Istria, to whet your appetite

That's where I was for most of September last year. It's the northernmost part of the Croatian coast, and it looks like this:

So. Yeah. That? Oh, that's Draguch, some dinky little hilltown. There's a small chapel with a fresco in there. Not really worth it (Worth it. The road past Draguch makes the Sierras look like a toxic waste dump).

The streets of such towns look like this:

Motovun, Istria, Croatia.

And everything is really pleasant. For the most part. When the curator of a local museum hisses at you, hoping you don't "learn too much" about Istria, then maybe that suspicious Slavic character rears its ugly head, the mark of a people under someone else's thumb(s) for too long. But let's not wash history in brushstrokes too broad. This is a lovely region, known for truffles and mushrooms that look like this:

Chantrelles foraged in the forests surround Tinjan, Istria, Croatia.

But yes, Istrians have been under everyone's thumbs. And by "everyone" I mean the Venetians, the French, the Italians, the Austro-Hungarians... So mushrooms like this might make an amazing sauce for your gnocchi, which you will follow up with strudel and Turkish coffee.

It's a cook's dream. A place where many people have their own gardens and produce the best that nature has to offer; where you'll trip over foragers combing the woods around small towns; where you'll trip over truffles; where you'll find some of the best seafood in the Adriatic, because, apparently, the currents wash all of Croatia's garbage to Italy.

I'll get to all of these nuances in separate entries. I just wanted to show my audience what's it's like, generally. And only generally.

Let's recap the last year in a few sentences

I started at a new restaurant in January of last year, as a paid, PAID, line cook. I worked my way through a monster pantry station, then made "pizzer," (that's "pizza" to those of you who aren't silly), then made my way to our fancy sister restaurant, where I can work two other stations with relative ease.

What a year. I'm tired. But also so, so happy that I've found myself crying tears of joy in inappropriate places, like on a 2 am bus ride home after a nine-day stretch of work. This trade saved me, dammit, I'm allowed a little emotionally-inappropriate leeway.

I thoroughly explored Istria last autumn, a region of Croatia that will only leave you with a dropped jaw or two. I foraged for Chantrelles and Porcinis and ate a ton of food, which ranged from "FUCKING HELL!" to "Let's never do that again, kay?" I can't even... I'll get to Istrian food in a more than a few entries.

Let's address all of this  in the next few weeks. I'll get my notes on Croatia together, my musings about line-cooking, and share the idiotic things my lovely co-workers have to share with the rest of the world.

God I love my little life. This is it, and it is wonderful.