Category Archives: Transport – planes, trains and automobiles
Transport
Hotel Pullman, Marseille Palm Beach
Marseille: an ancient city renowned for many things, among which number its huge commercial port, a small crime problem, the legendary Château d’If and fine bouillabaisse. The city lent its name to the French national anthem, la Marseillaise, pastis was born here and Marcel Pagnol took childhood walks in the lush Parc Borély. I suggest that we add to this hall of fame the Hotel Pullman Marseille Palm Beach, where Monsieur and I splurged for a night of luxury during our South of France ‘vacances’ last year.
Even for we two inveterate travellers, it had been a long day. We’d driven up from the Camargues, lunched at a sleepy Martigues and screeched into the last boat trip of the day around the calanques near the pretty port of Cassis. The driving in the vicinity of such a natural wonder is reputed to be fraught with tempers frayed by battles fought over parking spaces; sadly, we’d found it to be exactly so, yet somehow managed to escape without a single dent in our fender. Leaving the beauty behind as we entered the messy sprawl of the outskirts of Marseille, we were intent on a night of calm and relaxation. Fortunately, once we found the Pullman Hotel, calm and relaxation is exactly what we enjoyed.
I say ‘once we found’ because the Pullman is James Bond-esque in the way that it hides behind a curve in the Corniche, sinking its storeys below the coastal thoroughfare so that it’s barely visible from the road. We, as many others must have done before us, drove straight on past the entrance before recognising our mistake and navigating a U turn – no mean feat in the early evening rush of traffic – to return to our abode for the night.
A porter swiftly separated luggage from vehicle as a valet disappeared with the car down a ramp into what could have been Hades for all we knew – via the entrance to what we deduced must be the subterranean car park - very 007 once again. Inside, a vast lobby was populated by three or four staff and one of those life-size sculptures of a cow wearing far splashier colours than might be expected in your average milking shed. Elsewhere, the furniture was über chic in the fashion of a deconstructed Mondrian (read: hard-cornered squares and rectangles in primary colours) but quite uncomfortable looking – the subliminal message being that this was not a place to get cosy, although the view across the bay was spectacular and it would be quite possible to spend a couple of hours sitting here watching ships and yachts navigating the busy bay.
Fortunately, our room had its own, private view out to sea, and a balcony from which to enjoy it at our leisure. It was a hot evening, hazy and vaguely rose-tinted. We watched stand-up paddlers taking advantage of the calm waters.
Looking to our right the Corniche snaked against the coast, a gigantic propeller blade rising in dark silhouette against the sunset; this was the 1971 oeuvre of Marseille’s sculptor son, César, honouring the repatriation of people from North Africa to France.
To wash off the day’s accumulation of salt and sweat, we took a dip in the Pullman’s pool, which looked like this:
It was big enough to accommodate pre-dinner swimmers of all ages, from pre-schooler to retiree, and the water was just the right type of cool.
Later, as Monsieur and I basked in the last of the day’s sun, we flicked through guides in an attempt to decide how and where to dine. In the end, room service won. We would sup in our bathrobes, with the unsurpassable vista visible from our balcony, gathering strength for the serious task of exploring Marseille the next day.
The doorbell rang and our evening meal arrived. Seconds later, Monsieur settled down with comfort food: a burger and plump, golden fries with a verrine of coleslaw in a nod to the possibility of fresh produce, even if it hadn’t been ordered in quantity tonight.
I stuck to lighter fare. The smoked salmon was delicious, served with mini-blinis, a dollop of taramasalata and another of soft, herbed cheese. The salad leaves were unusually unblemished, natural, sans vinaigrette.
Then I allowed myself a small plate of cheese.
A glass of crisp, chilled white wine completed the experience.
And so, when last in Marseille, Monsieur and I unabashedly enjoyed our room service supper in our own time, watching all manner of seafaring vessel criss-crossing the bay as the sun sank in the west. It was the epitome of a holiday dining experience: good, simple food, great view, the privacy of our own room and no glad rags required. Not to mention the double bill of Engrenages (Spiral) on TV. A perfect evening, indeed.
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Planes, trains and hot air balloons! A carousel in Provins.
