Alhambra/The Constant Princess (4)

In the past couple of weeks, I've been blogging about Alhambra and the novel The Constant Princess. First, I chose excerpts about the young Catalina's first impressions as she walks into the Alhambra vía the Justice Gate. Then, it follows her as she becomes accustomed to the many palace rooms and courtyards. Eventually, as she moves to England and Wales, she becomes homesick and tells her young husband about one of her favorite places, The Courtyard of Myrtles. For the final part of the series, I chose an excerpt in which Catalina dreams of her dead husband walking in the gardens. I paired this with pictures of the Generalife, a compound of more rooms and courtyards historically connected to Alhambra by a bridge spanning a ravine. (Alhambra, Generalife and Albayzin together make up a UNESCO heritage site.) 

Generalife

The night before my betrothal to Prince Harry, I have a dream so lovely that I do not want to wake. I am in the garden of the Alhambra, walking with my hand in Arthur’s, laughing up at him and showing him the beauty around us: the great sandstone wall which encircles the fort, the city of Granada below us, and the mountains capped with silvery snow on the horizon.“I have won,” I say to him. “I have done everything you wanted, everything that we planned. I will be princess as you made me. I will be queen as you wanted me to be. My mother’s wishes are fulfilled, my own destiny will be complete, your desire and God’s will. Are you happy now, my love?”He smiles down at me, his eyes warm, his face tender, a smile he has only for me. “I shall watch over you,” he whispers. “All the time. Here in al-Yanna.”I hesitate at the odd sound of the word on his lips, and then I realize that he has used the Moorish word “al-Yanna,” which means both heaven, a cemetery, and a garden. For the Moors heaven is a garden, an eternal garden.“I shall come to you one day,” I whisper, even as his grasp on my hand becomes lighter and then fades, though I try to hold him. “I shall be with you again, my love. I shall meet you here in the garden.”“I know,” he says, and now his face is melting away like mist in the morning, like a mirage in the hot air of the sierra. “I know we will be together again, Catalina, my Katherine, my love.”

¡Hasta luego!

Pit Stop: Amelia's

When two or more travelers meet, "where are you from?" inevitably gets asked. I am from the Philippines. And I spend most of my time in Manila. Some people I've met traveling are fairly young (under 30) and have not had the opportunity to travel to my country. They know of the country mostly from the internet and TV or from Filipino migrants to their country. A good number expressed interest in one day traveling to the Philippines. They often ask practical questions related to traveling here and while I have often tried to give helpful answers, I have also found myself wishing for a do-over.

One such do-over involves the possibility of driving around the country. 

On a jetfoil between Macau and Hong Kong, I met "Cristiano," a Portuguese boy whose first big trip outside of Western Europe had been to the United States as a 19 year old. He has fond memories of driving across several states with cousins whose parents migrated to the US while his own stayed in the old country. He said that while he was quite happy living  and working in HK and Macau, he misses getting in a car and getting lost in the open country.

I assured him that notwithstanding frequent complaints of bad roads in the country, it was entirely possible to drive around in the Philippines. On that short jetfoil ride, we even ran through possibilities of driving from the airport in Manila (or actually, Pasay?) to Clarke, which also has an airport, and then to Subic, which has sailing. Finding places to stay there would be easy enough with Google. Driving to places like Baguio, Sagada, and the Hundred Islands would require more planning and googling.

And a knowledge of pit stops. 

It's easy enough to google routes and decent places to stay when traveling around the country. Unless you are very familiar with a particular route, however, planning your pit stops are more difficult.

Three things are required of a pit stop: (1) A decent toilet, (2) Food and drink, and (3) Petrol. If the coffee is decent and the wi-fi is free, so much the better. (For comparison, I had formerly written about what is not a pit stop)

If you ever find yourself driving along the National Highway (aka Maharlika Highway; aka Pan-Philippine Highway) in Bambang, Nueva Vizcaya, my pit stop suggestion is Amelia's. 

Amelia's is a diner behind a gas station selling MG Oil, one of the few independent players in the country's petrol industry. The architecture and interiors are actually quite pretty. And reassuringly very clean. Fortunately, this cleanliness extends to the toilets.

Although billed as a café-cum-restaurant, it would be better to think of it as a diner. The food is pretty basic—sandwiches, some noodle dishes, soda, iced tea, and some non-instant coffee drinks. If you're not driving, you can even knock back a beer or three. Nothing fancy. Also nothing regional. There's also a convenience store at one end selling bottled water, canned goods, and soda as well as travel-size soaps, toothpastes, and tissues. Convenient indeed.  

