Walnut and pistachio baklava at the Hafiz Mustafa, Istanbul.

I said it at the time. “Peter,” I said. “We will now become the people we hate.”

I was referring to those who travel to distant lands, eat local fare, return to the home country and, when dining out with friends, bemoan that the coq au vin, the chicken vindalou, the mutton cooked in sheep’s guts–take your pick–doesn’t come close to what you would get in Paris, Delhi, the steppes of outer Mongolia–take your pick. And even worse than waving your culinary passport of international foods around the table is inserting the name of a specific restaurant into the proclamation with an air of smug nonchalance. “Why, if you should ever find yourself in the Hungarian hinterland, there’s a charming little restaurant in Miskolc called Zslop where the goulash is to die. Ask for Bogdan. And tell him I sent you.” Insufferable.  [Read more...]