Last year, on a visit to the medieval village of Provins I was delighted by this beautiful little carousel:
Sadly, no one was riding the horses or jumping into the hot air balloon basket. The music wasn’t playing and the carousel guardian slouched in his seat, puffing cigarette smoke into the hot afternoon air.
The submarine was straight out of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and the hot air balloon reminded me of Around the World in Eighty Days. Perhaps the carousel was designed in homage to the great Jules Verne?
I have a soft spot for hot air balloons because Monsieur took me on a balloon trip the morning after he popped the question… But he wasn’t too thrilled when I suggested hopping into this one, especially as it wasn’t going anywhere, not even around in circles.
Isn’t this little plane absolutely wonderful? I can imagine the children of Provins fighting over who gets to ‘fly’ it.
Named ‘Le Petit Prince’ it reminded me of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, a great aviator in his own time until his plane went missing with him in it. He’s someone I’d like to have met.
Now for the odd one out (no, not the horses): a fire engine? Really? What does that have to do with intrepid exploring? If you can work out why it’s there, please do let me know.
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A First Class First Taste of Smoked Salmon
Smoked salmon seems to pop up everywhere these days, in all sorts of guises, but it wasn’t always the case. I had to reach the grand old age of twelve before relishing my first taste of this fine fish-lover’s fare. My mother and I had been upgraded to First Class (!!) on a transatlantic Pan Am flight, in the good ole days of winged Clippers. The front of the plane was a new experience for my young self and I knew it wasn’t to be taken for granted, so I sat up straight and was on my absolutely best behaviour when the purser approached our row, what little there was of it. Before us she placed plates of cold fish in concertinas of tangerine, stark against the white crockery. I looked at my mother for guidance and she gave me a quick explanation of what we were about to eat. “It’s smoked salmon,” she explained, “and these are the condiments that go with it,” I looked down at the array set on the tray between us. Never had I seen fish served like this before.
Little triangles of perfect Melba toast accompanied the spread, golden and warm from the galley. Just as I popped the first bite into my mouth, having had a quick lesson in what to do with the caviar and dollop of sour cream, the capers and tiny diced onions and morsels of hard-boiled egg, the purser returned. “Would the young lady care for vodka with that?” she asked my mother with a cheeky wink, “Vodka? ME?” I was confused by the offer, “but I’m only twelve years old!” I already knew that the American airlines were super-strict about the serving of alcohol to only those over twenty-one, not that I’d started hitting the hard stuff yet, so I thought we must have a real renegade in charge of our cabin. The purser continued to jest. “Twelve years old, huh? Funny. You look so grown up. I could swear you were at least twenty-one!” She knew just how to charm a shy adolescent.
We returned home to New Zealand a couple of weeks later, my palate craving a food that would remain, for some time at least, reserved for special occasions. Following that landmark flight I had a new answer for people who asked what my favourite foods were: “Smoked salmon and caviar,” I’d reply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
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Bicycle in Arles
Cycling in London freaks me out – too much badly-behaved traffic for my liking. But this bike fills me with daydreams of cycling through French fields, with a baguette, a ripe brie and a bottle of something chilled and chablis-like in my basket. I have a red and white gingham picnic cloth, the sun shines, there are wisps of cotton-wool cloud pulled across the horizon, and cicadas chirrup from the shade of nearby trees as I chew and sip my lunch at leisure. The afternoon is made for dozing and flipping lazily through the pages of Paris Match, wondering if Johnny Halliday will live forever. Funny how the sight of one simple bicycle can transport a person to such an idyllic afternoon, no real wheels required.
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Su Nuraghe, Sardinia
Picture the scene: it’s late morning at Sardinia’s Cagliari Elmas airport. Monsieur and I have been awake since dawn but haven’t had time for breakfast. The low-cost airline has high-cost sandwiches which we avoid, mostly because they already look curled and cardboardy, and the coffee looks like something that might spurt out of a long-disused farmhouse tap. Monsieur and I are not the types to eat for the sake of it so we wave the snacks trolley past. Besides, we figure that abstinence now will soon enough be rewarded when we lunch on some fine Italian food.