A view of the counter, tables, and convenience store through the eyes of a decaffeinated traveler inexperienced in the ways of a panoramic shot

Leave your expectations of Filipino hospitality securely locked inside your trunk, however, as the service here is indifferent. If unfamiliar with the food, rely on the pictures on the menú as you are unlikely to be enlightened after talking to the staff. And, no, whatever it is you are pointing to, it is unlikely to be vegan. And while you wait for the food, take advantage of the free wi-fi and e-mail your loved ones, check your maps, and read the news from around the world. You'll have plenty of time to do all of those before your food arrives.    

Amelia's Café and Restaurant
MG Oil, National Highway, Brgy Macate
Bambang, Nueva Vizcaya
Phone Number +63 927 988 0967
Php ∼200 per head
       

Slashed! Part 2

I previously wrote about how my favorite purse got slashed. Then I was told of someone who mends similarly damaged bags and luggage, price dependent on the kind of work required. 

About 11 cm. Yup! It was gaping!

Turning the bag inside out, the cut is not really that obvious.

About 2 cm on the inside

Alhambra/The Constant Princess (3)

This is the third installment of my Alhambra-The Constant Princess mash-up. In the second installment, I deliberately did not include pictures of the Courtyard of the Myrtles because further in the novel, when they are in Wales together, Catalina describes this particular spot to Arthur.

“I shall tell you about my home,” she offered.
“All right.” He gathered the purple blanket around them both and waited… “And then where shall we go today?”
“Today we shall turn right and go into the Court of the Myrtles.”
He closed his eyes, trying to remember her descriptions. “A courtyard in the shape of a rectangle, surrounded by high buildings of gold.”
“With a huge, dark wooden doorway framed with beautiful tiles at the far end.”
“And a lake, a lake of a simple rectangle shape, and on either side of the water, a hedge of sweet-scented myrtle trees.”
“Not a hedge like you have,” she demurred, thinking of the ragged edges of the Welsh fields in their struggle of thorn and weed.
“Like what, then?” he asked, opening his eyes.
“A hedge like a wall,” she said. “Cut straight and square, like a block of green marble, like a living green sweet-scented statue. And the gateway at the end is reflected back in the water, and the arch around it, and the building that it is set in. So that the whole thing is mirrored in ripples at your feet. And the walls are pierced with light screens of stucco, as airy as paper, like white-on-white embroidery. And the birds—”
“The birds?” he asked, surprised, for she had not told him of them before.
She paused while she thought of the word. “Apodes?” she said in Latin.
“Apodes? Swifts?”

One end of the Courtyard of Myrtles. No swifts today though.

The other end of the Courtyard of Myrtles, with the pool reflecting the door and arches.

A lot of the surrounding text are hard to read—cringe-worthy declarations of passion which I suppose are there since this is a historical romance afterall. But when Philippa Gregory is describing the Moorish palace, Catalina's longing for home is believable and one feels sorry for the young girl who has to make a new life in a foreign country.

(To be continued.) 

NOT a pit stop

A while back, I had given advice to "Cristiano," regarding whether it was possible to go on road trips here. What we neglected to tackle was the topic of pit stops.

This is NOT a pit stop: 

A bus stop in Mabalacat. Which apparently is not pit stop.

In a country with plenty of fresh produce and a variety of cuisine often dictated by the unique characteristics of the different regions, these stops sell food-like substances, bastardized versions of real food, hegemonic fare, or strange ítems that fall under two or more of the abovementioned categories. Look into the picture and you may be able to identify biscuits, chips both local and international, hotdogs,"chicharon," cup noodles, siopao in a non-steaming steamer,and soda. I tried the siopao which came out of the so-called steamer room temperature. The dough was tough and papery and the "asado" filling inside looked like the the cross-section of a used sanitary pad. Gross! 

You know how travel snobs like to say that unless you are eating what the locals are eating, you're a tourist and not a real traveller? Well, locals hang out here. And eat here. But I don't really suggest you do the same.

Alhambra/The Constant Princess (2)

I celebrated my first month as blogger by experimenting with the idea that travel and fiction are synergistically satisfying by publishing a piece excerpting Philippa Gregory's The Constant Princess then adding images of the Alhambra in Granada, Spain.

Going further into the novel, Gregory lets us into the young Catalina's point of view.

