I thought this might be fun to get things going in here...
Alastair
Alastair just because we have a bit of snow on the roof does not mean that all fire has been extinguished !! I live 35 miles south of the Oklahoma Choctaw Indian reservation and there is a lot of hoopla going on for seniors..the Casino sends the bus down here to Walmart and takes us to the Casino for 6 hours...You would be surprised how long a slot machine can be played on penny slots...!! Just thought I would throw that in !!!
Lu.
Up here in Canada they also seem to get free drinks while they play and even a snack or two. Sounds like a good deal.
Alastair
A retirement vacation.
When Mary and I go away on holiday, boredom is often enlivened by curious happenings. Sometimes they are related to food, sometimes to unusual monuments. Let me give you some examples.
We did not believe that there was a phallos museum in Reykavik, the capital of Iceland. But sure enough, there is: http://www.phallus.is/ I will leave you to follow the URL if ancient dicks are your thing.
There is also an ethnological museum housed in a beautiful building with a gravelled driveway outside closed off by massive ships' anchor chains hanging down across the entrance and exit removed only for VIP visits (your first clue about what is to follow). To one side of the building, there is a pedestrian entrance accessible down a flight of steps (clue two). By dint of brilliant city map reading, I managed to approach this entrance along a side street to let Mary go in: parking space was impossible to find so I put the front wheels of the car onto the pavement at the top of the steps and hoped for the best (clue three). Suddenly my rear view mirror was filled by an enormous leviathan lorry with ships' headlights and a ship's foghorn: blinded by the 25,000 candlepower headlights that the driver thoughtfully switched on to alert me to his presence lest I was stone deaf, and deafened by the blare of the foghorn that must have been audible 20 miles off-shore, I hastily started up the engine and moved the car forward a few feet to let the monster past. Suddenly the nose of the car dropped like a stone and I was violently shaken from seat to roof in a rising crescendo of deafening banging noises – the swine has rammed me I thought at first, only to be reassured when the car came to rest at ground level, having bounced down the flight of steps out of control as my feet were violently jerked off the pedals with every descending step.
I got out of the car and tried to regain my typical British aplomb. A security guard ran out of the main entrance and yelled at me “GET THAT CAR OUT OF HERE OR I WILL SEND FOR THE POLICE.” “Easier said than done, Matey” I replied affably. “That ships' anchor chain is blocking the exit. You will have to help me to undo it.”
Baffled by my logic, he switched tack. “How did you get it in here?” he yelled at me from a distance of a few inches. “I drove down those steps” I replied, pointing at them.“Why?” he demanded irrelevantly. It was time to hold my ground and prepare a story that a court would believe. “Because I am British” I replied urbanely. It worked. His jaw sagged and I regained the initiative by ordering him peremptorily to go into his office and get a pair of pliers and return to unfasten the ship's anchor chain. Off he went and minutes later I was safely in the main street, in a parking space that had miraculously appeared. Mary came out of the museum and kissed me. “So you found a parking space,” she said admiringly. “Yes, darling. Piece of cake to the experienced traveller.”
So, off to lunch. Now Icelanders have traditionally captured shark and then used various techniques to age it: these techniques do not include urinating on the shark, this being unnecessary as Islandic and Greenlandic sharks naturally smell like elderly strong urine. In Iceland's capital city, most traditionalists believe that the only place to go to get really great putrid shark, which is typically eaten in January and February for the ancient month of Ţórri, is Snćfellsnes. Snćfellsnes putrid shark is good, but some afficienados claim that Fjörukráin, the Viking-themed restaurant in Hafnarfjörđur, Iceland's second city, has the best putrid shark on the island. The putrid shark at Fjörukráin has a more yellow shade to it, and the taste, while still throat-clearing in ammonia odour, is more subtle than you’d expect.
Putrid shark is an acquired taste, but if you’re going to acquire it, I can assure you that Fjörukráin has the best in the world and it is to be found in Hafnarfjörđur.
