Kaiserschmarrn

A full day after the Vikings' latest heart-wrenching loss, allow me to share with you an Austrian breakfast recipe that made for a therapeutic morning meal.

I could still feel the agony in my throat. And in my stomach. And in my chest, a little left of center. But like I said previously, with the Vikings it had happened to me three times before, and those are just the NFC championship games. I can't even imagine what it must have been like for the faithful watching all those Super Bowl losses in the 1970s. The Vikings have to be the most successful football team that has never won anything of significance. I would've even been happy with just making it to the Super Bowl and losing to the Colts. That would've at least been a new accomplishment for me. No one remembers who loses in the conference championship game, except, that is, for those ill-fated fans like me, who, in their stupid loyalty - or their loyal stupidity - are condemned never to forget.

But let me get to the point of this post - something i think you'll all appreciate: Kaiserschmarrn (I'll explain). Because i had to stay up late to watch the game (until 5am), I decided in advance that I'd take Monday morning off, sleep in, and make myself Kaiserschmarrn for breakfast. I had purchased all the ingredients, and woke up around 11, but was still so haunted by the game that my appetite was crushed and there was no point in making the 'Schmarrn. (I think the line from The Killers' song "Mr. Brightside" captures the feeling as well as anything: "and my stomach is sick"). So i went to Cafe Da Vinci for a coffee and got on with my miserable day.

This morning, however, I made Kaiserschmarrn. I ate all of it, and it was glorious. If you don't know Kaiserschmarrn as of yet, I implore you to make its acquaintance. I learned it from my Austrian roommate in 2007-08. If you like crepes, delicious Polish naleśniki, or any other breakfast food made from batter, you absolutely need to try it. (Joel, I'm terribly sorry that we never discovered this in Vienna. That said, better late than never.)

Basically you make the batter for crepes (milk, flour, egg), throw in some raisins, and perhaps a bit of cinnamon and sugar. Then you dump the entire batter into a heated pan with a bit of butter (as a longtime recipient of my mother's crepes on Saturdays, and later maker of crepes, there's something about dumping all the batter in at once that's unusually exciting), and let it cook on medium for some 6-8 minutes. When the bottom is a bit firm (but the top still runny), cut in fourths and flip. After a minute or so, break into smallish pieces with the spatula and cook until golden-brown. Dust with powdered sugar and eat with whatever (and whomever) you please.

On this particular morning I opted for slices of kiwi, banana, and mandarin oranges. And I shared...with myself. I'll admit I had to use the restroom half way through, but I did finish the pan like a freaking champion. I felt like a sophomore girl who was dumped by her "bf" and was now taking it out on a half-gallon of rocky road. And alas, all that heavenly fruit and batter has been pure therapy - helping me to forget about the Vikings and all their fumbles.

In any case, Kaiserschmarrn is nice because you don't have to constantly tend to your crepes on the stove, trying to eat as you cook them one by one - or let them get cold before serving. In essence, it's like cooking one giant crepe with all the batter you have. There are several creative stories as to the origin of the dish, but I like to imagine the Austrians receiving from the French a recipe for crepes in exchange for Marie Antoinette, and that, impatiently, they simply dumped all the batter in at once and cooked it. But lest the French find that too amusing, they should recall that it was the Austrians who first made the croissant - a symbol of the crescent moon to commemorate the defense of Vienna from the Ottoman Turks in 1683.

So huge props to the Viennese for croissants and Kaiserschmarrn. And I hope everyone in New Orleans' French Quarter has a nasty hangover this morning.

Vikings - Saints: a lonely reaction at 5:00 am

What can i say about the Vikings' 31-28 overtime loss to New Orleans in the NFC championship? The sour loss lingers in my mouth like the reprehensible Euro-salsa I bought for the game. I'm devastated, I'm exhausted, it's 5:00 am, I sat alone in front of a computer for several hours in the middle of the night, and my team lost a game it unquestionably should have won. Yeah, and I'm quite certain I woke up a fair number of my neighbors on at least one occasion.

