The Obligatory Food Post

Some of the best culinary treats Sydney has to offer originate from outside Australia. Immigrants from Thailand, Vietnam, India, Maylasia, Italy and elsewhere brought their curries and laksas along when they moved to Australia seeking greater opportunities and fortune. And judging by the sight and smell of the Central Business District (CBD) at lunchtime, it seems that most of these dishes are heartily welcomed by Aussie taste buds. However, if you wander the streets later, much later, after the business men and women have gone home, just about when the bars and pubs are declaring last call, you'll stumble upon the wee hours when Aussie comfort food reigns supreme.

In Europe, it's a kebab; in New York, it's a hot dog; in LA, it's a taco; and in Sydney, it's a pie that you'll want after hittin' the club. Now, the word 'pie' carries a lot of weight with me because, in my opinion, a good banana cream pie is the closest you can get to heaven on earth. However, I knew before ordering my first that 'pie' here indicates a savory treat, not a fruity one.

Indeed, when an American orders 'pie,' she wants apple, pumpkin or, depending on where she lives, maybe even pizza. Most of us yanks are probably familiar with the 'chicken pot' variety (especially Marie Callender's) and the anglophiles among us have surely stumbled upon a traditional sheppard's pie, but our experience with savory pies pretty much ends there. Across the ponds, though, meat pies are a hearty and satisfying component of the Brit and Aussie diet. I imagine that the Fab Four regularly devoured pies after playing gigs in Liverpool in the early sixties before they knew about Indian food.

I ordered my first steak and mushroom pie at a busy shopping mall cafe during lunch hour here in Sydney. The crust was perhaps not as flaky as desired and the contents of the pie were not clearly distinguishable as either steak, mushroom or filling. And sadly, I don't know if this consistency is a feature of a good pie or a not so good one. I'm leaning toward this not being the best pie, but maybe the good ones make the meat so tender that you can't distinguish it from the mushrooms? Nah, I don't think so either.

I may have struck out with my first pie, but my first encounter with banana bread was a raving success. Now you're thinking, 'what's the deal with banana bread in Australia? Isn't it the same as banana bread in the states?' These were my thoughts exactly until I noticed banana bread's ubiquity in Australian cafes. It turns out everything I ever thought I knew about this delicious loaf pan dessert was wrong...

The banana bread that I'm used to should be called 'banana cake.' It's made from batter as opposed to dough and is usually eaten in a dessert context instead of as the end pieces of a sandwich. Here in Australia, banana bread is prepared the exact same cakey way, BUT it becomes a bread when you order it 'toasted and with butter.' It turns out that there is no other way to order and eat banana bread. I suggest that you try my own 'Australian' banana bread recipe:

1. Follow directions on package of regular banana bread mix.

2. When banana bread is cool, slice and toast a piece.

3. Slather this piece with butter and enjoy!

I've Sharpened my No. 2 Pencil and Ironed my No. 1 Pencil Skirt; Bring on the Interviews

We love Sydney already, but we were really happy in Switzerland. We met beautiful friends who touched our lives and relished a car-free existance in a public transport haven in the center of Europe. We were living the good life, but the career opportunities for me (a non-German speaker and non-EU passport holder) were limited and thus we decided to move down unda. And ever since arriving, four year work visa in hand, I've put a lot of pressure on myself to find a job and even more broadly, to find a career.

However, before you get a job, you have to get through an interview or two. I've had a couple here in Sydney over the last couple of weeks and from now on I will always associate the process with a tight-rope walk. It truly is a balancing act.

This may sound like a lie (I certainly thought it did), but I was turned down for one job because I was "too smart." Apparently, after asking 'one of the most intelligent interviewee questions' the interviewer had ever heard, she knew that I would get bored with the role after three to six months. Really? You're really saying no because you think I'm too smart? Maybe she didn't like my outfit or my American accent and the way it would sound on the phone to clients and went with the kinder 'you're too smart,' rejection. Who knows?

My concern that my outfit may not have been right is actually sincere. The recruiter literally spent about three minutes describing what type of dress was appropriate for this company. "They're a really creative, boutique company," she said. "A standard business suit simply will not work in this context. On the other hand, I once sent a girl in to interview with them and her outfit revealed too much cleavage, so don't do that. I don't want to lead you..." she kept saying and indicated that I should just figure it out. That left me somewhere in between, but not including business wear and night club garb. Great. I chose a short sleeve button up shirt, a polka-dot pencil skirt, red belt and open-toed wedges. Maybe the open-toe was my downfall, but if my wardrobe matters that much, I don't know if I would want to work there anyway.

