, I cannot sing the praises of the Toasted Special loudly enough. Sure. You might say it's just a fancy grilled cheese sandwich (which is true enough, I suppose), but it's so, so much more than that. Ham. Tomato. Cheese. Onion. All melted together on toasty warm bread. What's not to love? Sometimes, if you're lucky, it's bacon instead of ham and then...then life is gooood.

But it's the soup that made this meal. My friends Linda, Gina, and myself were doing a whirlwind tour of the highlands and this was the very first meal I ever ate in Scotland. Six hour flight. Airline food--what's worse Icelandic Air airline food!. Driving on the wrong side of the road for the first time. Rain. Wind. Driving on the wrong side of the road for the first time. In a car that kept falling out of gear at unlikely and inappropriate moments on the motorway.

And then...soup. Glorious, wonderful, creamy soup. With tea on the side and that heavenly sandwich as a chaser.

Guinness Beef Stew, Doolin, Ireland 1998, 2002

Gus O'Connor's Pub is famous for its traditional Irish music. I've been there twice and haven't heard a single note. I go for the stew.

The story of the stew is very similar to the soup above...long flight, driving on the wrong side of the road....first meal in-country. Add in a cute bartender who gave me a free upgrade on my Guinness (half to a pint, thankyouverymuch) and a glorious sunset over the western shore. This stew was heavenly. Stick to your ribs. Brown bread on the side to sop up the dregs. I pine for it.

In '02, I forced my friends Deb, Heidi, and Susan to Doolin for the express purpose of lunch at Gus' place. (It helps that I was the only one who could drive...) They'd changed the recipe by then (or maybe it was just a different chef that day) and the stew was more like soup this time around. It was also later in the journey, so the magic of that first meal in-country was lost. (The first meal this time around was breakfast at a little cafe in Glendalough.) But we were joined by an older local man who told us all about his brother who had emigrated to Seattle and bought a little shop down in the fish market. Number 1916, which--and I quote--"Might not mean much to Americans, but I'll tell you that an Irishman knows that number by heart, he does." (He was, of course, referring to the Easter 1916 uprising.)

Oh, Gus, were that you had a brother in upstate NY. I'd sit in his pub every night for a chance to lick a bowl clean of that stew.


Haggis-filled Mushrooms, Portree, Isle of Skye Scotland 2000

That's right. I said haggis. Yep. Sheep innards--all the stuff they have to grind into nondescript bits before you'll even consider putting it in your mouth--spiced to the point of oblivion and living on in infamy at Scottish festivals around the world.

My sister-in-law (the spy) described it once as "spicy meatloaf" and she's not far off. I'm telling you, the stuff is good--especially after a long, windy day spent hiking in the Quairaing.

In this case, the mushrooms were an appetizer and I have no memory of the entre. I do, though, remember our waiter. He wore a crisp white jacket. Older (50s) and thin to the point of near gauntness, he answered our every request with a clipped "thank you!" and a slight bow from the waist. The fact that he did all of this in a Scottish burr only added to the charm. We had a view of Portree Harbor from our table, the Sabhal Mòr Ostaig school was around the corner, and I got to listen to The Archers Omnibus on my way back to our B&B.

Quarter-pounder with Cheese, Munich Germany 1989

I know what you're thinking [Mom] and I'm here to tell you that I really don't care if you're sneering at me [Dad] for ordering fast food in a foreign country.

I'd been in Germany for weeks--eating spetzle and schnitzel galore--and was fairly immersed in the culture. Heck, I was even dreaming in German. I love German food. I'll even eat veal for the sake of German food. But, man, the golden arches.

And, so, given the choice between traditional German fare at the famous Hofbräuhaus and processed "beef food", I chose to elect Ronald McDonald as my personal ambassador to the UN. Sue me.

Know what? It tasted exactly like the McDonalds in my home town. And it was good. I mean GOOD. And I don't regret it one iota. Since then, I have eaten at McDonalds in many foreign countries (they should totally have their own passports like the National Parks Service) and I am both pleased and somewhat appalled to note that they have all tasted the same.

Rock on, Ronald. Rock. On.