Two general announcements before I get to the game:

First, a huge thank you to the Australian who set up the live online feed I used to watch most of the second half. The commercials were quite different, I must admit: lots of vacation packages to interesting places like Hong Kong and Indonesia. And apparently over 400,000 Aussies are diagnosed each year with skin cancer. But thanks to your feed I was finally able to watch without interruption, and was done frantically searching for websites streaming the game, as throughout the first half when my feeds died.

Secondly, to the European makers of "Pancho Dip Hot Salsa": what in heaven's name is in that awful jar? It tastes like some sort of rotten, thick vinegar-ketchup. Have you ever even tasted salsa? Do you realize that you always start with tomatoes, onions and jalepenos, and then go from there? It's not terribly complicated, but apparently in Europe, it is. Regardless, please stop making this repulsive product. You're obviously horrible at it, as your product isn't even close to as good as a poorly made salsa. Instead, you've created some reprehensible pseudo-condiment that would spoil the taste of anything it touches. I was raised never, ever to throw food away, and I'm not a picky eater. But this "salsa" I simply cannot put in my mouth. Nor would I wish the remaining contents of that jar on my worst enemy. It's going in the garbage, and it's your fault. I hope you're happy with what you've done.

Now, as for football, first you should understand that to be a Vikings fan asks a lot of any person.

*Aside: For some insight into the pain of the loyal sports fan, I highly recommend Nick Hornby's novel Fever Pitch, a must-read for anyone passionate about any team. It highlights the true sports fan's addiction to suffering, by example of the author's growing up as a supporter of Arsenal London. (NB - Significantly less amusing, I find, are both the uninspiring British film adaptation, and the even worse American adaption featuring Jimmy Fallon as a Red Sox fan).

Somehow I knew coming in to this game, that if we lost, it would probably be dramatic and we'd have been deserving of a win, only to lose it on our own mistakes. Sadly, I was right on all counts. Again.

My first year following the Vikings was as a young child in 1987: they made the playoffs at 8-7 and played in the Superdome in the wild-card game against the 12-3 Saints, owners of the second best record in the NFL (only 13-2 San Francisco was better). It was New Orleans' first-ever playoff game in 21 years of existence. The Vikes did everything right and won by the embarrassing score of 44-10. WR Anthony Carter even caught a hail mary pass for a touchdown before the half. The Vikes then throttled Montana, Rice and the high-powered 49ers in Candlestick Park the next week, 36-24, and the game wasn't even as close as the score. Yet their run fell short on 4th and goal in the NFC championship, losing to the Redskins 17-10. It's been a difficult -though entertaining - 22 seasons since then. Lots of division crowns, all-pros, and playoff teams (even a fair amount of playoff wins). But no Super Bowl berths.

In 1998 the team was 15-1 with Randall Cunningham, Cris Carter and Randy Moss, as they set most NFL offensive scoring marks. The Super Bowl berth came down to a Gary Anderson field goal of 38 yards, which would have put them up 10 with a couple minutes to go. Anderson, a perfect 35/35 on the year, missed wide, the Falcons scored the tying touchdown and went on to win in overtime.

In 2001 the team was back in the NFC championship game, but laid a 41-0 egg in front of the New York Giants. I won't go into that game at this point, for reasons I feel are fairly obvious.

Here to end the 2009 season, we're the victims of five total turnovers, an ill-timed interception, and the worst game-winning overtime drive in professional football history.

This was certainly not the first time a late Favre interception has left fans stinging, though it was certainly the first time this season for the Vikings. This interception was bad. But drawing up a bootleg on that play is asking for the pass, asking to get something back from the 5 yards just lost on a needless penalty, and the coaches knew there was certainly some risk. To pin it all on Favre wouldn't be right, even though that's how it'll go down. Which is unfortunate after the remarkable season he's had, and the fact that his performance in this game was both courageous and at times extremely good. The part that makes this a poor play on his end is that he had some space and a blocker in front of him. I understand he was bruised, battered and beaten, but he could've run a few yards and fallen over without risking any contact.

