Finally sliced into the beautiful log of pancetta made from the fat Berkshire I butchered in late winter. This will be an incredible accompaniment to … well, to everything…..
Floating in the warm, salty waters off Curaçao, watching the pelicans dive bomb for their lunch. Was the B52 modeled on their moves? Feet spread far apart, riding the thermals, they’re able to spot their pray from dozens of feet above the water. They dive head first, wings spread far apart, and slam into the water, gobbling up colorful fish. Head back, the poor snagged fish slides down his enormous gullet. Makes me jones for fresh fish. Most of the food stuffs on the island are shipped in from nearby Venezuela or from Holland, the island’s protectorate. Land on Curaçao is so costly that it’s less expensive to ship it in rather than grow it. Silly, huh?
I can only imagine the ham and cheese croissant from San Francisco’s Tartine Bakery contains at least a day’s worth of calories. It’s an incomparable splurge … especially when still warm from the oven.
The ham is smoky and thickly sliced. The good cheese bakes into the buttery croissant, it’s edges just slightly charred to a deep, golden brown. My fingers are coated with a light sheen of fat.
It’s really two meals.
Around the corner from the madness of the bakery, I sat in the shade of a vibrant palm on brick steps in front of a Mediterranean blue door. I ate every delicious bite, until I was covered in flakes of croissant skin.
