Sofra, so good (ow! Sorry!)

A confession: we have not yet been to Oleana (what?). I know, I know; you'd think we would have managed by now, given its relative accessibility, its interesting Mediterranean/North African menu, and the fact that there's a general consensus about its awesomeness.

And yet--or perhaps to redress the balance--we have already investigated Sofra, the bakery owned by Oleana's chef, Ana Sortun.

Tucked around the corner from the big Star Market opposite Mount Auburn Cemetery, it's not the most convenient place for us to pick up pastries—not when we could stroll up the street to get poppyseed rolls from the Danish Pastry House or wander into Davis Square for lemon slices at Diesel.

So why do I keep fantasizing about driving out to Sofra?

Oh, I know why:





Sofra's cookies include a rich, intense chocolate earthquake mouthful and a fig-jam-topped thumbprint shortcake that has more butter than a whole cow:



Inside the earthquake:



The almond-rosewater cake manages to be dense, moist and fluffy all at the same time:



Not everything at Sofra is sweet, of course. We watched the busy kitchen staff stretching dough for the flatbread wraps they fill with chickpeas, feta, tomatoes, spinach and olives and then heat on curved griddles:



We also picked up a couple of savory items: plaki, a dish of white beans braised with onions, tomatoes and carrots; and a burek.

My experience of burek to this point had been limited to the Cornish pasty-like meat turnover served at Sabur. Sofra's version is more like a lasagna pie: thick layers of dough striated with ground beef.



It came warm and ready to eat, in which state I'm sure it would have been fantastic. However, we saved it for a picnic the next day, which may account for the chewiness of the dough and the fact that the meat had settled into one thin layer near the bottom. It was great, but not the greatest.

Sofra would probably be a lovely place to hang out for a while; it's light and airy, with cosy window seats and colorful upholstery. But butt-space is limited, and (at least on our Saturday afternoon visit) was hostage to a passel of gray-haired ladies whose plates held just crumbs and who evidently had no intention of moving.

A better suggestion, if not a request: go early to Sofra, for breakfast. Pick up the morning bun with orange-blossom glaze, the Sicilian ricotta-chocolate croissant, the date and walnut brioche.

And then tell me all about it.

Island life

When our plans for a long weekend in Manhattan fell through, we decided it would still be fun to spend Friday on an island, albeit one much closer. And much smaller. So we packed a pic-a-nic* and headed downtown to catch the ferry ten minutes out into Boston Harbor. Destination: Spectacle Island.

Spectacle has only been open to the public for a year--this time around, at least. In the past, it has housed a horse-rendering plant, a grease-pressing factory, a smallpox quarantine hospital and illegal casinos. It was also used as a municipal waste dump for almost 40 years--which added 30 acres to the island--before it was capped with excavated rubble from the Big Dig.

Now it has five miles of gentle walking trails, an eco-friendly visitor center, a small beach and 28,000 hardy native plants, attracting butterflies and migratory birds. There are great views of the Boston skyline and of flightpaths in and out of Logan airport.



Much more inviting than horse glue.

Part of our reason for visiting--apart from giving us an excuse for a picnic--was to check out the ICA's "Art on the Harbor Islands" exhibit. There's something different on each of four islands--including a white-clad water-carrier who wanders mutely around George's Island and some woman who spent some time living in a yurt on Lovells --but we wanted to check out Teri Rueb's Core Sample, an audio soundscape tour of the island's history that uses GPS to play back different sounds, depending on one's location.

We picked up portable audio systems from the visitor center and headed out to listen.



It took about five minutes for the GPS systems to kick in. And then there was a gentle rushing sound; birds and water and motors and wind tangling together and separating, building and rising.

We set out along the trail around the island's perimeter, feet crunching on the gravel path like a thousand soldiers on the march and setting up a rhythm for the noises of the soundscape.

Sometimes the sounds seemed like enhanced foley for the surroundings: a low roar that coincided with a jet taking off over the harbor, or an aural close-up of the water lapping against the distant rocks below. At other points, it was hard to tell where art ended and reality began: were those bird calls coming from the headphones or from the pine trees ahead?

But as unusual as the experience (and as cool as the technology) was, we decided to return the headphones after about a half-hour. The island's natural soundscape--birds, crickets, wind and water, free of cars and sirens and the hundred other aural urban interruptions--was all we needed.



*Picnic consisted of mozzarella-sopressata-tomato-basil sandwiches on Iggy's French baguette; cherries, grapes and apricots; and a chocolate with celery, truffles and port wine from an Austrian company called Zotter, which also offers such crazy combos as banana-curry, date-shiitake and coffee-plum with caramelized bacon (see? It's catching on!).