But I think the previous penalty for 12-men in the huddle added to "what was asked of him on that play" - and I think that blame falls on Childress. On 3rd down you have plenty of time, a time out, and a long but makeable FG, and then you get a penalty trying to mask your offensive set from the other team. And this coming out of a timeout! Call your play and go get a few yards. Or run for no gain. Either way you would have had a 45-50 yard field goal attempt for a chance to go to the Super Bowl. (Insert loud, off-colored word here). But instead lose five yards on a terrible penalty, and ask your limping, interception-prone quarterback to get those yards back on a bootleg? No, even though the throw was awful, I can't pin that play all on Favre.

And then the overtime. Aside from the fact this huge game was on the line, that was probably the least exciting overtime I've ever seen in my life. All the reviews, and then it seemed like the replay official didn't have the competency to do his job and overturn a call, even when replays suggest otherwise. I thought the first down on 4th and inches may have been short, given the ball staying with the helmet, but I understand that's probably a tough thing to overturn. But that they ruled Meacham's 12-yd trap a catch is a complete joke, especially after reviewing it. If you're not going to use video evidence to get the call right, why have instant replay at all? The overtime was incredibly slow, given three reviews that changed nothing. The Vikings' defense gave nothing in overtime - the only yardage the Saints gained was on a pass-interference where their receiver fell over, and a pass that a receiver trapped against the ground.

But finally, the Vikings had plenty of opportunities to take the lead or go in front in this game, and to have that many turnovers is really unacceptable. I thought the defense was outstanding after the first quarter, with the exception of Asher Allen, who looked like he doesn't belong in the NFL. Losing Griffin on the overtime kickoff was a killer. And the kickoff itself hurt, giving that kind of field position when our defense was playing so well.

What makes it sting most is that we were clearly the better team. We outplayed the Saints in their own building. We outgained them in total yardage, 475-257. We shut down their high-powered offense in the second half. We took their crowd out of the game. But we failed to take advantage. Five turnovers - two inside the 10-yard line.

At least in Poland, it will hopefully be easier to forget about. Hopefully.

Magic Hand

The men’s restroom nearest to special collections in Poznan’s university library is located in a second floor hallway just outside the stairwell. It’s modest, with a single sink and a second door that opens to the lone toilet. Instead of paper towels next to the sink, there hangs from the wall what appears to be a very small electric hand-dryer. It’s about the size of a standard soap dispenser, and has a short cord leading to the nearby socket where it’s plugged into the wall. The machine has a name, or at the very least a title: Magic Hand.

I can only assume the person who thought up this strange title has an incredibly keen sense of irony. Because as far as I can tell, the only thing “magic” about this curious contraption is how long a person can stand in front of it without his hands getting the least bit drier.

On my first visit I was a bit surprised that the machine was actually that small. But when I noticed its proud, if mysterious, title, I asked myself how long it would take to dry my hands. Though convinced it wouldn’t be long at all, I was sorely mistaken. Usually after two full minutes, I leave the restroom, frustrated, hands still completely wet, sometimes testing out under my breath some of the new colorful Polish vocabulary items I learn on the football pitch.

The only thing the Magic Hand has in common with a functional hand-dryer is the noise it makes. Even that is not much more than a gentle hum, easily quieter than the fan that runs inside my laptop. And I have yet to be convinced that any air comes out at all. What I am slowly becoming convinced of, though, is that there’s a small camera in this little white machine. No doubt there’s a back room somewhere in that large building, where a couple of security guards or janitors are rolling in laughter as they watch the silly American and his gullibility in the “magic” machine that dries your hands. "Look - we put two English words on a machine and the American believes whatever it says!" I have to admit – if I were in that room watching me, I’d be laughing pretty hard as well. I bet it’s not just the security guards either. The librarians, the lady in the cloakroom, the porter, the director of special collections – they’re surely all in on it. No wonder it takes so long when the librarian “goes to check on a book.” She’s looking to see if the Magic Hand has claimed a new victim. Perhaps it’s a even a webcam, so that people around the world can join in the laughter. Now that would be magical.