As the aircraft doors opened to a rush of warm, Sardinian air, Monsieur and I were raring to go. That morning, we’d left the spring morning chill of Luton to fly into the deep blue hanging above this craggy isle. We decided to forget hotels for now; they’re for sleeping. Our feet had different priorities: they were itching to reach sand and saltwater.
First, we picked up the hire car, which wasn’t the convertible Monsieur had booked - the previous renter had decided to abscond with it for an extra day and there weren’t any others available. We might have been miffed, but for two things: 1. only the most unreasonable of folk wouldn’t get the temptation to Just Stay One More Day - Sardinian weather in May is glorious; and 2. the alternative on offer was a brand new Fiat 500. Personally, I preferred it to the convertible; it had iconic value and would protect me from being flattened by wind and bugs as Monsieur zoomed along the autostrade.
We sped away from the airport, past mud flats studded with the pale pink of flamingo, to the southern Sardinian coast. There, the road led us to a small town near the beach – formed of clusters of small, stuccoed buildings radiating out from a modern piazza. Everything testified to sensitive yet sensible town-planning, the shops and eateries all freshly painted in the sort of ice cream pastels that made me long for a gelato to drip down my hand. For that, however, I would have to wait a little longer.
On opening the doors of our little ‘bambino’, the heat rushed at us like a blast from the oven. It was more than just warm – you could easily have fried a couple of eggs in less than a minute on the scorching asphalt street. Feeling the sting of the sun on our winter-bleached skin, we sought out somewhere shady to lunch, settling on a buffet restaurant called Su Nuraghe. The restaurant is named after the strange megalithic buildings (nuraghe) that look like stone beehives, marking the Sardinian landscape and now quite the unofficial symbol of Sardinia itself. We found a table in the shade, then ventured inside to order. The interior was cool and practical -sparkling laminate floor, glass and chrome counters, simple tables and chairs. There were no grubby fingernails here.
We ordered lots of good, sparkling Sardinian water and plates of seafood salad to start.
Mussels and crabsticks made an appearance in this simple dish, but fortunately for this lover of octopodes, there was a surfeit of eight-legged sea creature before me. I do so relish the cool, fresh flesh of an octopus, served in the merest drizzle of olive oil and lemon juice.
Next came plates of one of Italy’s simplest seaside pasta dishes – spaghetti tossed with olive oil and fresh sea urchin. The precious orange roe had a delightfully slippery texture and tasted like Neptune’s version of marshmallow – capturing all at once the taste of sea air on the tongue and combining it with a unique, briney sweetness. This was exactly the sort of food Monsieur and I had anticipated. Our morning’s patience had certainly been rewarded.
Before heading off to the beach, we stopped at a gelateria for a refreshing treat. I was interested to note the existence of soya milk-based gelato on their menu, which is a boon for anyone with lactose intolerance! Tempted though I was to taste-test it, today I stuck to my favourite flavours: cocco, stracciatella e banana. I’ll never be size zero at this rate and, in this world of superficiality, I admit that such a thing doesn’t even approach making it onto my bucket list. Truth be told, I’m probably not the norm in this respect. I’d much rather meet my Maker with a stomachful of flavour and the memory of a good old slap-up lunch than arrive at the Pearly Gates regretting the fact that diet coke and a lettuce leaf (hold the dressing) had been my death row meal. As Fellini once put it: “Life is a combination of magic and pasta,” and if you could add the freshest seafood salad and quality gelato to that combination, you’d have a lunch that I’d be happy to enjoy as my last.
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Boo to queues at Eurostar
In the pre-Christmas rush to reach loved ones, we’re not having a lot of success here in the UK. A bit of snow has sent everything into chaos – flights have been cancelled or delayed, roads closed, warnings to stay at home issued, and trains stranded mid-line. The snow has also caused Eurostar to restrict the speed of trains on both sides of the Channel, adding at least two hours to journey times, with the knock-on effect of a great many train cancellations.