Their very names are a poem: the Golden Chamber, the Courtyard of the Myrtles, the Hall of the Ambassadors, the Courtyard of the Lions, or the Hall of the Two Sisters. It will take us weeks to find our way from one exquisitely tiled room to another. It will take us months to stop marveling at the pleasure of the sound of water running down the marble gulleys in the rooms, flowing to a white marble fountain that always spills over with the cleanest, freshest water of the mountains. And I will never tire of looking through the white stucco tracery to the view of the plain beyond, the mountains, the blue sky and golden hills. Every window is like a frame for a picture: they are designed to make you stop, look, and marvel. Every window frame is like whitework embroidery—the stucco is so fine, so delicate, it is like sugar work by confectioners, not like anything real.

The Courtyard of the Golden Chamber (Patio de Cuarto Dorado)

The vault of the Hall of the Ambassadors

Too bad the Courtyard of the Lions (Patio de Leones) was right in the middle of being spruced up.

The ceiling at the Hall of the Two Sisters (Sala de Dos Hermanas)

(To be continued)

Blueberry Scones

None of the overly shiny, weirdly glistening things that dare call themselves scones.

Flush from my wonderful apple cinnamon scone experience, I went to a Starbucks to score another awesome pastry. But alas, the scones are apparently exclusive to Reserve branches. And worse, I had my heart set on a scone that the food at a regular branch just did not promise the same amount of happiness. 

So the next time I went to a Reserve branch, I got this:

Blueberry scone from Starbucks Reserve

… and it was gorgeous. The same wonderful buttery crust and sweet blueberries. I'm psyched to try out the savory one soon. 

The Cost of Traveling to Manila: Coffee in the Morning

When two or more travelers meet, "where are you from?" inevitably gets asked. I am from the Philippines. And I spend most of my time in Manila. Some people I've met traveling are fairly young (under 30) and have not had the opportunity to travel to my country. They know of the country mostly from the internet and TV or from Filipino migrants to their country. A good number expressed interest in one day traveling to the Philippines and often ask practical questions, including variations of "How much will it cost me?"

Being a charter member of the coffee-before-talkie club whether at home or while traveling, I don't want to have to think about where to get a good cup of coffee when I wake up in the morning. Or in the afternoon. So this is for those travellers for whom a morning cup is imperative.

Breakfast at Figaro

An 8 oz cup of brewed coffee………………………... ₱ 85      $1.94    €1.42

BLT Ciabatta……………………………………………  ₱189     $4.32    €3.17

Breakfast at Coffee Bean
Small cup of Today's Fresh Brew coffee……………. ₱105      $2.40    €1,76
Bagel with cream cheese……………………………    ₱135      $3.09    €2,26

Breakfast at a Starbucks

A tall cup of brewed coffee or cafe misto………….. ₱100     $2.29     €1.67

A pastry, like a blueberry scone………………………₱90       $2.06     €1.51

Of these three, Figaro is the only one that's a Filipino brand. Their branches are a bit harder to find than the other two though—a crying shame. By the way, they also serve some pretty delicious Filipino food items alongside their pastries and pasta. (I'll probably get around to writing about them in the future.) And of the three, they are the only one with free no-strings-attached wi-fi.

I recommended these places because they can be counted upon to serve decent brewed coffee. Sadly, the Philippines fulfills the criteria of a "shithole." Our government is corrupt, the roads are slow, and most tragic of all, the coffee is instant. (∼85% of the coffee grown in the country is Robusta, which is used for instant coffee.) Even in fairly decent food places, the coffee is likely to be instant. And while one may argue that one must eat like a local for one's wanderlust to be authentic, instant coffee is the gateway drug for food-like substances. Just don't!

Alhambra/The Constant Princess (1)

On the plane, I like to read fiction set in the location I'm going to. Fiction is in many ways more useful than a guidebook, because it gives you those little details, a sense of the way a place smells, an emotional sense of the place. So, I'll bring Graham Greene's The Quiet American if I'm going to Vietnam. It's good to feel romantic about a destination before you arrive.

Anthony Bourdain, US chef and travel host 

While there's a persistent stereotype of the geeky bookworm as some sort of homebody, some of the most joyful travelers I've met are also big fans of the written word. And it's not unusual that the question "What brings you here?" has an answer in the form of a title of a book. The combination of travel and fiction is particularly heady as wandering about satisfies the senses while the story gives the intellect a framework on which to build. Put the two together and they become synergistically satisfying. So today, to celebrate my first month as a blogger, I'd like to put together a double helping of happiness by combining two favorites: Spain and historical fiction.

Alhambra, from the Arabic al-hamra (the red), is named for its red walls.

Granada in the Andalusia province in the south of Spain has a rich and historic past. It is here that the Nasrids built the Alhambra, a palace of pools and gardens. King Boabdil eventually surrendered the palace to Isabel and Ferdinand.

