Buying street food might feel like a leap of faith—I draw the line at raw fish—but vendors take their role seriously and after all, you have no idea how clean restaurant kitchens are.
Have you ever seen choclo, aka Peruvian corn? A kernel is the size of a garlic clove.
On Santa Catarina Island, I resumed favourite activity #52—walking from one end of the beach…
What I like is street food, stuff everyone eats, popular local delicacies. Cheap, easy, tasty.
Pelotas’s got a sweet tooth. The city is famous for the doces de Pelotas, dozens of different bite-size pastries.
I’m now in the land of facturas, European-inspired baked sweets.
Christmas always gets a foot in the door through popular Advent Calendars popping up in aisles before Halloween, as if every single Canadian household had to stock up for an emergency holiday kit.
The French in me is sneering and scoffing at this very North American sense of moderation and proportion while the Canadian in me find the marketing solutions offered awfully practical.
Feng shrugs as if he is privy to top-secret information, like the People’s Republic of China plan to invade Canada using the MERBALP method—Massive Exports of Red Beans and Lotus Paste.
A few years ago, I read a post from an American expat who explained how much she missed pumpkins.
“Pumpkins?” I thought. “Okay… Huh, why?”
I swear that when I was a kid, there weren’t twenty kinds of galettes bretonnes in supermarkets and that blood sausage wasn’t an exciting thing to share around the BBQ.
Once upon a time, before large supermarket chains took over most of the developed world, shopping at local markets was a standard feature of daily life. Nowadays, most French fill their shopping cart at Carrefour.
The queue at each food truck was as impressive as the skills displayed to eat poutine standing up without staining ties and skirts.
Thanks to big food corporations and the Ontario education system, we are at this pathetic stage: “can you at least eat the Goldfish crackers? Pizza taste? Cheddar taste?”
In an ideal world, I’d eat Brazilian food on an Argentinian schedule.
It’s only when we actually arrived in the capital city that I started to remember how food “worked” in Uruguay.
North America has the famous “PB&J” sandwich, Argentina goes by the initials “J-y-Q”— jamón y queso, ham and cheese.
“Do you have any allergies? Do you follow a special diet?” I asked right away as we all do in North America. On full Canadian mode, I had forgotten a small detail. French don’t have food allergies or special diet—they have fucking principles.
At four, I considered Mark was old enough to help me mangle a North American classic: cupcakes. The challenge? Two persons, one kitchen, yummy ingredients but abysmal baking skills.
Thanksgiving is not hugely commercial. Sure, supermarket aisles feature all the fixings you need for your Thanksgiving dinner, but you’re not expected to decorate your front lawn with fake glow-in-the-dark turkeys.
Lunar worshipers, grab a bite of mooncake, chew it, then repeat after me: “中秋节快乐!”
Sometimes, I wonder if, eventually, I would have developed a taste for wine and alcohol if I had stayed in France.
When I was a kid, eating French fries—commonly known as the adjective-free noun “frites”—was a special treat.
In Saint-Michel, the holy trinity of food is the Super U—the medium-size supermarket is open…