Tropical Daydreams

03 February 2014

Pizza

A week or two ago The New York Times published an article mocking the way in which the popular, newly-elected mayor, Bill de Blasio, ate a pizza at a well-known pizzeria in Staten Island. Mayor de Blasio ate his piece of the pie with — gird yourselves, readers — a knife and fork! When confronted with this blasphemy, de Blasio defended himself by saying he was just being true to his Italian roots. "That’s how they eat pizza in Italy!" he sputtered. Well, that may be, but de Blasio, who’s been part of the New York political scene for 25 years now, has to know how a true New Yorker eats pizza, Italian blood or no Italian blood. Take a look at these former New York mayors — they knew how to keep votes:

Mayor Lindsay

Mayor Dinkins

Mayor Giuliani

Mayor Bloomberg

This just hurts, Mayor de Blasio!

Movie about Italian immigration to Brazil

Mayor de Blasio may never come to know it, but I know that he would feel completely at home here in Brazil, because here the correct way to eat a pizza is with a knife and fork, no exceptions. Pick up a slice with your hands and you’ll have shocked and panicked waiters rushing in from all sides with utensils and napkins. In fact, all of this Brazilian knife-and-forking may well have everything to do with "Italian roots." Brazilians of Italian descent are the largest population with full or partial Italian ancestry outside of Italy. And with 1.4 million pizzas devoured per day, São Paulo surpasses every other city in the world except New York in pizza consumption.

Pizza à francesa

The differences between the pizza cultures of Brazil and New York took some getting used to, because they extend way beyond utensils. For Mark and me, the most striking difference is in the time of day that pizza is served. You want a midday pick-me-up slice from Stromboli’s on University Place in New York? Fear not, they start delivering at 11:00 a.m. and continue straight through to 11:00 p.m. But here in Brazil, restaurants that serve pizza before, let’s say, 6:00 p.m. are few and far between. And don’t think you can just get a slice, either. It’s usually the whole pie or nothing, unless you’ve gone to a restaurant that serves a rodízio of pizzas, in which case you’ll get a never-ending, all-you-can-eat array of slices with varying toppings (including dessert toppings) until you burst. And I remember the first time we were asked whether or not we wanted our pizza à francesa (the French way). What on earth was that, we wondered? Sure, we said. Well, the pizza was served already cut up into teeny tiny little bite-sized pieces, kind of like what parents do for their one-year-olds. À francesa is very popular here, but I’ve tried it, and I just can’t get behind it.

Just a few months ago a straight-off-the-boat Italian kid came to Búzios, opened up a pizzeria, and tried to model it along more Italian lines. He opened up at 11:00 a.m. ("We eat pizza for breakfast in Italy!" he told us.) Mark and I were so excited! We wanted a pizza at 4:00 in the afternoon? It was available. We wanted just a slice? That, too, was available. It didn’t hurt, either, that his authentic, thin-crust pizza was absolutely scrumptious, and that his prices were reasonable. We told all our friends. But unfortunately, the two of us were virtually alone in wanting pizza during daylight hours, and the kid got bored hanging around all afternoon without any business. So now he doesn’t open until 5:00 p.m., and that’s only to start firing up the ovens. At least you can still just get a slice there.

There’s a Brazilian expression, tudo acaba em pizza (everything ends in pizza). Although it originated from a rivalry between two soccer teams, it has come to be used for politicians who, after arguing and posturing and name-calling all day, end up reaching an agreement and going out for pizza with their former enemies. There’s a real edge of sarcasm, however, since the agreements they reach almost always fill their bellies (and pockets), but without leaving even a little crust for their constituents.

"Because here everything ends in pizza!
The Federal Senate Pizzeria

Specialties: Agreements, Conspiracies, Amendments for sale, Secret votes, Nepotism, Votes for sale, Illegal favoritism and much, much more . . .

For delivery call 0800 171 171**"

(**171 is the article in the Brazilian Penal Code that defines Fraud . . .)

And since I’m on the topic, and the blog has already gone over my self-imposed length limit, a shout-out to the best pizza in the world, ever: Bonvini’s, of Livingston, New Jersey, which closed its doors on December 13, 1997 to the continued heartbreak of its legions of fans. I’ve eaten a lot of good pizzas in my life, but none came close to Bonvini’s.

It says Jerusalem, but we know, deep down, it’s still Bonvini’s.

27 January 2014

The Other Búzios

Much is made of the natural beauty of Búzios, whether in travel articles, photographic essays, or tourism promotions — adjectives like stunning, gorgeous, breathtaking and spectacular abound, not to mention the incredibly overused It's a paradise. Búzios has been the backdrop for several television soap operas and countless fashion shows, and is now the preferred choice in Brazil for what's called "destination weddings," all for the simple reason that Búzios is stunning and the views are spectacular. Mark and I live here in large part because of the beauty around us. Look at our own view, for goodness' sake — does this not stir one's soul?

If the people who work in the tourism industry had their druthers, though, they would whisk their clients straight from the airports right into their Búzios lodgings or onto the beaches in buses with heavily-tinted windows. Since that's neither possible nor practical, most visitors to this dazzling resort do get plenty of opportunity to see the other Búzios, the much-less-glamorous Búzios, the Búzios that photographers and copy writers are paid to ignore. Today I feel like giving this other Búzios a little recognition:

20 January 2014

A Suitcase in Berlin

"I still have a suitcase in Berlin
That's why I have to go there sometime soon.
The joys of days gone by
Are all still in my little suitcase.