The Constant Princess by Philippa Gregory is a novel that revolves around Catalina, the youngest daughter of Isabel and Ferdinand, Spain's Catholic Monarchs. The narrative begins during Catalina's childhood, when her parents ruled on horseback, and continues as  she sails to England to wed Arthur, Prince of Wales, and then eventually his brother Henry VIII. Compared to other novels by Philippa Gregory about the Plantagenets and the Tudors, this has received fairly little attention. (The Other Boleyn Girl was adapted into a Hollywood film starring Natalie Portman and Scarlett Johansson. The White Queen and two other novels about the Cousins' War, aka The War of the Roses, form the basis of a miniseries by Starz.) This is lamentable because of her novels that I've read, this one is the most descriptively lush. When Catalina and her family move into the Alhambra and again when she is homesick in Britain, descriptions of the beautiful rooms and gardens are woven into the narrative.

The Justice Gate, partially obscured by the a very tall tree. (Photo taken by an amateur. Lol!)

An excerpt from the novel reads:

"The Spanish family with their officers ahead and the royal guard behind, glorious as sultans, entered the fort through the enormous saquera tower known as the Justice Gate. As the shadow of the first arch of the tower fell on Isabella’s upturned face, the trumpeters played a great shout of defiance, like Joshua before the walls of Jericho, as if they would frighten away the lingering devils of the infidel. At once there was an echo to the blast of sound, a shuddering sigh, from everyone gathered inside the gateway, pressed back against the golden walls, the women half veiled in their robes, the men standing tall and proud and silent, watching, to see what the conquerors would do next. Catalina looked above the sea of heads and saw the flowing shapes of Arabic script engraved on the gleaming walls."

(To be continued.)

Starbucks Reserve: Finca Nuevo Mexico

Mere weeks after I was gifted with a cup of Ethiopia Yirgacheffe, I went to one of only two Starbucks Reserve stores in Metro Manila to find that no, they were no longer serving that. They had run out of stock and probably for good. So goodbye, fruity coffee! I shall definitely miss your cherry-berry vibe. 

This time I went for an American coffee, the Finca Nuevo Mexico. This is a coffee with a reputation that precedes it. It's been four years since I first heard of this arabica bean grown in the highest and driest part of Mexico by a Mexican family of German origins. This coffee is supposed to be "very very good," according to people whose raptures feature epithets like "ethically grown" and "sustainably farmed" but lack adjectives such as "delicious." I had some ideas how virtuous this coffee was but no idea if I would enjoy it.     

As your coffee drips, the Cofee Master tells you why it's so special.

Well, I guess this is why Starbucks have those leveled-up baristas called "Coffee Masters." After I've made my choice, the coffee master congratulated me on my choice and began supplying me with the details of the legend of Don Ricardo Baumann and his magically sustainable coffee beans while preparing the coffee. As soon as lime odor began wafting off the funnel, he began going more into the characteristics of the coffee itself and concluded by recommending that I get a chocolate- or citrus-based dessert to go with the coffee. (If you have the time and are so inclined, do get a cup at a Reserve store and let the CM show you the works. There's just enough ritual there to recall a tea ceremony but it's chatty and you're standing so you'd neither be bored nor cramped. The steps are as I had described previously here.)

I took my cup to one of the counter seats. Its opening taste was bright and, as promised, very citrusy. It reminded me more of calamansi or dayap than of oranges—acidic, indeed. It was light and crisp and almost clean, leaving only the merest taste of brown sugar. If I had it at home, I'd probably drink it with a nutty müesli steeping in orange juice. All in all, a good breakfast coffee.

Three of a Thing: Salted Caramel

[W]hen sugar, salt and fat are ramped up in combination with another, the foodstuff in question has an effect on the human brain rather like drugs. In a heady combination, they stimulate neurons, which release dopamine, the neurotransmitter associated with the pleasure centre, which in turn makes us want to eat more. There is an explosiveness to this combination that does get the pulse racing and the adrenaline flowing. Part of this is down to the immoderate intensity of the flavours: the combination is somehow so surprising, and yet so compelling.

Nigella Lawson, English  food critic

Salted caramel is presently the toast of popular tastemakers. Although there are few local sources of actual salted caramels, almost every food brand or store worth its salt (see what I did there?) is offering a salted caramel something or another. The appeal is not difficult to understand. As Nigella Lawson points out, the salted caramel is the trifecta of sugar, salt, and fat of which manic episodes are made.

