Sure, we love the museums, the sense of history, the people (yes, I really do). The boys love the trains. But we also just really love all the chocolate. It’s available at every meal, whether melted into milk for chocolat chaud, baked into pastry for pain au chocolat, or tossed by the handful into cereals. (Special K with chocolate probably deserves a post of its own, except I just couldn’t bring myself to buy the stuff). Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack, there’s always some chocolate nearby, and only a real crank would complain about that.
Kauai is supremely different from Northern California: climate, pace, vegetation, wildlife (yes, there was dinner among the geckos, and the frogs).
And I realized this year, that one of the most valuable things about our time here is the cultural difference. It’s not simply that we all slow down and spend lots of time together, and it’s not just that the kids get to spend all day at the beach doing fun kid things in the water and sand. But what was completely revelatory for all of us was that they could see–and explore–a whole new ecosystem, right in front of them, at their own level. Both kids snorkled and saw countless tropical fish. Ella learned to recognize and pronounce the state fish, humuhumunukunukuapuaa, and both went well beyond the standard, “It’s Dory!” or “It’s Gil” response to every tang and Moorish Idol they saw. Sea turtles swam right up to the beach:
Monk seals lounged in the sun for hours:
The lifeguards shared their lychees:
Which brings me to the point that the food we eat here is very different from the food we eat at home. Many of the hallmarks of our family food culture are the same: family meals, local produce, lots of fun experimenting with food. But the ingredients are really different, so while the trappings of meals are the same, and very familiar, the food is just simply really different. So it’s always a bit of an adventure–or, dare I say, a food vacation–when we sit down for a meal. And whatever we ate told us as much about where we were as the turtles and monk seals and humuhumunukunukuapu’aa did.
For instance, we took a short trip to the National Tropical Botanical Gardens, and had a nice time poking around the small working garden, where the kids drooled over the abundance of the mango tree, a new favorite thing (but, sadly, the pictures were lost). Then, we found the star fruit tree, which was also heavy with fruit, and more fruit lying on the ground.
As we were admiring it, one of the gardeners offered us a piece, “This is a sweet one,” he said, and when I held it up to smell, I inhaled a sweet, subtle, almost honey-like perfume. We took it home, and even though the kids thought it was still mostly alien, I sliced it after nap for snack. It was beautiful, crisp and sweet. Different, but oh, so welcome and refreshing.
posted by Caroline The first time we’d tried to visit the Eiffel Tower, we traveled via the batobus, which offers a scenic ride down the Seine.
Too scenic, as it turned out.
We arrived at 7pm and faced lines that snaked from the entrance back and forth all the way across the plaza. We were without sufficient food or line distractions to survive the wait, so we risked – and faced – the boys’ loud and bitter disappointment by turning back and regrouping.
The next day was stormy and windy and Eli didn’t nap. We debated: on the one hand, the weather might be keeping the crowds down; maybe a tired boy would be a docile and patient line stander…. But probably not, on both counts. We stayed home and cooked dinner.
Finally, we planned our ascent of the Eiffel Tower like mountaineers plan for Everest. In this case, Tony and I were the Tibetan sherpas, and the boys were Sandy Hill Pittman, who show up and have every desire met, needing only to put their bodies where they’re told and not use up too much oxygen. I was grateful they didn’t want cappuccino (although come to think of it, at the base of the Eiffel Tower, that would have been easy to provide).
We’d been advised that the lines are shorter in the late afternoon, so we waited until after Eli’s nap, hoping that the boys would be well-rested, the lines a little easier, and that we’d get up to the top and out before it was way too late for dinner (or even bed). We brought Eli’s view master and discs, Ben’s journal, 2 cameras (since Ben’s a big photographer now), and windbreakers in case it was cold at the top. More importantly, I spent Eli’s naptime packing up food:
carrot sticks, water bottles, baby bell cheeses, 2 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, 2 nutella sandwiches (never underestimate the motivating power of chocolate), 2 Z bars, and a ziploc bag of almonds and raisins. We set off at 4, arriving at the base at 5pm. Tony grabbed a bench with the boys while I staked out our place on line.
