Thanksgiving at Rialto (again)

Last year we had Thanksgiving at Rialto and it was fabulous: a cozy corner table, flawless service, excellent food.

So this year we decided to go back.

Okay, let's get the bad stuff out of the way first.

I know I should be thankful that there are enough financially sound people to fill a restaurant at Thanksgiving. And I know this is a time to get together with family.

But still, there we were, sharing space with a party of three, yelling at each other despite sitting next to each other; and a party of nine (four of whom were bouncingly under 6 years old). Yay.

(If you've been following for a while, you know I have issues with people who don't use their indoor voice in a restaurant.)

Similarly, I know I should understand when the lunch rush means things get a little backed up. But still, somehow we were overlooked, and our server didn't notice we had no first course until everyone else was finishing their second. Our second course arrived before the first; our third arrived before the second.

But enough complaints, on to the good stuff!

First course: a rich, creamy roast-chestnut soup with a garnish of diced pear, parmesan and celery.

Next, I had tiny taleggio and fig tarts, cheese and fruit and pastry dancing together perfectly.



The Boy went with bite-sized pumpkin and sage ravioli, served with scallops:



And then instead of going for the turkey dinner, he had duck two ways on a bed of lentils (that sounds a bit rude, doesn't it? Tasted rather juicy, too ).



I stuck to tradition.



The meat was tender and moist; the mashed potatoes were creamy velvet; the stuffing was a thick slice of bread pudding.

Best, though, were green beans finished with shallots, and a light, citrusy cranberry chutney.



And then dessert, which came with the unexpected accompaniment of comped Moscato D'Asti. We assumed that was to make up for the upside-down service (though it was never explained).

My dessert was a lovely apple and quince tart, with generous chunks of fruit, topped with maple-cinnamon ice cream.



The Boy was the clear dessert winner, though; his honey-ricotta cheesecake was a light, fluffy, gently perfumed cloud.



So while Thanksgiving at Rialto was a slight disappointment this year (mostly because we were rather unrealistically expecting a re-run of last year), it was still a fantastic meal.

Still, we've decided that we'll spend next Turkey Day at home. That way, we also get leftovers.

Aruba Ostrich Farm: everyone gets fed!

Pop quiz, hotshot: you have a rental car, a small island and five hours of free time. What do you do?

Answer: eat ostrich.

Okay, it was more like "drive around with a map listing the island's major highways (1 through 7) but not the dirt roads, try to find the donkey sanctuary, give up, go to the ostrich farm."

Before we ate, we visited our victims.

Actually, the boids on this farm are for show (and for edumacational purposes); the meat comes from the owner's other farm on Curaçao. So we we able to look these guys in the eye, guilt-free.



And we learned that:

• Ostriches can grow to be nine feet tall and (in captivity) live to be 80 years old!



• They only have two toes!



• If you clap your hands at a female ostrich, it drops to the floor and you can climb on its back!

Only after she'd invited me to mount the bird did our guide explain that the female had assumed the position. And there I was, crawling all over her. Bow-chika-bow-wow!

Then she handed The Boy a bowl of food and made him stand next to a corral of hungry one-year-olds. ('Scuse the sound; that's the gentle breeze whipping across the condenser mic.)




And then it was our turn to feast.

First up, ostrich carpaccio, smoky and tender, with a drizzle of bright pesto as a foil.



And then The Boy had bird burger and I had bangers and mash, ostrich-style (see, there they are! The omnipresent veggies!).



Why isn't ostrich more prevalent? We occasionally find steaks at WholeFoods, but otherwise it doesn't get much play. It's a great alternative to beef; it's lean and cholesterol-free. Manly, but healthy. Renaissance meat.

The rundown on Aruban food

We were really excited about our Aruba vacation and looking forward to checking out the food, beaches, and culture.

The big discovery of the trip was that Aruba is not a foodie destination. It's great if you want filet mignon, lobster or shrimp--or all three at once--as they appear on pretty much every menu, regardless of whether the cuisine claims to be Italian or French or Aruban.

The default cheese is Gouda. Want a cheeseburger? It comes with Gouda. A grilled cheese sandwich? Gouda (and also, possibly, pineapple slices). It's sold in enormous wheels in everyday grocery stores. It's touted in the stores for cruise-ship visitors (as "queso holandés"). I'd rather find Gouda on everything than Kraft slices, so this was a big plus.

One of the default appetizers is escargots, which are meatier than their US cousins. The butter isn't as intensely garlicky, but the finished dish is topped with parmesan, which gives a nice edge to the dish.

The default restaurant bread comes smothered in garlic butter.

The local beer, Balashi, is a pretty good pilsener, not surprisingly similar to (but less skunky than) Heineken.

The low amount of rainfall and the unforgiving terrain (limestone and coral) means pretty much everything edible has to be imported. Most of the packaged goods available in supermarkets, again unsurprisingly, are Dutch, including many forms of sausage, more enormous wheels of cheese and strange things like canned parsley.

The Dutch influence also means the pastry section is pretty good; we picked up this thing, called a tompoezen; much like an English vanilla slice, but with a generous shot of fresh cream hidden inside the custard.



There's also a strong Indian/Indonesian influence, with many fast-food places offering shoarma and satay alongside hotdogs and bitterballen.

(Did I mention the bitterballen?)



The filling, I discovered, is meat in a bechamel sauce. That explains a lot.

A food apparently specific to the Dutch Antilles is the pastechi, which is similar to a Cornish pasty or an empanada, but with a much lighter, shorter pastry (which apparently requires milk and baking powder).

Wandering around downtown Oranjestad, we discovered the Pastechi House, a small storefront operation that promised fillings from chicken to chorizo to salt cod. Sadly, only the basic varieties were available when we arrived, so we settled for a couple of beef, a cheese and a croquette. A good Aruban lunch.



Our one major culinary missed connection involved these things. They were at the hotel's breakfast buffet, right next to the museli and cornflakes and Kellogg's mini-boxes, and we couldn't figure out what they were. One was chocolate, one was fruit.



Were they cereal? Did you just add milk? Did they go on top of cereal? Unable to figure it out (and afraid to ask and risk gales of derisive Dutch laughter) we didn't pursue the matter further. And then, in the grocery store, we found them. Boxes and boxes. And a clear indication of their raison d'être.

By then, we'd eaten our last breakfast, so had no opportunity to experience this brilliant invention ourselves.

Oh, and it's hard to find decent coffee. Here's a picture of The Worst Coffee in the World Ever (accompanied by the only thing that could mask the taste).



If you see this coffee, do not approach it. It's a dangerous and unforgiving criminal.