Eating in Ponce

The day after we arrived in Puerto Rico, we drove across the mountains to Ponce, on the south coast of the island, to stay at the Hilton. I had a sudden moment of concern that we were contributing to Paris's inheritance. But then The Boy reminded me that, because his cousin worked at the hotel, we were getting a fabulously reduced rate ($50 a night plus 50% off food), so really we were ripping her off. I felt so much better.

The food was largely excellent--a massive breakfast buffet of fresh fruit juices, hambaconsausage, omelettes to order, pastries, etc etc etc. I was delighted to find Swiss muesli, which is generally overpriced in supermarkets, so despite some noises of surprise (no corned beef hash? No homefries?), I had a huge bowl of the stuff, with fresh papaya and pineapple. Luxureh!

The dinner buffet was equally varied and fab, and included whole fried red snapper, lechon (por supuesto), churrasco with chimichurri, salt-cod stew with cornmeal topping, arroz mamposteao, oxtail stew, plus all manner of salad fixins (including white asparagus, anchovies, hearts of palm, artichokes), plus a mountain of desserts (flan, tembleque, arroz dulce, even Stollen).

But the good food wasn't limited to corporate catering. We visited The Boy's aunt Rosin, who'd made grilled tenderloin stuffed with ham and roasted red pepper (and rice and beans and salad and so on). And we went to call on The Boy's mom's cousins, who were having a birthday party for another relative--a funny, lively guy who had just turned 83--and had some incredible fried pork topped with a warm salsa of avocado, bacon, shallots and tomato.

Maybe it's just that the combination of flavors is different, or maybe it's because everything tastes better when it's fried, as pretty much everything is in Puerto Rico--but I can honestly say I've never had a meal I didn't like. If I stayed longer than ten days, I'd become a blimp.

Things we need from the SkyMall catalog

My list:

The Marshmallow Shooter
The Penguin Teaboy
The 12-bottle Traveling Wine Trolley

The Boy's list:

The Remote-Control Shark (though, as he points out, it doesn't have frickin' lasers strapped to its frickin' head)
The GorillaPod
CubeWorld

This, of course, is what happens when you're stuck on a plane for three hours and the in-flight movie is The DaVinci Code ...

Happy warm Christmas!

This may be my last post of the year. Or not, depending on whether we can figure out how to use our cellphones as modems.

We'll be in Puerto Rico from Thursday through December 30. There are few better places to spend Christmas (okay, Billingham, but I'm biased). Both The Boy and I talk about how blessed we both are in-law-wise, and it's really a pleasure to be in either place (though of course Bee-ham has neither palm trees nor lechon).

One thing I'm looking forward to visiting in PR is the new $40 million, 15-floor evangelistic Museum of Bible History. (The site is all in Spanish except, for some reason, the floor-by-floor breakdown; notice that the Kingdom of God is below the Admin offices.) I hope they have a gift shop!

Meanwhile, check out our Flickr gallery ... and have a great Christmas!!

My first act as a US citizen

Was to pee. Actually, not true; my first act was to call No.9 Park, where we had a lunch reservation (originally for 1pm, rescheduled for 2), to ask if we could possibly arrive a little later, as it was 1:50 and we were just leaving Lowell.

We made good time back to the city, and The Boy once again dropped me off so he could park the car while I made sure we still had a table, as they stopped serving lunch at 2:30.

No.9 Park is known as one of Boston's best. The Boy had been once before, for a business dinner, but somehow we hadn't managed to get there together. Citizenship Day seemed like a great excuse.

While I was waiting for him to arrive, I ordered a half-bottle of Bollinger and a dozen oysters. Hey, it's not every day one assumes a new nationality.

The Boy made it to the table at the same time as the champagne. The oysters had just arrived that morning, fresh and tender, and came with a raw garlic salsa that provided a bright contrast. And then The Boy had house-made pappardelle with a creamy bolognese and a glass of Bordeaux, and I had bacon-wrapped monkfish and a Pinot Noir.

