"Hey, do you have any tips on how to eat and drink in Boston?"
Luckly, everybody we asked had at least a couple. Many coincided, many others didn't. Again, as in Portland, we had less than three days and a limited amount of meals.
I wanted brunch. That was my first point on the list. I got a few recommendations for a place in Sommerville (where our host lives) that revealed pretty good indeed. The won various awards as best pancakes in Boston. But we ended up going just for breakfast on Monday mornign. Of course, I tried their triple-berry pancakes --huge and fluffy as they should be. Plus a huge bowl of fresh fruit on the side and coffee free refill. "Really?", I said. Yes, really. I always sound so naive when it comes eating out in the US. I'm always so surprised by everything, so embarrassed at times, so shy when it comes ordering from a menu, or asking for something, or remebering to tip.
Brunch, we said. Sunday morning, late morning, to be honest. We woke up in a state of body heat and clumsiness. The night before had been happily filled with local microbreweries' excellence and multicultural conversation around food. Of course. Of course good beer, of course food talk, of course multicultural. That's what I love, that's what is exiting about what I studied, what I am doing and will hopefully do after this crazy, inspiring and lucky year of eating, drinking and traveling. The morning after these moments of pure joy are always a bit tough, but c'est la vie --c'est ma vie, thanks God!
Coffee, water. "Where shall we go for brunch?", I asked, interrupting J.'s daydreaming. "Dunnooo...Wherever, it doesn't matter to me" was likely to be the diplomatic answer. He is so diplomatic. The night before, I grabbed the name of a place that our host Fausto's girlfriend mentioned as being the best place in Boston for Sunday brunch at affordable prices. Sure enough, it is pretty popular and the wait line is always quite long, she said. But we HAD to go. The only thing I could remember was it started with a P. after a few research on google, we found it. Paramount. OK, we are going. My first brunch ever was happening in a couple hours. I was exited --and hungry.
The Paramount is in the middle of fancy and elegant Charles Street in Beacon Hill. Walking through antique and vintage clothes shops, glancing at the red brick houses in the crossing alleys, we arrived to destination and started to queue without saying a word --everything was exactly as we expected. We read the menu placed outside the door to torture and tempt customers and we started to compose the ideal meal in our mind. Omelet or sandwich? Or maybe a french toast? No, my first brunch had to have eggs. And not being a fan of mixing sweet and salty --my Italian origin prevent me from fully enjoying a feast of pancakes and breakfast burritos at the same time-- I gave up the "why not both?" option. No, omelet it is. With spinach, feta and basil, sided by cubic, soft and golden home made potatoes. Plates fluctuating in the air to avoid heads gave us a visual demonstration of what to expect. It was comforting --all looked so good. It was hard --I rethought my options multiple times by the time I ordered. In the end, I got back to my first instinct. It's always the best.
We ordered. In two minutes, we received our food on the trays, we moved on, paid and sat down. No table service here. You wait, you order at the counter, see your food being cooked, get it, and then sit and eat it. They say it works for that tiny little place always packed with people. You don't wait for a table, you wait for food, and by the time you get it, there is surely be an empty table for you to eat it fresh and steamy.
I looked around and saw a perfect family with beautiful parents and consequently beautiful children, all casually dressed but with details revealing their wealth, sharing a plate of pancakes and confidentially staling bits and bites from each others' plates. I saw a couple of Italian-American friends chatting in front of a huge waffle buried under a mountain of fresh fruit. I faced my omelet, contemplating it for a second, than attacking it with enthusiasm. I felt foreign and local at the same time. That place, with its mix and match of people from different backgrounds, different social levels, different cultures, was giving food to everybody, making their Sunday morning a bit special every week.
Everybody waits, on Sunday morning at Paramount, all eat the same good food at fair prices, everybody enjoys it. I love places where you get a sense of food as a shared experience. My first brunch was a shared experience. Here, for the first time out of Vermont and in this trip in the US, I felt the conviviality of home meals.