Here, I am reviewing three salted caramel products. One of these does contain an actual salted caramel. Two of these live up to the promise of the trifecta of tastes. All three of these are consumer products. These three are:

Clockwise: (1) Dark chocolate-covered salted caramel from Candy Corner, (2) Salted caramel gelato with candied pecans from Bigoli, (3) Starbucks salted caramel hot cocoa

Dark chocolate covered salted caramel from Candy Corner
Short version: dark chocolate, good. Caramel, good, Sea salt, not the sexy flaky kind but good enough. 

TL;DR version  That Candy Corner is carrying loads more dark chocolate-covered goodies is excellent news. Lately I've found myself loading up on goodies for a movie, knotting up the leftovers and carrying them in my purse in case of dementor attack because in this function, these babies truly deliver. In the throes of sudden hopelessness, a bite into one of these delivers a punch of bittersweet and then a burst of salty that smears the tongue, inner cheeks and palate with velvet. In ennui, letting one melt in your mouth gives the successive caresses of the bittersweet then the smoky buttersweet followed by a momentary salty flick, one that tells you to get on your feet and be gone from this abject place. If you are at any risk of exposure to the sort of misery that sticks to your clothes and clogs your pores, do keep these in your person at all times.

My one complaint with Candy Corner is that they do on occasion give a homogeneous bag. In last the 200-gram bag of supposedly all dark chocolate covered salted caramels I got, there were a few stray pieces of almond, espresso bean, raisin, and strawberry—all also covered in dark chocolate and all stuff that I might also order but I had wanted a bag of salted caramels, not some motley collection of pirates' pieces of eight. Perhaps a bit more care to prevent such inadvertent mixing?

Salted caramel gelato with candied pecans from Ristorante Bigoli
Salted caramel in ice cream form is no longer the novel treat it used to be. For the most part, however, companies just dress up their vanilla ice cream with ribbons of caramel sauce and throw in a few spare bath salt crystals. (No, Nestle and McDonald's! I'm not gonna name names!) Not so with Ristorante Bigoli. The ice cream base is sweet and smoky and luscious, somewhere between a spectacularly buttery caramelo and a dulce de leche. Even the mouthfeel is gorgeous. No sharp icicles here. Only the occasional surprise of flaky salt. 

By itself, the gelato was very good but adding the candied pecans made it memorable. With the pecans, it was no longer just a premium version of a popular ice cream flavor. It was suddenly a dessert to hang a memory on, the way one would hang a memory on pie one had at Grandma's.

Salted caramel chocolate drink from Starbucks
Starbucks first offered their salted caramel hot chocolates for the fall season years ago. Now that they are placing their products in every grocery, they are also hawking a hot cocoa mix that promises to replicate that experience in the relative safety of one's home and at any season. All you need to add is 8 oz of hot milk per packet.

I followed their instructions for the hot chocolate to the letter and, well, it's fine. Chocolatey, sweet, milky. Close enough to the Signature Hot Chocolate you can get at their store, I guess. But then again, I was never a fan. 

The box clearly promises caramel and sea salt and I suppose if you wish hard enough you could conjure a smokiness at the tip of your tongue. The milk fat (because you did not cheat the recipe by using skim!) might even recall the richness of butter in a real salted caramel. Or you could just admit it's more marshmallow than caramel. There is the slightest hint of salt at the end of each swallow, just noticeable if you were looking for it.

What is perfectly noticeable, however, are the hard white bits of opaque sugar that sink to the bottom of the cup and are resistant to solution with 75˚C water. They yielded only after I dragged them up the sides of the mug and crushed them with the back of a coffeespoon. 

The box also has instructions for a caffe mocha. The barely-there caramel taste is nearly lost in the coffee—I used dark-roasted arábica from Figaro, a local coffee chain, prepared in a Bialetti. Still pretty good but I probably could have gotten similar results with just a regular hot cocoa mix, like the dark chocolate one from Swiss Miss. 

Allow me to say again that is not a bad product. In fact, it is a pretty good hot chocolate. It just doesn't deliver on being a salted caramel.


For sure there are salted caramel products out there. Some will be better than these three, some will be worse. Any recommendations?

Slashed!

On a recent trip to Binondo (aka Manila's Chinatown), this happened to one of my favorite bags:

I'm finding it hard to give this bag up. I used it nearly everyday for over a year and it never failed me. I loved it inside and out. I loved the two straps that gave me the option to carry it on my shoulder or cross-body. I loved the large hoops that accommodated all my various carabiners. I loved the dark blue textured cloth that always looked plush despite the hard use. I loved the purple inside lining with the one zippered pocket opposite another two unevenly sized unzipped ones. It held all my things and, in a way, kept my secrets. 

