Berlin, Day 3

13 July 2008

Part I
For a mere 7.50 euros you can have three espressos, a bottle of water, and three hours of uninterrupted high-speed web access. I spend the morning at the internet cafe—by the time I’m done, I’ve answered all my relevant email, uploaded several photo galleries to Flickr, scanned The Times, and sent out an SOS to Jen to bring a replacement adaptor for my Blackberry.

Today’s museum day, part II. I plan to see the Potsdamer Platz, which was still largely empty when we were last here, and to visit the Neue Nationalgalerie, which I’m told has a stunning collection of contemporary art. I set out for my destination using a Fodor’s map and the keen sense of topography, direction, and inherent understanding of natural terrain that allowed me in my senior year of college to mistake North America (a geography class) for a course that actually would have provided my last core curriculum credit (geology). Back then, I graduated late. Today, I simply get lost.

Thankfully, not too lost. I retrace my steps from our walk last Friday; soon, I’m back on Unter den Linden dodging other pedestrians and heading back toward the Brandenburg Gate, the Tiergarten (pictured to the right), and soon, Potsdamer Platz.

An hour’s strident walk later, I see the familiar glass coronet of the Sony Center—strolling through the atrium with its cafe tables and Cinemax banners for Hancock, I find myself in the center of the Potsdamer Platz.

A number of the intersection’s corners have been filled in with buildings of glass and steel. Some, still under construction. Definitely much more built up and out since I’d seen it last. It’s an intersection filled with the rush and hum of a Times Square, and on a scale and in a style that’s distinctively German.

The Mies van der Rohe-designed Neue Nationalgalerie is just a new blocks away. I find it, queue up for a ticket, and get to the counter to find that the permanent collection … is closed. Drag. I pass on the special retrospective that they’re showing—I was here for the Miros. It’s a 45-minute walk in the drizzle back to the hotel, during which time I perfect my Teutonic scowl.

Part II
Dinner with friends about to relocate from Berlin to Santa Monica. They live in Friedrichshain, in the heart of what was once East Berlin. Our cab driver takes us through boulevards lined large buildings decorated like wedding cakes—the height of Russian design, says Honey P., from the glory days of the GDR.

Our friends’ neighborhood is, for lack of a better word, hot. One can imagine a time in which the densely packed streets of tall apartment buildings seemed both claustrophic and bereft, but no longer. Bars, restaurants, boutiques, and cafes now line the streets, and as the night goes on the entire neighborhood glows with neon and light spilling from large storefront windows and overhead signs. We dine at Gabriel, a new restaurant serving traditional German. I have the schnitzel (surprise, surprise) with the Alsatian potato salad and a half-liter of merlot, and we sit outside until we’re too tired and the night air has become too chill to continue.

Primo, Rockland, Maine

19 May 2008

Primo Restaurant
2 S Main St
Rockland, ME 04841
207.596.0770

Vacation is the most inopportune time to exercise discretion or discipline, and yet, there we were. Sunday night, 5:15 p.m., stopping after one martini and one basket of homemade sourdough and onion focaccia. Moderation is a bitch.

Primo. We knew we were in for a special experience once we pulled into the driveway, past the restored Victorian that houses the restaurant, and to the parking lot that’s surrounded by gardens gardens gardens. The freshest herbs, greens, and vegetables … all for our eating pleasure.

We’ve beaten the dinner crowd, and for most of our meal we have this particular dining room (there’s more than one in the manse) to ourselves. Christy, our server, tells us to jump at the stuffed calamari and boar chop–both very special the last of their kind for the night. We did–we also had the sauteed skate and the boar pate with pickled fiddlehead ferns and baby greens. One bottle of pinot noir. And then we stopped. No cheese plate. No chocolate tart. No cognac. Simply the check, thank you, it was absolutely divine, and nothing could top the boar.

So we head back to our charming suite in the Hartstone Inn. Back to our robes, some 12-year-old scotch, and the hope of catching the latest episode of the Tudors. At 6:45 p.m. ET. We certainly know how to coast.

