|
CHAPTER NINE
WHY I HATE SHOPPING MALLS
After leaving Mansfield, we decided to stop in Providence for shopping and lunch. Shopping in particular because before we had gotten on the road yesterday morning Lynn had thrown a hissy fit about his clothes situation.
"I have nothing to wear," he had yelled.
"Look at this!" He held up a t-shirt for me to look at and it had a variety of stains on it.
"I can't wear this," he continued.
Lynn has a thing about t-shirts. They have to look spanking new if he's going to wear them. This rules out about 99.9% of the shirts he has in his dresser drawers since inevitably he has painted or grilled or gardened wearing one.
I had offered to stop at Macy's yesterday on our way to Mansfield but he didn't want to. That was yesterday; today was today. He was calmer and I convinced him we were stopping at the Providence Center Mall.
It was barely 10 a.m. and we were some of the first shoppers in Macy's. Lynn loves shopping with me. I absolutely dread shopping with him for many reasons. Here's the first reason. I go in a store. I look around. I either find something right away or I don't. Lynn isn't that kind of shopper. He likes to "sightsee." He will case the whole store first then circle back around and do it again. He might even do it three times until he eventually finds something that he deems "ok."
Today goes like this: I pick out clothes I think he would look good in; he likes nothing I've picked out. I go through the racks again and start handing him some more options. He goes into a dressing room and after an eternity comes out and reveals that he has to lose weight. (Sometimes he's such a girl.) It's not a total loss however; he manages to find a couple of shirts, some (plaid!) shorts and even a pair of shoes.
We walk around the mall and find one of those instant photo booths. We decide we haven't done a campy instant photo in years and so cram ourselves in the booth. (Yes, at times we behave like teenagers too; we even giggle.) This isn't one of those old machines that give you three poses for a buck. This one is declared a "portrait."
First, you look at a computer screen but have to contort your body so that your head is centered in a red oval on the screen. Remember there are two of us in this booth so that's quite a bit of contorting when there are two heads involved. You choose the pose you think is the most attractive (or rather least offensive) and then have a choice of a portrait style - "Da Vinci," "Rembrandt" or "Michelangelo" in charcoal or pencil, in black and white or color. We decide to go for the charcoal "Rembrandt" but I'm laughing so much through this entire process that my side of the portrait looks like a study in teeth.
When we brought the "portrait" home and Rachel looked at it she said, "You guys are so gay." I responded in her own vernacular. "But Rachel, it was mad fun." It was also only three dollars. How cool was that, our first road trip souvenir!
I think about our mall experience and the difference between shopping in the States versus shopping in Europe. Developers inevitably plop a mall in the middle of nowhere and fill the space with the same chain stores and restaurants from coast to coast. This has caused the great American demise. Small town America used to have downtowns filled with shops, theatres, bars and restaurants. Driving through small town America, I've come across main streets with downtown storefronts that are littered with "for rent" and "for sale" signs.
In Europe, "pedestrian only" zones in downtown urban areas are the norm. The Germans call this the "Fussgangerzone," literally a zone for foot walkers. You can leisurely shop, grab a bite to eat in a café or a restaurant and not have to worry about vehicular traffic or crossing a street. You're also not confined in an airless (bad) air-conditioned environment. You can still feel the sun, the wind and the rain, listen to a street musician or a poet, or even a crazy person ranting. Above all you can smell all the wonderful smells of European street cooking: sweet or savory crepes in France, sugared almonds or currywurst in Germany, fresh cut pineapples and coconut "fountains" along with grilled panini in Italy. Plus, the best part of all that walking in Europe? It helps you burn off those extra calories you invariably consume on vacation. (I know there are "mall walkers" in the States, but I've always thought that activity was just an excuse to cruise from one fast food restaurant to another in the food court!)
Trapped back in the mall in Providence with only the usual fast food places to grab a bite, I started thinking of our trip to Verona on our way back from Venice with Rachel.