The same recruiter gave me valuable feedback on my interviewing style. She said I make good eye-contact, but am a little too formal and noted that I could be warmer. Before I went into this interview, she stressed that I should just be myself "because the manager is a very good judge of character and can see through everything." Before interviews and first dates we're told to be ourselves, but I doubt that anyone actually lands a job or a boyfriend by being themselves. When I first meet someone, I am pretty formal and reserved and probably haven't always come across as 'warm' enough. Should I pretend I'm an actress playing the lead role in Barbie Gets a Job or should I fall back to 'me' and hope that is good enough?

Until I know the answer to that question, I'll remain the acrobat on the tight-rope. I'm in the spotlight balancing too smart with smart enough and professional with warm. You won't know how scared I am because I'm smiling and staring straight ahead.

Starting Over Down Under

I've heard that Sydney is sometimes described as the LA of Australia; it's large, diverse, has great food and it sprawls for miles into the surrounding suburbs. I'll reserve judgment on the accuracy of this comparison, but for now must note another similarity between the two metropolises: like LA, Sydney is not pedestrian friendly. In LA, walking doesn't make sense because you simply can't get from place to place on foot. In Sydney's central business district, the pedestrian lights are poorly timed. Almost everyone jaywalks because they simply don't want to wait three minutes to cross the road. Imagine crossing a city street with a triangular cement island separating the turn lane from the through traffic. Sometimes, you get the 'WALK' light to get to the island (four steps maybe) and then get a 'STOP' light preventing you from safely crossing the rest of the street in one go.

Mickey and I will also have to get used to the foreign mobile phone service plans and seemingly archaic ISP plans. Under my current plan, $50 bought me $300 worth of talk time and texts. It is cheaper for me to call the US than make local calls and I get penalized if I try to top up my SIM before I am scheduled to do so. When either my first month of service is up or when that $300 worth of credit runs out, I can purchase $50 worth of credit for $50. It's almost enough to make you want to buy a wig and a fake passport and get that first month deal every month. Frustrated at the Vodaphone counter in the airport, Mickey said, "why is this so complicated?" The sales guy assured us that it wasn't at all complicated. What a comfort...

Likewise, I was stunned when I found out that unlimited internet usage plans are almost unheard of here. 'Pay by the hour?' I scoffed, 'what is this, 1997?' Mickey explained to me, however, that there are only two major pipes that connect Australia with the US and its many data centers. Apparently these pipes get overloaded and it is more expensive for ISPs to operate. In a country with so much to offer outdoors, many Aussies probably prefer catching real waves over surfing the net and I can live with that. Just don't take away my Tivo.

I've complained plenty about these minor areas of adjustment, but have not yet mentioned my favorite part about living in Australia. All the anxiety that surrounded asking for help in public is gone. When I was in Zurich or travelling elsewhere, I'd have to mentally prepare to ask 'do you speak English?' in the local tongue. I was always worried about people correctly identifying me as an American and responding rudely to my ignorance. This almost never happened; in fact, the Swiss are really quite friendly folk. However, it was frustrating that even when I got more comfortable with my German and knew how to ask the right questions, I couldn't count on being able to understand the response. I wanted so badly to get by on my German that I didn't ask for a repeat when I didn't catch something. One time I struggled so hard to order some white cheddar from the fromagier that I was too embarassed to say anything when I paid for the wrong amount of cheese. I preferred instead to have my friend Thao go to a different store and pick up what I really needed later. Anyway, it's a relief to not have to clench up and listen hard when I ask for help in public. I feel like patting myself on the back every time I understand someone.

As it turns out, I'm not the only one down unda who doesn't hesitate to ask for help in public. Last week a middle aged man approached me in the supermarket: "I hate to bother you," he stammered. "I hate to have to ask a woman this, but..." Oh my god, was I on some Australian candid camera or what? "My missus has diarrhea and I need to know what to get" he whispered as he held up his mostly empty shopping basket for me to inspect. I made a quick call to treat this as a sincere question and told the man what I knew about the BRAT (bananas, rice, applesauce, toast) diet. I hope I helped. It's a strange trade, but I'll exchange my pedestrian woes and service plan confusion for the freedom to ask a question in public any day, especially if it means I can ask anything.

I'm Bringing Schmützli Back...

