to Grindelwald

His name is Dr. Schmidt, though I dont know the correct spelling of that. He speaks near perfect English and this morning I had a chance to reflect with him about the state of the American health care system. Well, and the state of America. His parting words? Spoken with total kindness -- I am so sorry for you. Really, so very sorry. I almost cried.

How did this come to pass? Well, a night light on sleep and high on ear pain told me that I should do something about this. My bug may be receding but it's leaving behind a hard stamp on my sinuses and ear. Reluctantly, at around 8 in the morning, I asked the hotel for a doctor recommendation. I best medicate before I run into hearing issues. The concierge asks the obvious -- do I want a doctor to come to the hotel for a visit? Because that can cost a bit of money. Several hundred Swiss francs. (I thought -- that's what we pay back home for any words exchanged with a doc, you're talkin to a citizen of the land of the most expensive medical care. Nothing can shock me!) 

I explained that I just need medicine for my ear. Ah, well that's different. You need to go to the pharmacy. It's open. Just up the block.

No no, that wont work. I probably need a doc's prescription for this one.

Well then talk to the pharmacy doctor. Here, I'll call him and tell him you're coming.

Five minutes later, I am at the pharmacy, talking to Dr. Schmidt. He listens. I talk about sinus pressure, pain in ear., antibiotics... He nods. It's not going to be an ear infection -- he tells me. You don't need antibiotics. You need a nasal spray and some herbal nonprescription pill for sinus congestion.

I trust Swiss docs. After all, my girls' pediatrician -- a beloved doc, like no other -- was a dual from Switzerland. And still, I ask -- are you sure? (I really said this! As if I wouldn't believe in the credentials of someone whose job it was to sit in the pharmacy and offer medical consultation.)

Listen, I'm happy to check it for you, but yes, I'm sure.

We go upstairs, he checks very thoroughly and nods his head. No infection. Just pressure. Your, how do you say it, tromellfell (ear drum) is bulging. Follow my recommendation and you'll be fine. Say hello to the people at the Storchen for me. (This is when the subject of health care in America came up. See above.)

Ten minutes later I am back at the hotel popping an herbal pill and going down for breakfast at the Storchen.

Did I pay for this service? I honestly do not know. I paid a small sum that could have been just for the meds he gave me, or it could have included something for the consultation. In any case, it was fast, inexpensive, efficient, professional. I think back to the hours I spent waiting to see just a nurse practitioner at urgent care back home. About the bad advice she gave me, the time wasted, the money spent (not my own, but ultimately yours, because your taxes pay for my Medicare). Here, I worried at night about having to reshuffle my travel today. Whether I would have to cancel my late morning train reservation and make a new one. But it wasn't serious worry, because I knew that even if I didn't address this issue in Zurich, I could just as easily seek out help in the Alpine town that is to be my home for the next 6 days. And I knew it would not break my budget.

Thank you, Dr. Schmidt. For your good advice and your sympathetic words.

Breakfast at the Storchen: my last one. And no, I didn't go light. 

(before they even brought out the omelet and the avocado)

Here's my reasoning: I'll be traveling. There wont be time for lunch. Whatever I eat now will have to hold me for twelve hours (dinner at 8 tonight). [The faulty thinking here is obvious: no way will I not find food between now and the evening.] 

At 10:20 I catch a cab to the train station.

Swiss trains had a stellar reputation even before train travel reached new heights of speed and efficiency in Europe in these past few decades. I have memories of this! Here's a vivid one:

It's 1972. I'd just arrived in New York, employed as an au pair, providing child care in exchange for college tuition at Barnard -- the alma mater of the matriarch of the family I worked for. I was 18 and had 2.5 years of university behind me. I needed two more to get my B.A. in New York.

Despite being new to college life, despite being a commuter (most kids at Barnard lived in campus housing and most did not work for their tuition), despite my job, I plunged into extra curriculars. I looked around for good clubs to join and was shocked to see that there was no ski club in the offerings. I got in touch with Columbia's ski club (Columbia was then the men's college across the street) and formed a plan: I'd organize a Barnard ski club and get members to sign up for a ski trip to the Alps. Michael, the Columbia ski club pres, assured me that if we had a sufficient number of skiers, our trip would be paid for.

Between his efforts at Columbia and mine at Barnard, we got the requisite minimum. I was thrilled. That's when he said -- the travel company will pay for only two free trips -- mine and my friend's -- he helps run the Columbia club. 

They screwed me big time, but I went on the trip anyway. They got a good price for the group and I got a second job working at the local bookstore to pay for it. We went to Zermatt, in Switzerland. Perhaps you know that Zermatt is traffic free -- you can only reach it by train. I will never forget that ride up to the resort. It was dark and we were tired and yet someone felt like singing. Crosby Still & Nash. Teach your children well:

You, who are on the road

Must have a code you try to live by

And so become yourself 

Because the past is just a goodbye...