To the very end, it was loyal. Despite the gaping slash it suffered on the outside, less that 2 cm of the inner lining was cut and nothing of mine was stolen. Much of cutpurse's brute force must have spent itself on the felt that helped the bag keep its shape. Inspecting the cut, I can imagine the care and craftsmanship the good people at Coach put into the bag—
neatly trimmed edges and evenly stitched hems even in the parts unseen. They put their own brand of love into this bag too.  

So goodbye, dear friend. We've had some good times, you and I.

Starbucks Reserve: Zambia Peaberry Terranova Estate

Mere weeks after I was gifted with a cup of Ethiopia Yirgacheffe, I went to one of only two Starbucks Reserve stores in Metro Manila to find that no, they were no longer serving that. They had run out of stock and probably for good. So goodbye, fruity coffee! I shall definitely miss your cherry-berry vibe. 

I consoled myself with a cup of the Zambia Peaberry Terranova Estate, which the barista informed me would have apple and vanilla notes. The good thing about getting your cup of coffee at the store is how the barista, oops!, "coffee master" basically puts on a show for you while pouring your cup. All while extolling the wonderful virtues of this coffee, the CM fitted the ceramic funnel with a filter, wet it with steaming hot water, measured out the ground coffee beans, and poured even more steaming hot water. The funnel was suspended above the ceramic cup by black wooden frame and you can see the coffee slowly dripping out, forming a beautiful dark pool. I don't know whether being dripped from a height makes much of a difference in the taste of the coffee but the smell wafting off the the steaming funnel and the cup nudged me towards the desserts. Apple and vanilla you say? Truly.

Hot water passes through the ground coffee beans and filter and drips down to the cup below. 

This coffee was really good. While I usually go for the darker Italian and French roasts, this was a very enjoyable, somewhat acidic medium roast. I think it might make a great Flat White. But with no properly prepped full cream milk on hand, I just had mine plain old black.

Apple scone the size of a fist.

To go with my black coffee, I had the apple scone—a choice which the CM approved. Buttery biscuit that's a bit on the sweet side mixed with apples baked in cinnamon and sugar. Basically, this is apple pie for people who enjoy the crust more than the filling. Like the CM said, it went very well with the coffee.   

Here's to the Zambia Peaberry. Do get it while you can. 

Coloane and the First Lord Stow's

I once wrote about Margaret's egg tarts here. Now I want to talk about their arch rival, Lord Stow's.

There are Lord Stow branches all over the world including several stores right here in Metro Manila, where I live, but this is a proudly Macanese brand (although Andrew Stow himself was an Englishman) and I felt I owed it to myself to see "where it all began." I can say I fancy myself a food historian but really, I'd make up any excuse to indulge in egg tarts.

From the bus stop near Holiday Inn in Rua de Pequim, I made my way down Avenida de Lisboa to Praca Ferreira Amaral where I got on the 25 to Hac Sa. The bus ride itself was a mere 30 or so minutes and took me farther and farther away from the area deemed the most populous on Earth to the comparatively desolate Coloane. Along the way, I got to see a lot of the bay, with waters brown with algae. The bus even passes by the Venetian, which deserves its own writeup. I got off at the bus stop at the Estrada de Cheoc Van and walked along the Eanes Park. 

This tiny spot of Coloane is host to three different Lord Stow shops. The earliest to open is their bakery at #1 Rua do Tassara, the first ever Lord Stow which opened in September 1989 and everyday thereafter at 7am. There's a small café in Largo do Matadouro which opens at 10 and the garden café at Rua do Cordoaria opens at 10.30.

A Filipina baker pouring custard into the pastry at Lord Stow's in Coloane, Macau

I was already waiting outside the bakery door a few minutes before it opened. The baker, as luck would have it, is a very friendly Filipina. Even hard at work behind her counter pouring the custard into the puff pastry, she gave me a smile and a bright "Good morning!"

This egg tart is from the first batch they baked that day. I figured one egg tart would sustain me until the Garden Café opened. (Of course, I was wrong.) After grabbing my tart, I spent the next few hours wandering the Avenida de Cinco de Outobro and the narrow lanes that wind all over the pretty little village. There's a cozy small-town feel to the place—none of the frenetic casino-crazed energy often associated with Macau. I found myself a spot in the Portuguese pavemented square in front of the Chapel of Saint Francis and read a book while enjoying my first egg tart. 