This post was also published here on a new website for expats in Switzerland.

When I leave Switzerland, I hope to bring home more than just bars of Lindt chocolate and a multipurpose pocket knife. I'm talking about non-material souvenirs like Swiss habits, traditions and ways of life that I've not only adjusted to, but embraced and adopted as my own. For instance, I've gotten used to all the stores being closed on Sunday and now plan my meals in advance and actually spend my sabbath as a day of rest the way the Swiss do.

And last week I came across another Swiss tradition, this time annual as opposed to weekly, that I will be sure to "take home." The Swiss Santa Claus, Samichlaus, shows up almost three weeks earlier than our jolly old St. Nick on December 6th and brings a bag of edible treats for children who've been good all year. It's the Christkind, or baby Jesus who brings toys in secret and leaves them under the Tannenbaum on Christmas eve.

There's one aspect of this December 6th ritual that I will probably leave here in Switzerland; the sack of goodies that Samichlaus brings aren't really... good. He always brings the following items even if you behaved yourself incredibly well for an entire year: 1. mandarin oranges - these are incredibly sweet and abundant this time of year, but is it really a "goody" if moms encourage kids to eat these anyway? 2. lebkuchen - like a gingerbread cookie but cakier and somehow not as tasty, 3. chocolates - no problems there, but lastly 4. unshelled peanuts - these are great for ball games and the circus, but in the heat of cookie season they're totally forgettable. I think my host family has in fact forgotten about the mountain of unshelled peanuts on the dining table because no one has touched them for a week. Anyway, when I have kids I'll arrange for Samichlaus to bring them sacks full of sour gummy worms, blow pops and other candies loaded with processed sugar and artificial flavors and colors if they've been very good, that is.

Aside from the somewhat lame contents of the goody bags, December 6th is a lot of fun because, if your parents are creative and have an older male friend with a white beard, you get to hang out with the man in the red suit for the evening. Before handing over the treats, he tells kids that he's proud of them for behaving, but also lets them know that it pisses their parents off when they have tantrums in the supermarket. The most interesting aspect of this holiday, however, the reason I am bringing this tradition home and hopefully spreading it, is that Samichlaus doesn't come alone.

Samichlaus is always accompanied by his creepy sidekick, Schmützli. Schmützli wears a long black robe that when done wrong makes him look like a member of Al Qeada, but when done right merely looks intimidating. These days he just helps Samichlaus distribute the treats and doesn't say much, but he used to play a much more important role. According to Wikipedia, Samichlaus was all about rewarding the good kids and Schmützli was the enforcer who punished the bad. He used to carry a whip and when the large sack of goodies was empty, Schmützli could use it to stuff naughty children into and then kidnap them.

Elena received a book this year explaining the legend of Schmützli and how he became Samichlause's most unlikely helper. We've "read" it several times even though it's in Swiss German, but I gather that he was once a poor woodcutter who saved Christmas one year by picking up all the treats that fell out of Samichlause's own ripped sack. Samichlaus was grateful for the woodcutter's help and let him accompany him to children's homes every subsequent year. This tale might explain why Schmützli wears dark clothing (he's a poor woodcutter), but it doesn't give any hint as to why he plays the bad cop and sometimes covers his face in soot and lard (Wikipedia). I have a feeling that this delightful children's story was a lot more Hans Christian Andersen-esque before it was Disneyfied.

Anyway, I think we need to resurrect this valliant tradition of scaring the pants off kids and introduce it to every home where good intentioned parents spoil their greedy little offspring. The only remnant of Schmützli in our culture is a harmless little lump of coal in the stocking and that is simply not good enough to deter bad behavior. Who knows? Maybe if Schmützli came and roughed up the naughty kids a little on December 6th, they'd be behaving by December 25th. And if that is successful, maybe the parents of the world can arrange for Schmützli to show up in July or at other points of the year to regulate behavior.

Yes, you won't find a cuckoo clock among my treasures from Switzerland, but you might find a holiday tradition with a little law and order.

Black Friday

I made it almost a whole year without once returning to my home country for a visit. And the fact that we are coming home for Christmas and New Year made a trip stateside in November seem a little excessive. Was it the pull of a home-cooked turkey dinner that drove us to endure two eight and a half hour plane rides in order to spend Thanksgiving weekend with family in New York? No, Mickey's family doesn't prepare a traditional American Thanksgiving feast so our motive wasn't a longing for comfort food. Last Thanksgiving weekend I was seeking a different kind of American comfort usually enjoyed post-turkey and I don't mean pumpkin pie... ever heard of retail therapy and Black Friday? Sure I was excited about being with family, but it was ultimately the sales that got me skipping all the way to the airport.