I still have a suitcase in Berlin
It stays there, too, and that makes sense.
In this way it's worth a trip,
Because whenever I'm homesick, then I go back."*

Nobody delivers Ich hab' noch einen koffer in Berlin like Marlene Dietrich, though Hildegard Knef, with whom Marlene "shares" the above video, comes close. The lyrics are evocative, poignant, and tug especially hard at the heartstrings of those of us who live far from our former homes and have bits and pieces of our lives folded, boxed and stored all over the place. A friend of ours here in Búzios, a chef, has her winter clothes hanging in a closet in Amsterdam and a trunk full of summer dresses in Cannes. Now that she's between jobs, she also has an entire restaurant's worth of kitchen equipment sitting in her mother's house up in the Brazilian mountains. Mark and I still have a couple of boxes of stuff in a basement in Massachusetts, including my 46-year-old collection of theatrical playbills, ticket stubs included. And my hard-won high school trophy pictured here — second place for original oratory in the National Forensic League's 1967 district tournament — still sits on my mother's fireplace mantle. Well, at least I think it does . . .

Virtually all of us have had the experience of leaving some of our things in our parents’ attics when we go off to college, or to settle into our first jobs. Then we start spreading out, leaving toothbrushes and a change of clothes with boyfriends/girlfriends. As we mature we start to consolidate in homes of our own. But life takes its twists and turns, we start moving and changing course, and before we realize it we once more have "stuff" all over the world, and we’re the subjects of one of George Carlin’s most brilliant riffs:

In this five-bedroom house Mark and I currently live in, we have what we call our Room of Last Resort, the fifth bedroom that just naturally turned itself into a storage room. We may not have any children who can leave their "stuff" with us in that room, but over the years this Room of Last Resort has become a repository for the personal effects of homeless or (sadder still) deceased friends. When our friend Hugo died, another friend who was clearing out his house asked if we could store some of his possessions until his family was able to come from Argentina and take charge of it all. Of course we said yes, and for at least a year we stored boxes and boxes of Hugo's personal effects. It was a bit morbid, I admit. I teared up every time I wandered into the room and something of Hugo's caught my eye. But Hugo's family finally came and took most of his stuff back to Argentina with them. They didn't take everything, though, and to this day we still have some of Hugo's stuff. Not to mention Hugo's girlfriend's artwork, which hung all over his house. Living now in Buenos Aires, she's told us that she doesn't want the art back — it's too painful for her. So that, too, sits in our Room of Last Resort.

Some of the unclaimed artwork . . .

. . . in our Room of Last Resort.

And then there are our temporarily dispossessed friends. We stored a king-sized mattress and box spring set for a former employee of ours for six months, while he was in the northeast of Brazil going through his final training for work on Petrobras offshore platforms. And if you read my prior blog post, you'll recall I spoke of a friend who lost her house in a landslide in December. Whatever she was able to salvage is now stored in three places, and one of those places is — you guessed it — our Room of Last Resort. Sie hat noch einen koffer in Búzios.

*Ralph Maria Siegel, composer/Aldo von Pinelli, lyrics

13 January 2014

It Could Have Been Worse

Dear Diary,

Dear Hugo

Whew, we made it through another Christmas/New Year in Búzios! This year Mark and I played it smart, we stocked the house with food and drink and staples before Christmas, and any day-to-day needs we had for fresh fruits and vegetables we took care of on foot. You should have seen the bumper-to-bumper traffic, and you should have seen the tempers flaring. I always have to remind myself, it’s as bad as this at high season in the Hamptons, it’s as bad as this at high season in St. Tropez . . . but you know this already, I’ve been complaining to you for years. This year our neighborhood was amazingly quiet. We had a small New Year’s Eve dinner celebration with just a few friends and even the electricity cooperated all night! So for the first time in many a year, I had no complaints. As Hugo, an old friend of ours, used to say, It could have been worse.

But for others, unfortunately, it was much, much worse this year. There was that devastating storm I told you about on December 18^th, remember? It was the most violent storm Búzios had experienced in 17 years! Well, we were okay because we’re up on a hill. A leak here, a leak there, nothing that towels couldn’t sop up. But on the day after the storm there was Búzios being declared a disaster area on national television news! Many low-lying areas were completely flooded. And we just learned that a friend of ours, who was traveling at the time of the storm, returned to a house that had been destroyed by a landslide of mud and trees that came down from the mountain behind her house. She stayed with us for a while, fairly shell-shocked. I suppose Hugo would say that it could have been worse for her — she could have been in her house at the time.

Some of our unfortunate new public transportation systems here in Búzios . . .

And I didn’t tell you about another friend, who was riding along on her motor scooter on New Year’s Eve day when she was side-swiped by a car. She ended up spending New Year’s Eve in the hospital emergency room, can you imagine? And she told us about the long line of people waiting to be X-rayed, the majority of whom had also been in traffic accidents that day. I’m telling you, diary, it’s crazy out there on the streets! Hundreds of thousands of people come to spend the holidays in Búzios, and all of them get angry and impatient and imprudent when they find that they can’t get where they’re going except at a crawl. Well, it could have been a lot worse for our friend. She was cut and bruised and abraded, but she survived, and with no broken bones.

Okay, diary, thanks as always for listening. Mark and I had a good start to the New Year and for that we are grateful. Brazil is gearing up for a big year ahead, and I’ve got to prepare for all the blog posts it will generate. There’s the World Cup (all soccer, all the time!); there’s always Carnaval; there’s the Presidential election (protests, corruption, crime, a no-grow economy, a failing health system — Dilma still has it in the bag); and there’s even an outside chance Brazil will accept Edward Snowden’s request for asylum, which would be an incredibly interesting turn of events. All in all, things could be a lot worse.