Dessert was a slice of Fleur de Marie cake, dense and eggy, with a ras-el-hanout ice-cream. We use the ras a lot at home; it's a blend of cardamom, allspice, cloves, turmeric and cinnamon, among other things. It goes well with lamb, especially done on the grill, so we were curious to see how it would work as dessert.

It was fabulous. Haagen-Dazs should start making it. I volunteer myself as tester.

Becoming American involves a lot of waiting

Waiting through the application process for the interview. Waiting for the interview. Waiting for the letter to find out when and where the ceremony would be.

And then, on the day, guess what? More waiting.

The letter had said to be at Lowell Memorial Auditorium at 9:30 am sharp. My previous dealings with the INS had trained me to believe that this was not open to interpretation; generally, when dealing with this particular branch of US bureaucracy, if you snooze, you lose. So I was determined to be there in plenty of time.

The problem was that the other 934 soon-to-be citizens (exact number, not a guess), who all apparently got the same letter, were also reacting to this conditioned punctuality. So there we all were, along with our assorted friends and relatives, crowded around the entrance, trying to get inside the building as the clock struck half-nine, feeling more than a little sure that at some point the doors would close and we'd lose our place.

Standing on the granite steps of this neo-classical building, listening to the variety of languages and accents around me--and wondering whether the government officials would allow me a place inside--I had a brief but potent glimpse of what it must have been like to arrive at Ellis Island. And it had been a while since breakfast, so I was tired and hungry ...

After about 20 minutes, the officials finally figured out an efficient method for getting everyone into the building. It was still slow, but at least the crowd around the door started to move.

Inside, the officials checked my papers and handed me an envelope, a cheap tin US flag lapel pin (the same kind you get when you visit a museum) and a small wavable flag (though it looked as though excessively enthusiastic patriotism would break it in half). I followed the line of people into the auditorium and took the nearest available seat.

And then I waited. And waited. A medley of Christmas tunes played over the PA (everything from The Waitresses' "Christmas Wrapping" to Barry Manilow's "It's Just Another New Year's Eve"). A man walked onto the stage every half-hour or so to remind us we would soon be eligible to petition for other relatives to come over, and to give the 800 number for passport appointments.

Time passed.



Meanwhile, what of The Boy? Well, after dropping me off outside the auditorium (which, of course, didn't have parking), he drove round and round looking for somewhere to leave the car. He was competing with every other driver heading to the same event, so it took a while. An hour, in fact. I just happened to glance up at the gallery (where guests of the relatives were sitting) and saw him arrive at 10:30.

A side note: while the INS made sure to let people know they shouldn't be practicing polygamy or prostitution before the ceremony, they gave out precious little details about the event itself. The flyer with driving directions said "Parking information appears below," but it didn't. There was no indication of how long the ceremony would take, or what was involved, or whether we might want to bring along a snack.

(I was envious of the German guy sitting two rows ahead, who obviously had inside information: he not only brought a drink and a muffin, but also his laptop, so he was quite happy for the three hours we waited.)

Yep, three hours. Finally, just before noon, the Lowell High School a capella group climbed onto the stage in red sparkly dresses and treated us to an unenthusiastic rendition of "Make Me an Instrument of Peace." At the end, they stood on stage, fidgeting, for another ten minutes before departing. (The Boy texted me, "Is this a Corky St. Clair production?")

Next, a bevy of officials wandered up the theater's center aisle and took the stage, followed by the Lowell HS ROTC kids presenting the colors, as well as the flags of the 104 nations represented.

More music: a quasi-gospel butchering of "The Star-Spangled Banner" (star-strangled, more like) that had the Turkish guy next to me stifling his laughter.

"That was the worst version I've ever heard," he whispered as we applauded.

"Obviously you don't get to many baseball games," I said.