Meanwhile, standing in front of the dull buzzing sound coming from that small white box, holding your hands up awkwardly, trying not to let the water drip down into your sleeves, it’s easy to lose sight of the potential humor. Perhaps I just don’t believe strongly enough in the power of the Magic Hand. That’s true, I don’t – at all. Perhaps that requires a small-appliance faith that moves proverbial mountains. Personally, I’d be more than content with a faith that simply dries my hands. Or a single paper towel.

Carrot salsa al fresco

Just the other day I received a package. I had recently written an email, lamenting that good salsa – or any salsa, for that matter – was one of the things I miss most while living in Poland (look for the list in an upcoming post). As it turns out, a dear friend had the heart to send me a parcel with, among other things, a packet of salsa mix to which I could add fresh tomatoes and savor a little taste of North America as the Polish winter begins to set in. So this afternoon I made a rare – but special – trip to the posh grocery store “Alma” and purchased some overpriced tortilla chips imported from Belgium. (NB: “Tortilla chips” in Europe otherwise means either Doritos or some other disgusting knock-off with an even worse-tasting nacho cheese powder smeared all over them; hence my jaunt to the upscale “Alma”).

I arrived home, anxiously chopped some tomatoes, and spilled the contents of the package into the square Tupperware container that doubles as my mixing bowl. After stirring it up, I was instructed to chill the concoction for 30 minutes in the fridge “to allow the flavors to blend properly.” There was no way on earth I would be waiting 30 minutes to eat that salsa.

I did, however, decide to alter the recipe to my liking. You see, I feared the possibility that a packaged dry good might skimp on the spiciness factor, and my suspicions were heightened when I saw “jalapeño peppers” at the very end of a long list of spices in the package’s ingredients. Indeed, that’s no place on the list for such a vital ingredient. Fortunately, at Alma I also happened upon a small can of jalapeños. When I opened the can, I was a bit put off by the contents: sliced carrots and jalapeños. Examining the can more closely, I saw it had apparently been imported from Mexico. Not able to think of another country I'd rather trust with the jalapeño than Mexico, I grabbed one of the carrots and popped it into my mouth. The jalapeño flavor was true to its name, albeit with a texture I was more used to with green beans or corned beef and cabbage. But the spice was right. It brought some good heat, this perhaps owing to the fact that my spice tolerance was likely, shall we say “out-of-practice,” after four months in a country that, for all its wonderfully delicious cuisine, simply doesn’t do much with spicy. I dumped the can into my salsa, mixed it up, and enjoyed a unique carrot salsa al fresco, the back of my head – as is its habit with salsa and Thai food – sweating profusely with approval.

If you will allow me a brief postscript: I can only hope this might serve as an example to my other dear readers who have not yet thought to send me anything resembling salsa (you know who you are). It’s really hard for me to imagine how strained our relationship must be to warrant such an arrogant level of neglect. But alas, there is still time…

Radiohead: Part II - Preconcert

17:43
Back home in my flat, I sit at my desk, writing an email to my four brothers, wishing they could join me for the concert. I sip żubrówka, a bison grass vodka known for its distinct taste and its important role in Somerset Maugham's classic novel, The Razor's Edge. I've added a bit of apple juice, a concoction affectionately known in certain circles as szarlotka, and notice the alcohol taking its effect rather quickly, as I've had little to drink in the past month. Today is a deserved exception.

18:08
I stand on my balcony and glare out beyond the railing, enjoying one last szarlotka before heading to the Cytadela. The sun is low, threatening to fall behind the tenament blocks across the street. The early evening air is warm. Thom Yorke takes the stage in just less than three hours. It's strangely quiet here on the south side of the city, peaceful. Some children play with a football in the courtyard, their shouts echoing across the small street. A few pedestrians return from work or from purchasing groceries for supper or the next morning's breakfast. I make note of the stillness outside, committing it to memory. At the Cytadela the atmosphere will be entirely different.