The Hartstone Inn, Camden, Maine

18 May 2008

I think it was C.S. Lewis who said that an experience is only fully realized when it’s remembered. I believe that the experience becomes sweeter when it’s revisited. Camden, Maine, 2008. We arrived late on Friday night for 48 hours of relaxation and peace and lobster. It’s good to be back!

Honey P. and I came here a couple of years ago–when work brought us both back at the same time to the area, we decided to return to one of the towns that made us long for retirement somewhere on the East Coast where honey grew up and where I’d like the chance to grow older. Wanting to be in the heart of town, we chose the Hartstone Inn (41 Elm Street, 800.788.4823), a lovely place with several choices of rooms and suites, as well what is arguably the best restaurant in town.

Saturday morning started with breakfast at the inn (ricotta flan, birdseed pancakes, and a delightful patty of chicken sausage, the recipe of which is in Michael Salmon’s Hartstone Inn Cookbook). Then, a walk about town in the grey and drizzle. We finished the Saturday Times puzzle in the Camden deli, shopped some more, and lunched on fried clams and shrimp at the Seafront restaurant. Then, back to our suite for digestion time, sequential massages with Clay-of-the-iron-grip, an afternoon perambulation in the better-late-than-never sunshine, and dinner.

Now, we’ve stayed in a number of B&Bs in our day, but none has been as welcoming and genuine and cozy as the Hartstone. The owners Mary Jo and Michael and all of the innkeepers created a marvelous experience for us–from leopard-print robes and the ultra-plush king-sized bed in our room to the spa treatments that they arranged on our behalf to the first dry martinis they served to us in their orchid-filled parlor to the creamy chocolate souffle that capped our lovely five-course dinner … all fantastic stuff. Honey P. and I have fantasized about our move to Vermont—particularly, our weekends spent wandering around small towns and staying at country inns. In the best of all possible worlds, we’ll find ourselves back here many times again.

555, Portland, Maine

18 May 2008

Six fifty-five at Five-Fifty-Five. Friday night, Portland, Maine. Sometimes being in the wrong place at the wrong time can end in the right stuff.

Five Fifty-Five
555 Congress Street
Portland, ME 04101

The background. I’ve been in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and back to Maine over the last three days. Not a big feat, granted, and actually a fun series of road trips. Me, my Eagle Creek rollaboard, my macbook pro, the highway, and a Cadillac DTS to which I’d been upgraded at the Hertz counter. Honey P. had speaking engagements planned in the area on Sunday and Monday, so we decided to make a long and romantic weekend of it. I flew in early for business, with the plan of a rendezvous back in Portland on Friday.

Ten twenty-eight. Driving in from Woodstock VT, I get a call from my honey. Plane, missed. Something about showing up to the airport 15 minutes too late to check bags. Unspoken: someone took too long to get pretty and had one too many cups of coffee before heading to the world’s business airport on a Friday morning during rush hour. Standby, arranged for 1:45 p.m. CT.

Twelve twenty-two, my first beer at the brewport of the Portland airport. And fried chicken, the food of crisis.

Two-fifteen. Huzzah, seat confirmed. Reservations for Natalie’s in Camden canceled, we’ll never get there on time. Fore Street, booked until 10:00 p.m.. Arrows in Ogunquit has a table but finds my vacation attire (North Face hiking shoes and microfleece, and Tommy Bahamas khaki shorts) entirely too casual (though I disagree, I look adorable). My private food network (read, Michael, who just knows the best places to go) kicks in–minutes later, we have reservations for 555.

Four fifty-five. My back is aching and my thighs have laptop burns. Honey P. should be here in just a few minutes. Wait! Plane delayed until six.

Six twenty-three. Bag claimed, car found, we’re on our way.