Luckly, everybody we asked had at least a couple. Many coincided, many others didn't. Again, as in Portland, we had less than three days and a limited amount of meals.
I wanted brunch. That was my first point on the list. I got a few recommendations for a place in Sommerville (where our host lives) that revealed pretty good indeed. The won various awards as best pancakes in Boston. But we ended up going just for breakfast on Monday mornign. Of course, I tried their triple-berry pancakes --huge and fluffy as they should be. Plus a huge bowl of fresh fruit on the side and coffee free refill. "Really?", I said. Yes, really. I always sound so naive when it comes eating out in the US. I'm always so surprised by everything, so embarrassed at times, so shy when it comes ordering from a menu, or asking for something, or remebering to tip.
Brunch, we said. Sunday morning, late morning, to be honest. We woke up in a state of body heat and clumsiness. The night before had been happily filled with local microbreweries' excellence and multicultural conversation around food. Of course. Of course good beer, of course food talk, of course multicultural. That's what I love, that's what is exiting about what I studied, what I am doing and will hopefully do after this crazy, inspiring and lucky year of eating, drinking and traveling. The morning after these moments of pure joy are always a bit tough, but c'est la vie --c'est ma vie, thanks God!
Coffee, water. "Where shall we go for brunch?", I asked, interrupting J.'s daydreaming. "Dunnooo...Wherever, it doesn't matter to me" was likely to be the diplomatic answer. He is so diplomatic. The night before, I grabbed the name of a place that our host Fausto's girlfriend mentioned as being the best place in Boston for Sunday brunch at affordable prices. Sure enough, it is pretty popular and the wait line is always quite long, she said. But we HAD to go. The only thing I could remember was it started with a P. after a few research on google, we found it. Paramount. OK, we are going. My first brunch ever was happening in a couple hours. I was exited --and hungry.
The Paramount is in the middle of fancy and elegant Charles Street in Beacon Hill. Walking through antique and vintage clothes shops, glancing at the red brick houses in the crossing alleys, we arrived to destination and started to queue without saying a word --everything was exactly as we expected. We read the menu placed outside the door to torture and tempt customers and we started to compose the ideal meal in our mind. Omelet or sandwich? Or maybe a french toast? No, my first brunch had to have eggs. And not being a fan of mixing sweet and salty --my Italian origin prevent me from fully enjoying a feast of pancakes and breakfast burritos at the same time-- I gave up the "why not both?" option. No, omelet it is. With spinach, feta and basil, sided by cubic, soft and golden home made potatoes. Plates fluctuating in the air to avoid heads gave us a visual demonstration of what to expect. It was comforting --all looked so good. It was hard --I rethought my options multiple times by the time I ordered. In the end, I got back to my first instinct. It's always the best.
We ordered. In two minutes, we received our food on the trays, we moved on, paid and sat down. No table service here. You wait, you order at the counter, see your food being cooked, get it, and then sit and eat it. They say it works for that tiny little place always packed with people. You don't wait for a table, you wait for food, and by the time you get it, there is surely be an empty table for you to eat it fresh and steamy.
I looked around and saw a perfect family with beautiful parents and consequently beautiful children, all casually dressed but with details revealing their wealth, sharing a plate of pancakes and confidentially staling bits and bites from each others' plates. I saw a couple of Italian-American friends chatting in front of a huge waffle buried under a mountain of fresh fruit. I faced my omelet, contemplating it for a second, than attacking it with enthusiasm. I felt foreign and local at the same time. That place, with its mix and match of people from different backgrounds, different social levels, different cultures, was giving food to everybody, making their Sunday morning a bit special every week.
Everybody waits, on Sunday morning at Paramount, all eat the same good food at fair prices, everybody enjoys it. I love places where you get a sense of food as a shared experience. My first brunch was a shared experience. Here, for the first time out of Vermont and in this trip in the US, I felt the conviviality of home meals.
We walked around all day in that beautiful neighborhood, enjoying shops, buildings, blooming magnolias and the park. Spring is coming.