To be perfectly honest, in a blind taste test, I don't think I could tell the difference between an egg tart from Lord Stow and one from Margaret's. There's the same flaky buttery crust and delicious creamy custard with a caramel top. Yum!

I made my way back to the village center on foot. There was already a crowd outside the bakery, an admixture of locals and tourists buying cookies, cheesecakes, and egg tarts by the box so I made my way to the café at Matadouro. It was also packed. Still, I managed to grab another tart while I snooped on the other clients. Compared to Margaret's clientele, I'd say Lord Stow's has a greater proportion of tourists.

Coffee and egg tart. Nope, I didn't need the fork nor the knife for the egg tart.

Of course, by the time I sat down at the Garden Café, I had had two egg tarts. So I ordered another egg tart and some brewed coffee--for while I waited for the sandwich. I love their coffee. They brew a very strong and aromatic arabica bean, which they serve in a white ceramic pot with sugar and thimble of full cream milk on the side. While this is not the rich espresso or bica you'd get from an Italian- or Portuguese-style coffee shop, it was a fitting complement to the egg tart and one of the better cups of coffee I had in Macau.

The service was prompt and very friendly. Like the nice baker I met earlier, the host and the waiter were also Filipinos. They were very courteous not just to me, their fellow Filipino, but to the other clients there as well. My waiter was serving a couple of tourists at a nearby table who were having trouble understanding their map. Upon serving them their drinks, he helped them figure out the map and threw in a few landmarks to help them locate their destination. Should I ever join the Amazing Race, I hope I can count on such friendly help.

If one can have a perfectly decent egg tart in the middle of Macau at Margaret's, why would one bother to go to Coloane? I would say for Coloane itself. And the very friendly service.

Travel Gear: Coach Signature Nylon Weekender Overnight Tote

Months into 2014 and I'm with neither driver's license nor passport. (Sad but true. And a long story.) How dare I presume to call myself a traveler?

I had been cooped up, my effective radius not even 10 km for months, most of that time spent in the seediest, most wretched place in the metropolis.  Wonderful for my carbon footprint but a truly terrible idea.

But a wise woman told me that it's over now. Gotta shake out the bad juju, get my documents in order, and obey my wanderlust. She even threw in some travel gear, for good measure. (Did I tell you she was generous as well as wise?)

Lovely green color, a trifle livelier than my usual colors. Nice water repellant nylon to keep a few toiletries and prescriptions safe. Would fit nicely in my purse. 

Flip it over and curious, curious! What are those snappy looking things?

And what is that inside?

 A lovely weekend tote!

 The lining is there plus two other snappy things to which the purse snaps into place.

Approximately 21" x 11" x 7" with 10" drop handles



Disappointed at Lai Kei

It was the height of summer and everyone kept telling me to treat myself to some ice cream at Lai Kei Ice Cream. So I hopped on a bus and made my way to the ice cream parlor and did as advised.

And I did not get what the fuss was about.

Lai Kei Ice Cream Shoppe
12 Avenida Conselheiro Ferreira de Almeida

Pasalubong and Travel Swag

Pasalubong is the Filipino tradition of bringing home gifts from one's travels. They're not expected to be terrible fancy. Very often, food that you can share while you recap stories and show off your pictures and videos is enough. Little souvenir trinkets like key chains, refrigerator magnets, shot glasses, T-shirts, and tote bags are nice if you can afford it. As a child, I often got loose change, small bills, postcards, and postage stamps although I don't know too many young 'uns now interested in such. Besides, the last time I gave small change to a child, the mother freaked. At what age can you trust children not to swallow the damn things, anyway? 

Sometimes you don't even actually have to buy anything to give someone pasalubong. My Ate Susan had worked abroad as a domestic helper before she worked for my family and has her own collection of international tourist kitsch. While she cheerfully accepts the tote bags, key chains and nail clippers, she more often than not regifts them to her family in the province. Since she is a small pudgy woman, baby tees are the right length but the wrong width on her. Larger ones fit her round quite well but might as well be nightshirts for their length. When I try to give her something a little more expensive, she thinks her alaga is kawawa and should learn to save more of her small income. Apart from food, the only gifts she truly accepts with genuine gusto and no guilt are the airline amenity kits and the hotel toiletries and stationery. So I stash the stuff. On the flight in. Every day at the hotel so they'd refill. On the flight out. And when I present her with all the swag I've swiped, she squeals happily. She may even be persuaded to accept a small touristy tote to hold all her stash.

And she is not alone apparently. There is a market now for such items online like in eBay for example.

What can I say. The woman is ahead of her time.