We didn’t make it out without any tears (from Eli, when I started walking down a flight of stairs holding his hand rather than letting him hold the banister):
But, we made it up, we made it down, and we made it back home, our backpacks empty, four and a half hours later.
At the covered market, fresh farm eggs are 3 euros for the dozen, a fraction of what I pay for them here (and I can’t get them at a market within walking distance). Flaky croissants, baked fresh several times a day, are less than 2 euros. I can choose from raspberries, strawberries, melon, blueberries, gooseberries, and currants — all dewy and fresh and gorgeous.
At the Monoprix market, a chain that’s an amazing kind of cross between Safeway, Ross and Walgreens — but with decent prepared food — a 300g box of cereal is nearly 6 euros.
It’s clear to me how we should be eating here, but the boys want cereal, so that’s what I buy:
I first saw the shrimp truck on a market outing last year. It was one of those large white trucks, not unlike an old mild truck, that I saw in my rear view mirror as I drove away from it. “Garlic Shrimp” the yellow sign proclaimed, and I could smell it. But I couldn’t turn around that day, and the next day I couldn’t find it. Then it was the weekend, and day trips to the north shore, and I just never got to what I was sure would be a great new food. We had not, after all, yet disproven my husband’s theory about food-served-from-trucks in Kauai.
Somehow, I knew in my gluttonous, gastronomic soul that I would find that truck again. And I did. This year, it had moved from its spot and was parked alternately in front of Prince Kuhio Park or in the Botanical Gardens, which I’ll write more about soon. I’m particular here about locating the truck because later, the owner was to tell me that the move, which was prompted by the unprecedented development on Kauai’s south shore, made her old spot impossible to manage. (Yes, apparently the development hurts even mobile local businesses.) And some of her old customers had not yet found their way back to her.
The business is owned by Susan, and from this most unlikely venue, she serves some of the best shrimp I’ve ever had.
What is savage shrimp, you might rightly ask. On the one hand, it’s basically a kind of scampi. A really, really good scampi, with impossible amounts of garlic in the marinade sauce, in which the shrimp steeps for 24 hours. It’s served with a combination of white and brown rice and a raw, cool slaw. On the other hand, what Susan, who’s owned 2 restaurants on Oahu before this truck, adds to this marinade catapults it into another realm entirely. The ingredients are listed on the sauce bottle, which she sells (lucky me!), but you’ll have to go there to find out for yourself. They are many and fresh, mostly local, and pretty impressive. It’s not that simple.
Susan takes the order, cooks and serves it herself out of the back of the truck.
She is really lovely, and I was there at a slow time, so we talked.
About the name, for instance.
Back in September 2001, Susan was set to open, with the truck, the recipe, the business plan. Then it was September 11th and her name–Killer Shrimp–was not going to work. In her daze of grief afterward, the lines now painted on her truck (look at the larger photo) kept coming to her. And a tatoo artist had designed for her the shrimp with wings and a halo, which struck her as perfect. She asked herself (as so many of us did), what can I do? What can I do? What can I do? She told herself, well, I can cook. I’m a cook. I’m not a chef, she told me. And then “Savage” Shrimp came to her, which was to be shrimp so savage it was actually civilized.
And there truly is something savage about its aggressive flavor, the raw crunch of the garlicky shells (which you really should try to learn to eat), the bath of butter and oil that infuses shrimp and rice together. You can sit on the road, on the wall next to the truck, or you can truck your plate back to the grass by the beach. Either way, nothing beats it. It may be savage, but for my money that would be $10) it’s one of the highpoints of Kauai civilization. Even Ella agreed.
I love the shrimp, but I also sort of love Susan, whom I hardly know, because she knows, like my late but very beloved chef-friend, Barton Rouse, that food is love. She feeds people and she talks to them about her politics and her faith and what food has to do with both of those things.