 

I cried, big time. Those were years when I still clung to my Polish university friends. Somehow I was stuck (and I would be stuck here for a long long time) not knowing where I belonged. These American kids were of a different fabric. Not my fabric. And yet, here we were. Michael came into my room that evening to give me a massage. I had to laugh: such an American way to address a problem!

 

I would return again to Zermatt many times, but always approaching it from the Italian side. I liked the perpetual Italian sunshine. When I did ride the Swiss train again, it was with Ed, early into our relationship. We took an overnight from Amsterdam to Milan and I lost my passport on that train -- something I discovered much later, on an island in the middle of an Italian lake. That was the last time I stuffed things into pockets without zippers.

Let's spin forward, to this day: where am I going? To Grindelwald.

It's not a strange destination, not at all! Here's how I came to it: I wanted to take walks. Many walks. In the country. I needed a destination that would be easy to get to from a big city. I'd already canvassed the Savoie region of France, and Italy is not at all easy in terms of "reachability" and so the obvious candidate was Switzerland. I wanted to avoid the ritzy ski resorts. I stumbled upon Grindelwald somehow, probably from an extensive hotel search up and down the mountains of this country. I dont even remember if I chose the Hotel Feischerblick  because it was in Grindelwald, or of I chose Grindelwald because it had the Fiescherblick. Probably the latter!

I ride the train first to Interlaken (2 hours). 

(out my window)

There I change to the tiny local that takes me to Grindelwald (30 minutes). It's a quick change of trains (5 minutes) and requires a traipse below the tracks, but I get some help with my medium suitcase from a sympathetic young guy and I make it! 

(on the way up to the valley of Grindelwald: out my window)

 

So... what's so special about Grindelwald? 

Well, it's pretty, judging from the photos. Tall mountains line one side of the valley and somewhere in there you'll find Jungfrau (one of the largest in the Alps, at 13, 642ft/4158m). One reason people travel to Grindelwald is that from here you can take a gondola up to the Eiger Glacier and from there, the cog rail to the highest train station in Europe, with a platform at 3454m/11,332ft. I'm not sure I'm a candidate for it -- high elevations make my head spin, but still, it is an option. 

Grindelwald is small (population: 3800). And it's not just a ski place. I heard that Asian tourists will come here because it reminds them of Heidi (even as Heidi fictionally takes place elsewhere): green pastures, cow bells. That kind of thing.

And the Hotel Feischerblick? It's also small (19 rooms). Two brothers from a Grindelwald hotel family -- Matthias and Lars (their parents own the hotel across the driveway) took over an older building and renovated it, and it is their efforts, as pictured on the website, that drew me to the place. Call it Scandinavian modern! It's definitely a newer spin on the Alpine standard (which is lots of knotty pine furniture). I was curious to see it, at first for only a short visit, but as I corresponded with the exceptionally friendly and helpful staff, I extended my stay and so here I am, for nearly a full week.

Of course, there's the matter of the weather. Long walks in the rain? Not so good. I panicked when I saw the forecast for the week. Wet and cloudy, every day. But the brothers laughed off my worry. Weather in the mountains is unpredictable. Do not fret! Indeed, the forecast somewhat improved for at least two of the six days. Still, today is a wet-ish one. I call the hotel from the train, they come over to pick me up at the station. I have arrived.

 

 

 

My room is just perfect. Big windows, lots of them, making even a small space open up to the world. It has a desk. It has a chair. And it has lovely spring flowers!

I'm not ambitious today. I go downstairs for a coffee (with apple cake -- it's what they have, making me think that apple cake is the it food in Switzerland) 

I unpack and take stock. There is a pause in the drizzle. Now is the time to take a walk. I opt for one recommended by Andras, who works here (if ever there was a nature lover -- it's him). He outlines a possibility on a map. It has it all -- meadows, forests, a brook, a gorge, looping to downtown Grindelwald. Sounds good to me!

I take out my walking stick and set out.

The stick is a real asset. There's no such thing as a flat path in this valley. The mountains are immediate, hugging you from all sides.

 

 

 

I walk through the town's outskirts, past farms and cheese makers...

 

 (this one has got some awards going...)

 

 

... down to the brook, admiring the primrose blooms by the Swiss chalets that dot the landscape.

I'm supposed to follow the road for a long while. Yes, it's basically free of traffic, but I have this tickle in my legs as I spot a trail pointing up in the direction of a forest. Yes, that's what I want -- a walk in this dense green forest. 

And almost immediately I come across swaths of purple flowers -- they bear the unattractive name of Liverwort. It's somewhere between an Anemone and a purple Buttercup and it is beautiful.

And there's so much of it and it looks stunning against the green moss that spreads across the forest floor.

Down the hill I hear the goats and donkeys...

And in the forest, the birdsong is gorgeous --  I hear a Common Firecrest and a Song Thrush -- both distinctly European birds, loving the tall pines in the mountains once winter leaves their steep slopes.