Black Friday isn't for the timid. Named for the Friday after Thanksgiving when sales supposedly boost retailers "into the black" (the point at which they begin turning a profit), Black Friday is one of the busiest shopping days of the year. Most of these retailers open their doors early and entice shoppers with incredible deals for those who brave the chaos of jam-packed parking lots and long lines. On the Black Fridays of years past, I kept as far away from the mall madness as possible, but this year our circumstances are different.

When I was in seventh grade, my English teacher asked us to list the five most important things that we had learned from our parents. Four of my life lessons probably mentioned 'hard work' or 'true friends,' but the one I remember writing is 'never pay retail.' By the age of twelve, I knew the joy that comes with treasure hunting at TJ Maxx or Marshalls. My mom taught me that Nordstrom offers the best customer service, but that the best deals and best selection of shoes are at Nordstrom's Rack. I discovered Loehmann's as a young adult and Century 21 on a trip to New York City and have been happily bargain shopping ever since. That was until I moved to Switzerland.

Switzerland and most of Europe it seems doesn't have discount clothing stores at which you can purchase top brands for less. I've heard of some supposedly great outlets in southern Germany and others outside Florence, but I'm doubtful that they're really as good as the ones in the states. I went to one Esprit outlet here in Zurich and was terribly disappointed by the selection and quality of the merchandise. Of course shopping at regular stores is just as bad because prices are high and sales are few and far between. So I decided to do what any discount-loving Swiss person would do when the dollar hits an all time low: fly to NYC for a shopping vacation. (Remember, the official purpose of our visit was to spend Thanksgiving with family and that's all anyone, especially US and Swiss customs officials, need to know :).

Having never trained myself for a Black Friday, I started to feel pre-trip anxiety about the crowds. Would my desperate need for a new pair of black leather boots help my nerve last longer than the line at Cole Haan? Had a year of Saturday mornings spent hiking and touring instead of waiting in line at Costco made me soft? I knew Black Friday would require every ounce of strength I could muster and I wanted to be ready. I began preparation by memorizing a list of the outlet stores at the Tanger Outlet Mall in Riverhead, NY, downloading a map of the mall and then planning my route. Then, I browsed the websites of my favorite retailers to get ideas. This particular outlet mall and probably many others throughout the US were running an insane Midnight Madness promotion; the stores open at midnight on Thanksgiving night/Black Friday morn' and stay open all day, a full 22 hours until 10pm on Black Friday.

Mickey was willing to take me shopping and his uncle lent us his car, the only question was when we should hit the stores. My plan was this: we arrive in New York on Thursday afternoon jetlagged but still kicking. We spend some time with the family, have a meal and pass out at 7:30pm eastern time (1:30am to our bodies). Then, wake up at around three or four in the morning eastern time (nine or ten to our bodies) and rush to the outlets. Believe it or not, this is almost exactly what happened. We were backing Mickey's uncle's Pathfinder out of the driveway when the clock on the dash said 4:00am. My thinking was that midnight shoppers would be gone by four, but that daytime shoppers wouldn't show until after six and we'd have an easier shopping experience, but we couldn't be sure.

Mickey and I were taking bets about the state of the parking lot when we exited the highway. At 4:20am there weren't yet any signs of Black Friday on the road. And then we got closer to the outlet mall... When I saw both sides of the street lined with cars haphazardly parked in the dirt and grass, I started to panic. "Mickey, just pull over and park anywhere," I begged. "We don't want to go into that parking lot if it's this full." But Mickey persisted and we were relieved to find the lot less than half full. It turns out that we had guessed right; the midnight shoppers were exhausted and packing up their cars with bulging shopping bags, but the daytime folks were still asleep. We left the car in front of the Rebok outlet and I practically ran to the Banana Republic outlet, giddily pulling Mickey along behind me. The salespeople yawned as they folded sweaters and jeans, trying to pick up the pieces after the tornado that was Midnight Madness, but we were fresh as daisies on Swiss time. While ringing up my purchases, they complained to one another about how much longer their shifts were. I smiled as I handed over my credit card and bid them goodbye with a cheerful "happy holidays!" thrilled that I could again communicate in public with ease. My shopping bags were full, the discounts were mine and I was home.