And so, Monsieur and I have been watching developments with interest, as we wonder whether or not we’ll reach our French famille for Christmas. With queues like the one in the film below, we expect it to be quite hard work. Since the chaos ensued on Monday, tempers have frayed, Eurostar staff have reportedly been rude and unhelpful (not the best P.R. at a time like this, Eurostar!), and it’s only through the goodness of the Salvation Army that people queuing in freezing conditions for hours on end have been fed and watered. Some poor folk have suffered hypothermia, St John’s Ambulance has therefore been on hand to treat the effects of standing for long periods in sub-zero temperatures, and if all that weren’t bad enough, yesterday the transport police were called to deal with travellers who’d had enough of being mucked around in what we’d all call the most amateur of company responses to their many thousands of stranded customers.
What is it about snow that we don’t seem able to deal with here?
And what is it about so-called customer service that allows so many thousands of travellers to be treated with such lack of care or respect when all they’re trying to do is get home for the holidays?
Eurostar has had no clear plan of action this week apart from cancelling services, cancelling pre-Christmas ticket sales and telling ticket-holders that they’d be dealt with on a first-come, first-serve basis. For simply OBVIOUS reasons, that was a big, fat FAIL, (a case of early bird with the pushiest elbows catches the worm) so today they’ve decided to try honouring tickets and getting their customers onto the next available train. Estimated waiting time? It still stands at a horrendous 3+ hours. I’ll be interested to see what happens when we try to travel. Will we make it or won’t we? The suspense is killing me. (Not really. The cold outside St Pancras will probably take care of that).
From what’s been said, things aren’t much better in the freezing cold station that is the Gare du Nord. Angry travellers + Gallic policemen do not make for a happy mix. Add a few truncheons and the picture becomes very, very messy, indeed. In fact, at the rate they’re going, Eurostar will be subjected to annual pre-Christmas service failure enquiries. Remember this time last year? I’ll give you a clue: trains. Stuck. Under the Channel. Services cancelled. As our friends in France would say: plus ça change. With that, here endeth the second Eurostar ranting.
Eurostar? Euro-BAH-humbug!!
Monsieur and I are certainly having some pre-Christmas issues. First, we couldn’t make it to celebrate early Christmas with my parents because of the snow over the weekend. Conditions were too hazardous to drive. But wait, says Epic, let’s take the train! What train? All those going along our desired route were either cancelled or severely delayed or ran the risk of getting stuck between stations. Preferring not to freeze in transit, we turned up the fire and stayed at home.
Now we’re supposed to go to France for French Christmas, but low-flying pigs are looking more likely to appear in our pre-Christmas future. Check out these pictures of London St Pancras terminal today, courtesy of Sky.com:
And this is the latest official comment from Eurostar:
Due to the continuing bad weather, speed restrictions are in place on our high speed lines, adding up to two hours to journey times. As a result we cannot operate as many trains as planned.
Therefore we are asking all customers booked to travel before Christmas to refund or exchange their tickets free of charge, if their travel is not essential.
If you hold a booking leaving London St Pancras or Paris Nord today and are not already at the station, please do not travel to the station as unfortunately we are not able to accept any more passengers for travel today. If your travel is essential, seats will be allocated to you on trains tomorrow (please see the link below).
Thank you for your patience.
Oh, joy. This week is going to be a mission, especially with more snow on its way. Sadly, there’s nothing anyone can do about this crazy weather. It’s not like we can switch it off, or anything.
So, just in case I get stuck in the Channel Tunnel at some point during this super-snowy time and do not reappear for a while, Merry Christmas and may 2011 bring everything you hope for.
Tasca da Se, Lisbon
Exploring Lisbon in the rain didn’t dampen our spirits, but unless we wanted to get well and truly squelchy, Monsieur and I were going to have to stop and dry off. So far that day, we’d smacked our lips after wonderfully oozy custard pastries with breakfast, had ventured onto one of the city’s bright yellow funiculars, explored the Castello, taking special care NOT to slip off the ramparts in the pouring rain and had splish-sploshed our way around the hill-top ‘burb of Alfama. Now we were both dripping and hungry, so why not kill two birds with one stone and find somewhere to dry ourselves whilst eating? On such a rainy day that would always be a winning combination for a couple of inveterate foodies like us.