18:50
I sit at the bus station, having walked the some 500m from my flat, across the square, past the beautiful St. Mary's church, and through the daily market where I buy fruit and vegetables. I wait for the 71 bus while studying some Polish vocabulary cards. 18:55 comes, though the scheduled bus does not. A young woman walks by, pushing her four-year-old child in a stroller. I ask her about the status of the bus, and she assures me that it will come - "na pewno." According to the posted schedule, the next is at 19:10. That'll do fine as well, I think, and return to my vocab cards.

19:21
I arrive at the stop "Polonez," deboard, and join the buzzing stream of people flowing up both sides of the large boulevard, Aleja Niepodległości. Across the street the stream of fans ascends the stairs to the Soviet obelisk and into the Cydatela park. A blue "policja" van is parked in front of the staircase, a couple officers maintaining order as the crowd crosses the street. I take a photograph.

19:30
Halfway up the stairs, a glance down one of the terraced side pathways reveals concert-goers relieving themselves. Most are behind trees; a few behind gravestones. On the stairs, some still sell extra tickets. Lots of them, in fact. 40,000 is the number I heard for how many were expected at this, the first-ever concert at the Cytadela under the open air. Polish is almost the only language I hear in the crowd around me. This makes me happy, though I expected otherwise.

I walk around before entering. Most people seem to be standing outside the main gate, it seems, drinking, eating, waiting for bathrooms, before entering the concert gate...(more later)

Why Poland?

I hope to write more on this as time allows, but for the moment please accept the following quote from one of my favorite authors in the past year, Andrzej Stasiuk:

"I haven't been to France or Spain and I've never thought about going there. I am simply interested in our part of the world, this central and eastern reality. My goodness, what would I be doing in France?"

Stasiuk lives and writes in the Beskid Mountains in southeastern Poland, near the Slovak border.

Radiohead: scoring the ticket

On August 25, 2009, I went to see Thom Yorke and Radiohead, who played an outdoor concert for 40,000+ right here in Poznań. It was part of a mini-tour that also included St. Polten (Austria) and Prague. Here I recount the events of that glorious day.

14:33
I leave the Biblioteka Universytecka and my research for the day and, after a quick lunch of spaghetti bolognese, a small Greek salad and some fruit salad for 9 zloty at the café Piccolo on ulica Ratajczaka, I begin walking north toward the Cytadela. A friend just responded to my text message that she won’t be going to the concert, and also, implicitly, that she didn’t get the tickets as she had assured she would with the Polish word “spoko” highly intoned as if to say: “Chill out, relax, I’ll take care of tickets for a few of us that are going. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time. I’ve got it covered. I’ll get you one too.” Yeah, that was a week ago, and there was time. Now there isn’t, and I haven’t a ticket. If I were smart I’d have bought one for myself a week ago – I can always meet friends there if they decide to go. Outdoor concerts allow mobility. Yeah, that text message really let me down, but I suppose it’s just as well. Perhaps I’ll find something better, I think to myself.

I was somewhat nervous, however, since the media- and ticket-center Empik told me earlier they have no tickets left, as did the music store on Półwieska reputed to be the best “inside” link to every ticket in town. And after all – this was Radiohead, arguably the top band in the world for a decade now, a band who tours rarely (and almost never in North America, according to my better-informed brother, longtime subscriber to Spin and Rolling Stone). But, the girl at the shop had assured me there was a chance there’d be tickets on site today. Somewhat reassured but still nervous, I was going early to find something now. No more waiting.

14:50
I arrive at the entrance to the Cytadela, an old nineteenth-century Prussian military fortification and training-ground, which was in February 1945 the last Nazi stronghold before surrendering the city to the Red Army. Now it’s an expansive wooded park, and quite a mysterious place: a veritable mixture, on the one hand, of beautiful English gardens, a large rosarium surrounding a pool, and wooded paths and park benches, and on the other hand Polish and Soviet monuments, a military museum, desolate brick ruins, and several wooded and terraced military cemeteries. I walk up the 100+ steps toward the Soviet monument – a towering obelisk adorned with the signature Red Army star.