Muthu's Curry: Meant for Sharing

After the hawker fare of Lau Pa Sat and dimsum at the various Crystal Jade branches in the previous days, I made my way to Little India. I gawked at the potbellied pantheon at Sri Veeramakaliamman Temple, shopped at Mustafa Center and then peeked at Naranjan to see how much I'd been fleeced for the electronics. After all that, it was a little past lunch hour and I knew I deserved a great meal.

Hat on my head, sunglasses covering my face and shopping bags hanging off my forearms, I made my way to Race Course Road to see where it all began. It being Fish Head Curry, a dish reputedly concocted in Singapore. Where being Muthu's Curry, a restaurant operated by the child of the genius who first made the dish.   

The most of the lunch crowd was already getting up and leaving, a good number of them local. Most were rubbing their bellies and happily clutching takeaway bags. Excellent signs. 

A kindly whippet-thin East Indian man introduced himself as my waiter, and helped me with my bags. He found me a table near the middle of the restaurant, away from the direct tropical sunshine and close enough to the airconditioner without risking a cold draft. I told him I came for the fish head curry. He proudly told me that yes, this place had made the first ever fish head curry and that people still came here for exactly that. He also warned me that people often found it very spicy which is why he recommended the mango lassi. 

Fish head curry, papadums, rice, and mango lassi.

Outside, it was hot and humid. Hell, it was Singapore. I asked for water hand if they could please fast track my mango lassi. A quick polite nod and a glass of very cold water with four ice cubes materialized followed two minutes later by my mango lassi, a shake of ripe mango, milk and yoghurt. So far, so perfect.

I was still enjoying my first glass of mango lassi when the waiter came bearing a big bowl of the curry, papadums, and rice. He explained that their food was meant for sharing and to be eaten by hand although he did bring me silverware, which I gladly accepted. He then laid a banana leaf in front of me and fixed my food on it like so: 

The fish head, rice topped with curry, and lots of okra. No one would be offended if you ask for  spoon and fork. 

(Like Filipinos, the Malays and East Indians of Singapore have a tradition of eating with their fingers. That said, they would not be offended if you asked for silverware, which would be the spoon and the fork. For this fish curry, trust me, you won't be needing a knife.) 

The curry broth was red and gold and very very fragrant. There was that curry heat which melts away to some ginger flavors before leaving a sweet herby finish. And the fish heads! The flesh, especially the cheeks, were perfect juicy morsels brightened up by the curry. In polite company, I would have been obligated to share the eyes which were absolutely fantastic. Pop one in your mouth to enjoy a tiny bead of curried gelatin which melts in your tongue to an almost sweet briny goo. Then do it again with the other eye. Advantage: the Solitary Traveler.

(An American-born friend finds my obvious enjoyment of fish heads disgusting. My rapture at eating eyes is incomprehensible. I'm just glad no one is watching while I spit the hard whites of the eyes into a napkin when I'm done.)

The papadums were crisp and toasted just right. I dipped some in the curry broth and they were sensational but I'm hopelessly devoted to rice. The rice and curry combination just cheered me up. Glorious!

I have an indifference-hate relationship with okra. In most dishes, I don't mind it. When it's slimy, I avoid it. Okra in curry is fine. There's little of the off-putting sliminess and seeds actually tasted green and very fresh and contrasted nicely with the curry itself. I suppose the heat also made my mouth numb to the okra's hairy flesh.

I got through about quarter or third of the delicious curry and was on half of my second lassi when I knew I'd had enough. Enough for now, anyway. I called my kind waiter and asked for the check. All that extra food he also took away and placed in a takeway bag while I sipped the last of my mango lassi. 

Before I left, the kindly waiter gave me another glass of water ("It's still very hot outside outside.") which I gratefully accepted. He even helped me carry by bags to the door.

At the hotel later that evening, I had a little bit more of the curry with a bottle of very cold Coca-cola. My kindly waiter thoughtfully included two pairs of spoons and forks and paper plates but I still had no one to share the curry with. The curry flavors now completely permeated the flesh of the fish. The papadums were no longer as crisp but were still quite good. I ate a good quantity but there was still a lot more of the curry.

 I was re-wrapping the curry when a lady on turn-down duty knocked. "Curry?" she smiled, when I let her in.

"Fish," I nodded as I placed them back inside the bag. "From Muthu's at Little India. There's still one or two more portions, I think." I offered her the bag

She gave me another bright smile and accepted the food. I'd like to think she had it for dinner and maybe shared it with a co-worker or her family. Like my kindly waiter said, the food was meant to be shared.