We walked down the hill from the uppermost reaches of Alfama, heading for the church of Antâo da Se, which we wanted to visit later because it sits on the site of the birthplace of St Anthony of Padua. Years ago I’d seen St Anthony’s mandible relic in Padua Cathedral – shrivelled, completely wizened, yet revered as it sits in its glass case with pilgrims filing past to pay homage. St Anthony was renowned as an orator, so it probably isn’t as innocuous as it sounds for the Catholic church to keep his jaw bone as a relic. What I hadn’t realised at the time is that although St Anthony died in Padua, he had been born in Lisbon, so in this part of the world, he’s quite appropriately known as St Anthony of Lisbon.
Perfectly placed for this particular pair of dripping wanderers, a tasca (tavern) stood just paces from the church. It looked unprepossessing from the outside – with grubby blue-and-white tiles to the sides, a tired awning and dusty green grills at the entrance, but peeking timidly into its entrance we felt warmth. Our noses were then drawn further in by the aromas various wafting across the front counter.
We, the drenched ones, were in luck. There was a table for us, but it would be a bit of a squeeze – the room was small, with only a handful of tables, and space was at a premium. It didn’t matter. We shook off our brollies and picked up the menus – and my little Portuguese-English menu translator, which was invaluable because Portuguese is a tough, tough language for a foreigner to grapple with.
Bread and cheese turned up automatically (that’s the way in Portugal, but if you eat it, they will charge you for it, so if you’re not in the mood, return it straight away ) and we sat back, working for our dinner, quite literally, as we translated the menu, line by line. Eventually, we were confident enough to order.
Monsieur and I shared Gambas al Ajillo (garlic prawns) and Melâo con Presunto (melon with ham) to start. The prawns arrived spitting and sizzling in hell-hot oil, but the garlic had miraculously not browned or turned bitter; instead, it was soft and flavoursome. We could tell from the first mouthful that we’d still reek of the stuff in ten hours’ time, not that it mattered, not even if a few Lisboetas were to be asphyxiated by our outgoing breath later on. Having seared our palates with the heat of the prawns, the cool melon helped soothe hot mouths enough that we could still taste the food before us. This was lucky, because the ham was not to be missed! With the appearance of fine slithers of Burgundy leather, it was surprisingly easy to eat, not at all chewy as one might expect. It was a rich, dry and dark variety, with the taste of something aged and sophisticated, prompting me to wonder if it was one of the famed Portuguese hams, Alentejo, which is made from black Iberian acorn-fed pigs, although the modest price only indicated that perhaps the kitchen had given us their special stock in error? How was it possible that ham this flavoursome could be so inexpensive?
For his main course, Monsieur tried the Bife do Lombo, a sirloin steak, with fries. On the menu, there were several different types of steak to choose from, depending on the cut, so it had taken us a while to work out the differences. We really would have been lost without my little menu translator. The fries were truly amazing – they’d been sliced into coins and deep fried with a teasing texture; even though they were less than half a centimetre thick, the exterior still managed to have a light crunch to it while the interior remained fluffy and soft.
In the weeks leading up to this trip, I’d been dying to try a couple of salt cod dishes. I’d already had some salt cod croquettes at Bom Jardim, and they tasted fine but had a habit of sticking to the roof of my mouth. In other words, they were dry. Now was my chance to try salt cod in a different form. I ordered Bacalhao al Minho, which is salt cod fried with onions.
It appeared in a shallow terracotta casserole, with the cod hiding in the bottom like a galleon’s precious cargo. (If you could taste it, you’d know I’m not exaggerating here!) It was aptly topped with the golden coins of fried potato, creating a sort of Portuguese fish pie. The onions, fried soft and caramelised, were strewn on top of the dish, with a sprinkling of parsley garnish to add the merest dash of diversion to eye and palate. I dove straight into the plate with relish, quietly congratulating myself for choosing such a comforting meal on such a miserable day. The salt cod was strong and salty, with a texture a bit like canned tuna. Apart from the odd stray fish bone, this simple meal warmed me from the inside out.
A bottle of house red (Santo Isidro, Vinho de Mesa, Pegões-Velhos) was perfectly drinkable table wine and astoundingly good value at €4.90. A large bottle of the local mineral water, Carvalhelhos, helped dilute the damage so that when we visited church later, Monsieur and I wouldn’t frighten the priests or volunteers by gushing wine fumes into their faces.