February 2008
Verona, Italy
Admittedly, one of the reasons I thought Rachel would enjoy visiting Verona is because of the Romeo and Juliet tourist trap. The "Romeo and Juliet" balcony and courtyard with a statue of a "Juliet" is very popular with teenagers, particularly teenage girls. There is a passageway that leads to the house where the balcony is located. It's covered with graffiti and red hearts. Rachel, I believe, took about 100 photographs not of the balcony but of the writing on the walls. "Bobby loves Sarah," Franco loves Emily," plus a thousand other boy-girl name combinations that you can think of were on those walls. She thought this was so cool.
Downtown Verona is pretty much a pedestrian-only zone with a few side streets that cars can maneuver down for good measure. Unlike American retailers, many Italian shopkeepers still close during the lunch hour to eat. That means that restaurants are not only crowded with tourists but also Italians. Since the stores were closed and we couldn't shop, we decided to eat, too.
I love to find restaurants in Italy that from the outside look like no one is in them. They're often so dimly lit or the public areas are hidden behind heavily draped doors that you begin to wonder if they are even open. Sometimes I'm hesitant to open such a heavy door and am always amazed when I do and find a restaurant packed with people halfway through their meal.
Ristorante Grappia was such a find. When we walked in they had a huge steam table they were wheeling around featuring bollito misto - the boiled meats and poultry items I hadn't seen for years. They charge you by the kilo for whatever you choose to consume, plate it and bring you some accompanying sauces. I was very tempted to try it but there were so many other good things on the menu that day that caught my fancy - prosciutto being one of them.
We have a daughter who loves prosciutto. Most kids growing up won't have anything to do with it. Try to pass off prosciutto as "ham" to a kid who is a fussy eater and that will be the end of them ever ordering something as basic as a ham and cheese on rye. After all, what is prosciutto? It's basically raw pig that's been hanging in a basement or attic someplace to "cure and age," meaning before it's "ripe" and they serve it to you, they have to cut away the mold. Yummy.
Rachel, however, has become somewhat of a prosciutto connoisseur. She knows the difference between domestic and imported and can tell when it hasn't been cured properly or too salty. She loves prosciutto that is melt-in-your-mouth soft with just the right amount of fat encircling each well-aged slice. But she will also give a thumbs-up to those who still wrap prosciutto around a couple of slices of melon (preferably honeydew) with a wedge of lemon to squeeze on top.
So for lunch that day she started with what appeared to be a family-sized portion of thin slices of prosciutto served on a large platter then moved on to her next best favorite: tomatoes with fresh mozzarella. She had TWO appetizers and then a plate of rigatoni with ragu. I'm glad she's thin. I opted for homemade spinach ravioli with a cream sauce as a starter. The menu listed Hungarian goulash as one of their special entrees. I was intrigued. Hungarian goulash in Verona? It was delicious. Brought out in a big bowl were chunks of beef stew swimming in a rich paprika flavored gravy with some potatoes and onions. Lynn ordered what he thought was Costoletta alla Milanese but which ended up being a beautifully grilled veal chop. He wasn't disappointed but there is a history behind his craving for veal cutlets.
Lynn and Costoletta alla Milanese
Lynn grew up with a mother, Bianca, who was born in Naples, Italy. A war bride (World War II!), she spent the first 13 years of her marriage moving from one Air Force base to another both stateside and in Japan. By the time Lynn was born, they had settled in upstate New York. She had six children to feed but when cooking would rely on classics that everyone liked - veal cutlets being one of her classics. Why Bianca would spring for the more expensive veal rather than chicken cutlets, especially when you had a family of eight to feed is beyond me but she did. Consequently, Lynn grew up eating veal cutlets as large as your plate and always with a slice of lemon to squirt over the fried meat.
To this day, he can't resist ordering a veal cutlet if he sees it on the menu.
Growing up, I, too, had eaten lots of veal. Living in Munich, a lunch of wiener schnitzel mit pommes frites was the equivalent of grabbing a slice of pizza today. But that's not really the way I liked veal. My idea of the perfect veal dish was a couple of lightly sautéed cutlets smothered with chanterelles and cream sauce with a sprinkling of fresh chives on top.
Back in Providence, our chances of finding chanterelles on a menu at a mall restaurant in Rhode Island were slim to none. So after our portrait adventure, we left the mall in search of lunch.
|