And then, finally, the important stuff. The presiding judge (for this was a court proceeding) started reading aloud alphabetically the countries from which the present immigrants had come, and asked people to stand as their country was called. We were everything from Afghanistan to Zambia, including Cambodia, Haiti, Iraq, Nepal, Peru, Sudan. The United Kingdom was, of course, one of the last to be listed, so I got to sit and watch as the people around me, one by one, rose and took their place alongside their fellow almost-citizens.

Then we were told to raise our right hands and repeat:

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

And with that, we became citizens.

Then followed a half-hour of speechifying by the presiding judge, the mayor of Lowell and Congressman Maahty Meehan (doing his most hopeful Kennedy accent). It was largely cookie-cutter "immigrants built this country and are still a vital part of the economy" stuff, and most of my new fellow Americans were shifting in their seats by the end (in fairness, we probably all needed to pee real bad. I know I did.)

Then the a capella group shared "America the Beautiful" and "God Bless America" with us, bless them, and the flags and VIPs trooped out again.

And then we waited a little longer ... longer ... just a bit longer ... and finally we were directed to line up outside and get the certificates that proved our new status.

Worth the wait? Absolutely.

My (for real this time) fellow Americans!

My last day as a 100% English chickie

When I was preparing for my naturalization interview, I was under the impression you could choose to be sworn in right after correctly naming the number of stars on the flag. I'd decided that, given the option, I'd rather wait for the ceremony. It would feel more official, more exciting, more ... ceremonial. (As it turns out, you don't get a choice.)

And maybe it's just that I've had a long, long day at work, and we still haven't finished our Christmas shopping (haven't even written cards yet), so I haven't really had time to contemplate the enormity of this event. But somehow I just ... don't ... feel ... very excited.

I'm sure I'll feel different tomorrow as the glamorous skyline of Lowell appears on the horizon.

When I turn up for the ceremony, I have to bring a short questionnaire, which (it categorically states) must be filled out on the day of the interview. An excerpt:

After the date of your interview, have you:

Been married, widowed, or divorced?

Traveled outside the United States?

Joined any organization, including the Communist Party?

Practiced polygamy; received income from illegal gambling; become a Prostitute (their cap, not mine); procured anyone for prostitution or been involved in any other Commercialized (their cap) vice; or been a habitual drunkard?

Give me a break. I only had my interview two weeks ago. I'm just not that efficient.

Art gives me a hangover

Last night we went to the member preview party for the new Institute for Contemporary Art--the first art museum to be built in Boston in almost 100 years. The building is very cool, sitting on the water overlooking Boston harbor, with much of the upper floors cantilevered out in a rather gravity-defying manner, and feels open, airy, with a great energy.

And the very first thing you see when you walk in Chiho Aoshima's enormous mural of a young girl farting, the cloud of gas creating people who fall into an Eden of birds and deer and crocodiles. The Boy said, "If Gorillaz and Yes made an album together, this is what the cover would look like."

Modern art. Isn't it awesome?

There was a great mix of audio-visual work, installation, sulpture, painting and photography, though perhaps most notable was how much was digitally created/enhanced. One video piece featured photos of chairs people had put up for sale on eBay--it was nicely cut together to a funky score, but still. Another work, a Jeff Koons collage, was the result of time spent in PhotoShop; it was dynamic and active, but it still left me wondering how much of being an artist today meant knowing one's way around the Adobe suite.

Not to say there weren't some stunning works. I especially loved Josiah McElheny's Czech Modernism Mirrored and Reflected Infinitely: eight highly reflective decanters housed inside a mirrored box, the side facing the viewer being mirrored on the inside. The result is that the objects in the box have a repeated reflection that trails off into infinity--as the description next to the piece points out, it's "like the top shelf on the bar at the end of time."

Speaking of bar ... after we'd finished exploring the galleries and the building, we took the Great Glass Elevator down to the theater level, where there was music and Coppola wine and lorryloads of interesting cheeses. The DJ was seriously mixing it up, going from trance to Brazilian to Lisa Stansfield to ... the theme song from All in the Family. The Archie/Edith version. The expressions on the faces of the glitzed-up friends of the arts were priceless.