The incredibly reasonable bill arrived and we paid it in disbelief, leaving a decent tip to offset the feeling that we’d just taken advantage of the tavern’s proprietor. Tasca da Se had been a port in a storm – warm and welcoming, with delicious fare, and we’re not the only fans of this unprepossessing little eatery; other foodies who’ve discovered this tasca rave about the Porco Alentejana (pork with clams) or the Sopa Alentejana (soup with a lot of garlic, giant croutons, coriander/cilantro and a poached egg). Dear Monsieur, if you read this, please can we go back to Lisbon? It’s time to return to Tasca da Se and have another go at their menu.
Tasca da Se, Rua Augusto Rosa 62, Lisbon, Tel 218 875 551
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Funchal Market 2
Monsieur and I had enjoyed our time in the Funchal fish market, watching the workers carving, stripping and gutting fish of all sizes. We were now curious to see what Madeiran fruit and vegetables were like.
This image may look familiar:
My current header was taken from the above image. Look at the produce – the bright green avocadoes, the perfect artichokes, the rosy apples, fat grapes, stumpy bananas, happy orange mandarins.
Some of these things I’m not sure I can identify - like the squashy-looking green balls next to the courgettes at the bottom of the stall or that prickly green vegetable?/fruit? between the cabbages and the beans. Can you help me, anyone?
On the right hand side, the long green fruit are Banana-Ananaz, or Banana Pineapple. Also known as the Monstera Deliciosa, it has the tropical flavour of banana, pineapple and mango, and grows happily in Madeira’s sub-tropical climate.
This shot’s a bit blurry but the baskets. Oh, the baskets. I do so love wicker baskets. If I lived in Funchal I’d buy one of these and fill it up frequently with fat, red tomatoes, snow-white onions and some of those banana ananaz things. (Apparently they’re good in smoothies.)
The florist stands were dazzling – loaded up with anthuriums, birds of paradise and orchids. I swear I’d never before seen such massive anthuriums, not even in Hawaii - some flowers were the size of dinner plates!
I could have wandered about the market for a long, long time, but it was lunch time and the vendors looked hungry. The stall shutters started coming down, so Monsieur and I took this as a sign to leave in search of our own lunch. That’s the downside of being addicted to markets: they make you hungry.
Funchal Fish Market (and Market OCD)
I admit it: I have an OCD. Wherever in the world I am, I MUST visit a market, or at worst, food hall. I even like foreign supermarkets. And UK supermarkets. I can wax lyrical about my fascination with the way supermarkets adapt their merchandise to the ethnic mix of the local community. But I digress. Here is yet another Epicurienne take on a market. For this episode of ‘Market OCD’ we’ll travel to Funchal on the Atlantic island of Madeira.
Monsieur and I were fresh off the plane from Lisbon when we found Funchal Market. It was lunchtime so activity, which had started at daybreak, was starting to wind down, but the fish market was still quite busy. Most of the marble preparation areas were loaded up with long, black, headless fish that looked a bit like eels. I later found out their name: scabbard fish.
Known as Peixe Espada Preta, this is a popular fish in Portugal, known for a mild flavour which allows it to be prepared in hundreds of different ways. Their heads are the stuff of horror films, though:
On a different counter sat limpets. I’ve never eaten them before but they’re supposed to be delicious. Limpets make me nostalgic for childhood visits to the beach, sticking our fingers into anemones in rock pools, teasing hermit crabs and trying to pull limpets off the rocks. Now I just want to eat one!
The tuna counter was a reminder of how big tuna can grow. This is just a small part of one:
The tuna man’s biceps must get their work out from hulking huge hunks of tuna about and carving them with a knife that looks disturbingly like a machete.
Elsewhere, the scabbard fish are stripped down.
The sardine man removes tiny sardine entrails as he waits for a customer.
A buyer gets tips on how to prepare salt cod.
perhaps with some of the cod man’s homemade herb-alicious marinade?
Nothing this vendor says or does can make his buyers crack a smile. Poor chap. They look like hard work.
Before we leave, I’m tempted to weigh myself on the fish scales (not the shiny-on-the-skin fishy variety):
but Monsieur says “No.”
So we go next door to the fresh produce market, instead, and my market OCD is cured, for today.