Six fifty-five. Pretty, pretty place. The menu is a short staff of cream-colored papers binder-clipped to a copper tablet. The place is decorated in shades of warm brown and sleek black. On the wall above the bar hangs an award from Food & Wine magazine–the chef Steve Corry was voted best new chef in 2007. We’re early for our reservation, so we decide to sit and eat at the bar instead–a decision I’m happy with … until I see the main dining room. The space manages to be cozy and airy. Narrow with a lofted ceiling, the room adjoins small, open kitchen where four chefs work with intense zeal. A small number of tables ring the perimeter of the second-floor seating space–lucky diners art those tables have a perfect ringside view. Sigh, back to the bar.

Seven twelve. Our martinis, as well as homemade focaccia and chive butter arrive. Fantastic. Then our appetizers: baby octopus with heirloom garbanzo beans for me, and a lobster crepe for my honey. Entrees were truffled mac & cheese and seared divers scallops with a vanilla-butter emulsion. All, fantastic. But it gets better, still. A young man comes up to us, smiles and says “My name is Ryan. I waited on you two years ago at Natalie’s in Camden, and it’s wonderful to see you two again!” Ryan moved to Portland for grad school and tells us that our restaurant selections for the next two nights can’t be beat. As Ryan leaves, honey P. and I smile at each other–our wonderful weekend has just begun.

Red Arrow Diner, Manchester

15 May 2008

“Attention, please, virgins in the house,” bellowed our server.
“Red arrow virgins! Welcome, virgins!” she cries in our general direction. A group of gentlemen occupying two booths to the left smile amicably in our direction. One quips, “I’m a red arrow slut.” Indeed, if we lived in Manchester, New Hampshire, we would be, too.

The Red Arrow Diner, stumping ground for political hopefuls, hiding place for tired rock stars, eating space for the rest of us. I sit where Hillary Clinton one parked (the brass plaque says she did, so it must be true). The Barenaked Ladies sat across from me, but unfortunately not on the same day or time. Two orders of corned beef hash and eggs, one order of steak tips and eggs, and coffee all around. One of the things I love about a diner is the expectation of solitude in the midst of company that the settling allows. Damn near expects. It’s OK, then, for us to enjoy breakfast in comfortable, relative silence–not quite awake, not quite social, not quite ready to face the day. And very happy to have found a place that makes perfect dropped (poached) eggs and double-crisp hash browns.

Next time I’m here, I’ll be back. Who says it’s never as good as the first time?

Hank’s Seafood, Charleston

1 May 2008

Hank’s Seafood Restaurant
10 Hayne St
Charleston, SC 29401
843.723.3474

So, Hank’s. Charleston. I was told that this place had the best seafood in the city. I concur. So much so that I went there for dinner two nights in a row. They’ve got the seafood tower. Or is it the fortress? Or bastion? Tier upon tier of the fruit of the sea. There’s a long communal table by the bar; those without reservations can belly up, first come, first served. I’d argue that it’s the best table in the place.

Hyman’s Seafood, Charleston

19 December 2007

That flat thud was the sound of me falling off the wagon. If you’d ever heard of or been to Hyman’s in historic Charleston, you’d understand.

One of the brother-owners explained to us in passing that they use over 400 gallons of oil a week for their tasty fried goodness—higher in quality, he says, than the oil that most restaurants use. So good, in fact, that he manages to recycle it by using it for his car. How that works, I don’t know, but I’d say that the oil has already done its best service in their kitchen.

My lunch: a dozen fresh, plump oysters on the half-shell, lemon, horseradish, and saltines. Then, a trio of fried lump crabcake with thinly sliced onion rings, buffalo oysters, and buffalo shrimp. Accompanied by cole slaw, thick-cut french fries, and hush puppies. How could I not? Honey P. had fried lobster tails–now, our operating premise is that if you don’t like it fried, you’ll never like it. This dish proves that frying makes the best things better. Both of the brothers and the restaurant manager stopped by our table to make sure we were happy—not only great food, but terrific customer service.

The restaurant has received kudos from entities that include Southern Living, Travel & Leisure, The New York Times, The Food Channel, and Harvard Business School. And now, my humble blog.

We chased our meal with bloody marys, and bought the t-shirts as we waddled out into the afternoon Charleston sun.