So we people-watched (the crowd was a fabulous mix of elderly bohemians, middle-aged Brahmins, beautiful hip couples like us, har har, and a fat guy dressed like some kind of bug-alien) and got the most from our complimentary drinks vouchers, and then we started chatting to a couple of guys, a photographer and a composer, who were standing nearby. And then they went and got us more drinks.

And one of them was trying to pick up a (very cute) girl ... and then her friends showed up, so we hung out with them ... and there were more drinks ... and then this artist guy dragged The Boy away to look at the galleries some more, leaving me to make conversation with a car salesman so he'd stop getting in the way of our new photographer friend's attempts to win over the cutie ...

And then it was midnight and the lights came up. We'd closed out yet another party. As our new little group of buddies was heading out, someone (not me, I swear) said, "Hey, let's go to the Enormous Room!"

It seemed like a good idea at the time. This morning ... not so much.

Somerville moves closer to Barcelona

For many foodies, Mecca is located on a mountain about two hours' north of Barcelona. Ferran Adria's restaurant El Bulli is famous as much for the difficulty of scoring a reservation (due to size, not snobbery; they're already booked up for 2007) as for the food. Here's a detailed account of one meal, which illustrates why it's so revered. And here's some background, courtesy of CNN.

The CNN report notes that Chef Adria's "ground-breaking techniques have inspired other chefs throughout the world to experiment." But who would have though such creativity would make it to Somerville?

On Wednesday night, in celebration of my completing the penultimate level of the Citizenship Game, we went to dinner at Gargoyles. (The Boy wanted to take me to Redbones, because you can't get more American than a big ol' plate of pulled pork with vinegar sauce, but I wanted to go somewhere with champagne, not somewhere where the lemonade is served in Mason jars.)

Gargolyes changes the menu seasonally, so we weren't surprised to find that the dishes were not the same as on our last visit. What we didn't expect was how drastically different the options were.

I can't remember the last time I saw so many ingredients I couldn't identify. Kalamansi gel? Bottarga? Escolar? (Umm, maybe I'll stay away from that last one.) And the combinations seemed to have been thought up by a six-year-old mad scientist: foie gras with raspberry streusel, smoked Dr. Pepper, and whipped malted milk. Crayfish bisque with ketchup and maple soda. Paprika suds. Dehydrated clam chowder.

So we started with champagne, or at least a nice hazelnutty prosecco. And then The Boy eased himself in with a green salad with blue cheese and a pumpkin waffle crouton, while I dove headfirst into a lamb cappuccino. You read that right. It came in a cappuccino cup and was topped with a creamy herbed foam (salsify, apparently) dusted with fine powder (fennel, apparently), underneath which were chunks of sweet, fatty lamb in a broth that somehow tasted of both meat and butterscotch. I can't explain it. Just trust me.

And then The Boy went for the hoisin- and honey-glazed duck confit, which came on banana leaves with sweet sticky rice, mango and coconut milk, and I opted for the "Terducken," which earned quote-marks for being a deconstructed take on the bird-in-a-bird-in-a-bird dish. This version was chicken breast and duck, roasted with a spicy turkey sausage, served with the obvious accompaniments of trumpet mushrooms, sunchokes and chocolate gnocchi. Amzingly, it worked; the gnocchi had a softness and darkness that made them seem like foie gras or some kind of truffle (the foraged kind, not the candied kind).

Usually we don't do dessert when we eat out, in large part because I get just ... tooo ... full ...but the creativity extended to the sweet section of the menu. And we couldn't resist the chocolate offering, which included a brandy snifter of dark hot chocolate; a small, velvety pudding; and something called "oil and soil," which turned out to be crumbled cookie and chocolate powder alongside a drizzle of dark sauce, the two textures working as complement and contrast.

It may be a while until we get a reservation at El Bulli. But in the meantime, we can walk ten minutes down the street and explore a brave Somervillian attempt at creating something similar.