Ice fishing for pickled herring

"You don't think there are guys in Nepal who are, like, 'What should I do? Should I carry packs of heavy shit for Westerners to the top of the base camp of Everest? Or should I stay down here in Kathmandu and chant all day and check out chicks and pretend to be holy?' Why is everything cooler when it happens in a foreign country?" - Tao Of Steve

I've realized lately how vulnerable I am to this commonplace traveler's affliction. Particularly when it comes to food. When I was traveling in Southern France and Spain last May, I started wolfing down baguettes filled with  jamón ibérico as if the ingredients were not available at any decent market in DC.

Even less exotic travel can bring on a case of cooler-abroad-itis. I spent New Year's in northern Minnesota, and I would not say an unflattering word about the pickled herring my hosts generously dished out upon my arrival, let alone critique the delightful "stoup" ("soup" + "stew") of patiently simmered pheasant shotgunned by our host the previous fall; the tall stacks of Swedish pancakes at the Maplelag cross country skiing resort; or the "Lowden Zpecial" pizza at Zorbaz in downtown Detroit Lakes, slathered in peanut butter and crowned with pepperoni, jalapeños and cheese. ("Often Imitated, Never Duplicated.") Still, was Maplelag's creamy beef Strogonoff as heavenly as I remember it, or might I have been just a bit hungry from skiing the Sukkerbusk trail? Was the salsa at Juano's, in downtown Fargo, as sublime as it seemed at the time, or was I just overjoyed that the temperature was above freezing when we landed? Were the Knights of Columbus's French toast and breakfast sausages truly a religious experience, or was I just won over by the $3.50 price tag? (For the record, I stand by my awe over the deployment of cabbage in the minestrone at Capisce in Zephyr Cove, Nevada, a casual Italian joint I visited recently near Lake Tahoe that is run by a former Orioles prospect.)

This exercise in reconsideration has me second-guessing my excitement about a variety of recent out-of-town dining, in Boston and Austin (no relation). Specifically, my deep regret over every meal I've had at Baja Fresh in Dupont made me irrationally exuberant about a quick stop at the Anna's Taqueria in Coolidge Corner last October. Meanwhile, DC's underachieving Chinatown made me highly vulnerable to the charming waitress, brightly painted walls and bountiful amuse-bouche at Color, a Korean restaurant in Allston.

Similarly, I might have graded Austin on a curve (though I'm not the only one to be won over by its food scene). The chicken-fried sirloin, topped by creamy gravy, and fried okra at Threadgill's tasted a little less chewy and greasy thanks to the Sunday gospel brunch musical accompaniment and all the quirky memorabilia rescued from the historic Armadillo World Headquarters concert venue that once stood next door in the South Congress neighborhood. The migas and chorizo at Annies Cafe & Bar was a welcome break from an eggs Benedict brunch, but I'll admit I was predisposed to compliment the carne guisada at Guero's Taco Bar after a Texan friend, Grace, promised me that in Austin, "There are TONS of Mexican restaurants. In general they should all be like a 1000x better than anything on the east coast." The Peached Tortilla food truck serves its tacos with crunchy catfish (in a creamy, jalapeño slaw with bacon braised mustard greens) and vietnamese braised pork belly (pickled daikon and carrot salad, Sriracha mayo and cilantro) that puts to shame the local equivalent. But the best sidewalk bratwurst does not hold a candle to any decent choripán in the Southern Cone.

The lesson of all this rambling reconsideration? To show more love for local grub. Like the Heidenberger at the Mad Hatter (1321 Connecticut Ave. NW); the views of Woodley Park from the second floor window seats at Ipoh (2625 Connecticut Ave. NW); the small plates at Zaytinya (701 9th St. NW), good enough to ignore the tragic diversion of extra virgin olive oil into tall vases, and the Jamón Ibérico at Zatinya's sister restaurant, Jaleo (480 7th Street NW), cured ham from acorn-fed, black-footed, Spanish Ibérico pig; the patio at Hank's Oyster Bar (1624 Q St. NW), though I sat indoors on my only visit and somehow was hoodwinked into paying $23 for a lobster roll, more than even the Red Hook Lobster Pound gets away with charging; pretty much anything with raw fish at Raku (1900 Q St. NW); the entire menu at Indique (3518 Connecticut Ave. NW) and Sorriso (3512 Connecticut Ave. NW), which are good enough to convince me to move to Cleveland Park; brunch at Napoleon Bistro (1847 Columbia Rd. NW); dinner at Meskerem (2434 18th St. NW); and even though I was deprived of a partner for the whole fried fish at Bangkok 54 (2919 Columbia pike, Arlington, Va.), I can't hold that against the chef, who eased my pain with some crispy catfish curry and spicy roasted duck.

24 hours in Santa Pau

The food scene is not exactly erupting in rural Santa Pau, a small Catalan village in a national park dotted by dormant volcanoes. But you will not go hungry (as long as the resupply route to Olot is open).

Breakfast: Can Menció, opened in the historic Plaça Major in 1940 beside the only hostal in town, serves up fresh bread, bags of raw Fesols de Santa Pau (the ubiquitous locally grown white beans) and a wine selection about as long as the village census roll. (Rooms just €45; breakfast downstairs cheap, but not included.)




Lunch: Fresh La Fageda yogurt, from the cooperative inside the volcanic reserve. (I'd say more, but we did not stop for a visit to the plant, and the Web site is all in Catalan.)

Dinner: Can Rafelic, where the locally raised, roasted meat is remarkable, even though the only real dinnertime competition comes from the frozen pizza and prosciutto-and-tomato sandwiches at the local pub.

To celebrate Halloween, try chewing a thrupenny bit

I invited a friend tonight to an "Irish Halloween" dinner, and though his official excuse was being out of town, I'm not sure he'd have come if he'd been home and dying of hunger. "It is actually kind," he replied, "even if the two English words that scare me most are probably 'Irish' and 'Halloween,' and I've never even seen them in such proximity to one another."


I have also taken a few cheap shots at Irish cuisine in the weeks leading up to this dinner, hosted by my friend Iseult Fitzgerald, an Irish diplomat who seemed so worried about feeding guests Irish cooking that she nearly put together a Georgian menu instead.


Oddly, Halloween inspired some Irish national pride in Iseult, who not only insists the Irish invented the sweetest and spookiest of holidays, but she says there are traditional Irish dishes (not candy corn) cooked but once a year in October. No, it's not brown bread, though Iseult did bake a tasty loaf and served it with slices of smoked salmon. No, it's not beef stew, either, though I was happy to find that Iseult had filled her cast iron pot with red wine-stained onions, carrots, celery and meat.


Courtesy of the Irish pagans, the Halloween specialties we sampled were colcannon, a floury potato casserole with curly kale, and melted cheddar cheese; barmbrack, a raisin loaf flavored with cloves and allspice; and a sweet Irish crumble fruit pie.


Nothing sounds particularly crunchy, right? But be careful as you chew. In another Irish Halloween tradition (would it be so hard to simply dress up and trick-or-treat in Dublin?), the host hides coins and trinkets in the brown bread and colcannon. Your teeth are not the only thing at risk. Sure, a coin is good luck, a ring means you'll marry in a year and a piece of miraculous medal could win you a spot at a nunnery or seminary. But be careful not to spit up a pea, or you'll be doomed to a life of bachelorhood, or a piece of rag, a harbinger of poverty.

That's pretty heavy stuff from the people who brought us green beer, parades and kiss-me-I'm-Irish pins.