On one of the platforms are two individuals selling tickets. One is about forty, looks to be Polish, with especially short hair, a thick neck and broad shoulders. His cardboard sign reads in block letters: “Tanie Bilety” (cheap tickets). I turn to the other direction, where a younger man, slim and student-aged, dons a red Radiohead T-shirt and a black Arsenal cap. His sheet of paper, standard A4 size and computer-printed, reads: “Selling ticket: 1 zone, 2 zone.” Having checked earlier online, I know the concert ground would be divided into three zones, priced at 220, 160 and 95 zloty, for the three respective zones (about $85, $60, $35). At this point I plan to go to the booth to simply purchase a zone 3 ticket for 95 zloty. I figure $35 is a steal for Radiohead, even if it is far away.

I establish eye contact, then ask: “Ile kosztuje?” (How much?).

He replies: “Do you speak any English?”

“Yes, a little.”

Still hesitating to answer my original question about the ticket, he asks where I’m from.

“Z Polski. From Poland,” I answer instinctively.

“Oh, I am from Russia – St. Petersburg,” he offers.

I nod and smile. He offers me the Zone 1 ticket for 190, maybe 180. Disinterested, I tell him I don’t have that much, and he seems to understand.

“How much do you have?”

“Only 95 złoty – I can go to office and buy there. Zone three.” I nod in the direction of the staircase. “But if you have….” I pause, noticing the other scalper listening closely. Normally I am self-conscious speaking English abroad, avoiding it whenever possible, but this role-reversal will have to be an exception.

The Russian interrupts: “Okay, well, maybe second zone ticket, but I think it’s not enough.” He pauses, then continues: “There is a girl will maybe buy. She says she will come back, but I’m waiting for her still. Can you come back in five minutes?”

I hesitate, looking inconvenienced: “Maybe, I guess. Okay, I come back in 5 minutes.”

After observing the developing scene of concert preparations above, where among other things there seems to be a booth with tickets available, I return to seal the deal.

He seems to have been waiting for me. “She didn’t come. I sell to you. How much can you pay?”

“I only have this,” I answer, holding up a 100-złoty bill.

After a few seconds of looking around nervously, he looks me in the eye. It’s hot, even in the shadow cast by the oversized Soviet obelisk. The master of the black market seems backed into a corner. The Russians may not have the same command of the market as they did twenty years ago – at least not more than a Pole in his hometown.

He hands me the ticket and a 5-złoty coin, then slips the banknote out of my hand. I was expecting to give him the whole hundred, but looks like I’ll have five for a pre-concert beer as well.

“Have fun. I was in Prague two nights ago. Amazing show.”

Shaking his hand, I thank my comrade and wish him an enjoyable evening.

15:13
The zone 2 ticket finally in hand, a feel a surge of energy as I walked around above. There are food and beer booths, people setting up a concert T-shirt stand, and a line of the kind of people who pay way too much for T-shirts. On the side before the entrance is a short stone wall, on the other side of which is a gentle grassy decline and dozens, hundreds of gravestones arranged in rows. Soviet soldiers are buried there – their headstones staring out in Cyrillic script. Each has a star on the front.
Curiously, early concert-goers have arrived and, as elsewhere in the park, are sitting, resting, drinking, socializing, napping, waiting out the last several hours before the concert. A dozen or so have also found a place in the shade here among the gravestones. Some stand – others sit and drink, laugh and mingle, using the gravestones as you would a table, shelf or speaker for setting your beer at a college house party. None of them seems to think twice about where they are. (Or perhaps they all know precisely where they are?) One couple lays sleeping, embraced, spread out directly on top of a gravesite, a coffin resting six feet beneath them under the grass and dirt. I pause and look on, taken aback. One girl(?) with long, frayed, unwashed dreadlocks wears a shirt advocating green political views. She stands, one boot perched upon the base of a headstone, leaning on the top of it while sharing a laugh with a friend.

Having seen quite enough of this puzzling scene, I walk to my bike and ride home for dinner and a drink before the main event.