Hákarl or kćstur hákarl (Icelandic for 'fermented shark') (I prefer the term 'putrid shark') is traditionally part of a Ţorramatur, a selection of traditional Icelandic food served at Ţorrablót in midwinter. Hákarl is, however, readily available in Icelandic stores all year round and is eaten in all seasons.
Shark is poisonous when fresh due to a high content of uric acid and trimethylamine oxide, but may be consumed after being processed. It has a particular ammonia smell, not too dissimilar from many industrial cleaning products. It is often served in cubes on tooth picks. Those new to it will usually gag involuntarily on the first attempt to eat it due to the high ammonia content.
First-timers are sometimes advised to pinch their nose while taking the first bite as the smell is much stronger than the taste. It is often eaten with a shot of the local spirit, a type of brandy, called brennivin, although a blend of high-octane petrol and car battery acid is said to enhance its delicate flavour. It comes in two varieties: chewy and reddish glerhákarl (lit.'glassy shark') from the belly, and white and soft skyrhákarl (lit. 'skyrshark') from the body. Hákarl, especially the red variety, is considered easy for those with ulcers to digest.
Hákarl is traditionally prepared by gutting and beheading a Greenland or basking shark and placing it in a shallow hole dug in gravelly-sand, with the now-cleaned cavity resting on a slight hill. The shark is then covered with sand and gravel, and stones are then placed on top of the sand in order to press the shark. The fluids from the shark are in this way pressed out of the body and run off downwards. The shark is fermented for 6-12 weeks depending on the season.
Following this curing period, the now-putrid shark is then cut into strips and hung to dry for several months. During this drying period a brown crust will develop, which is removed prior to cutting the shark into small pieces and serving. The modern method is just to press the putrid shark meat in a large drained plastic container, plastic being the only material that is not instantly corroded by putrid shark.
So - did we eat putrid shark for lunch? Good question!
And I note you didn't answer that one <grin>. Sounds pretty disgusting!
Originally Posted by Alastair
I admit to tasting a tiny piece of the Putrid Shark, holding my nose as recommended. I will never forget the experience.
Lest there be any suspicion of exaggeration, the descriptions in my little memoire are restrained and accurate. A quick check on Wikipedia will confirm this.
There is an equally challenging delicacy here in France.
Andouillette (pronounced Ondwiyet) is a classic French culinary specialty consisting of pigs' intestines stuffed with more pork or veal intestines and other less mentionable parts of the carcass related to reproduction and digestion.
Andouillettes are served either hot or cold. The taste is acquired but can be compared to strong putrid shark without the fishy subtlety. The texture is somewhat less refined than other sausages, as the contents are more coarsely chopped.
Usually fried, it can also be barbecued or grilled. It is often served with vegetables in a violently hot mustard or bitter rancid red wine sauce to dull the taste.
Andouillette is said by people with no sense of smell to have no strong odour: they deny the reality that it smells like a plate of fresh steaming pig poo.
Many years ago, Mary and I travelled by train from Paris to Chartres in February – the best month to appreciate the stained glass windows as the winter sun is low in the sky and shines through the stained glass in a direct way not observable in summer. Not having to drive, I had a glass or two with our French friends and I asked them to order me a surprise for lunch while I went to inspect the plumbing.
Yes – you have guessed what they ordered for me.
I cannot now recall whether I realised and ate Les Andouilettes without demur just to show the French what a stiff upper lip looks like – or whether the wine was slightly stronger than I had suspected and I assumed that one of them had broken wind rather fruitily.
The watchword while eating abroad is caution.
Talking about France I must confess I wish I could read the French language. I keep coming across mentions of places in France where many Scots took up residence but I'm really stuck when going to these places on the web to see if I can find out more as of course their web sites are in the French language.
In particular when posting up the story about Marshall MacDonald he mentions going with his father to a place in France where he said many Scots had made their home. I figured there must be some mention of this so when I hunted up the town and area I was unable to find any reference and so I tried emailing some contacts in that area from their web sites but never got a reply. I figured that was mostly because they would be French speakers and so unable to read my English email.
Alastair
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