It's a thrilling walk. 

Occasionally, I see glimpses of Grindelwald and my hotel -- easy to spot because it is right next to the very visible white church steeple.

 

 

Does the hike have a goal? This path becomes a straight uphill affair, so I dont have to worry about having the strength to get back (though there will be a modest climb to the hotel on the opposite side of the creek). But when does one decide to turn around? For me, there has to be a marker of some sort: I hiked all the way up to... what?

I find my turning point where the path intersects with the road again, this time as it comes to a dead end in front of a seemingly closed something or other  -- maybe a bar? An eatery? Hard to tell, but it looks old, especially the front building. 

There's a good view here toward the creek below and the Grindelwald valley. The mountains may be hidden under a cloud cover, but the valley stretches before me -- one big sprawl of chalets, farms, vacation homes. With its 3800 people, it's not nearly as big as Chamonix (population: 9000), but it's larger than tiny Saint Martin de Belleville (population: 2600). And unlike Saint Martin de Belleville it has that Jungfrau draw for tourists who often come here just for that. Andras nicely poo-pooed it for me ("it's a tourist trap! You ride up to the "top of Europe" and wow, there's a post office there and you can mail your postcard and then sit down and have a Wiener schnitzel.") so now I don't have to feel obligated to go!

I turn around, hike back and take a couple of hours to unwind.

My dinner is downtown today. I let them pick all the eateries for me here. The hotel brothers grew up in Grindelwald, they should know what's good.

I walk the 15 minutes to the less formal room of the Restaurant Kreuz & Post. This is actually my first real glimpse of Grindelwald, the town.

 

 

Everything is closed of course, and in this low season, I cant expect to see people out and about. I, of course, like the quiet. And I like that it's a modest place. No fancy stores charging a million (think: Zurich. St. Moritz, though I've never been. Think Geneva.)

At the restaurant, I order everything off the "seasonal spring menu." Home made rabbit terrine with rhubarb chutney. (Am I getting back at the rabbits that destroy my gardens back home?) Perch, sustainably sourced nearby, with spring carrots and monk's beard -- a Mediterranean vegetable I'd never heard of -- all that fish (and there was a lot!) placed over three huge home made gnocchi.

 

 

(Yes, I'm totally into a new mystery novel; I can't listen in on the dining room conversations -- with the exception of one table, I hear only German and I can tell the people are local, enjoying a meal out when the tourists have finally packed and gone home.)

For dessert, I ask for just HALF a slice of their plum tart.

 

 

It's when I hand over my credit card (obviously American -- they ring up differently), that the waitress (who is just a little younger than me) probes my background. She tells me -- when they made the reservation for you, I thought you were Croatian, I had no idea you'd be American. (My last name is my ex-husband's and his father was in fact Croatian. Europeans spot this instantly and always pronounce my name in the Croatian way -- it sounds like Camich.) Like the others, she tries to temper the awfulness of America's current state of affairs. But she also can't help herself. She tells me they all suspect these people on top right now, they have something wrong "upstairs." And the cruelty! And the environment! She asks -- why don't Americans care about the environment? To this I have no answer.

I walk home slowly. It's crisp outside: just a tad above freezing. As I approach the edge of the town (this is where my hotel is), I smell barn. I smell hay. I smell cows. Makes me think of home!

with so much love...

Zurich

How tired was I? So tired that for the first time (perhaps ever!), I slept through that first jet lagged European night for a solid eight or maybe even nine hours. That's impressive (for me)! When Ed called this morning, he actually woke me. At 8 am. Oh, I needed that (both the deep sleep and the call which, for him, was made around 2 a.m. -- the man keeps unusual hours)! The bug (it's not Covid) that knocked me down back home had receded, then came back (yesterday), but that night of sleep knocked it down once again. Oh, precious rest!

It's cloudy and there's rain. Looking out my window:

I go down to breakfast. The hotel is not small, but there are few diners. It could be the hour (8:30), but more likely it's because of the slowness of travel at this time of the year. I get a beautiful table with a grand view.

With buffet breakfasts, you have to get familiar with the offerings. The first day is like an experiment: try this, that, look for Muesli of course, at the last minute add some protein. I think I covered my bases, but tomorrow, I'll scale back. Too much on that plate! 

By far the item of choice (for me) is their homemade Bircher Muesli. What's that? Well, regular old Muesli is oats and dried fruits and nuts, with added milk or yogurt just before you eat it. Bircher Muesli has you soak the oats with the grated apple and fruit juice overnight. And in the Bircher Muesli, the emphasis is more on the fruits than the oats. Here, I took both!

As usual, I read during my morning meal when soloing -- catch up on emails, on news feeds. And I allow my thoughts to float -- today, to the subject of satisfaction. There is a reason why I am nearly always so deeply satisfied with my European travel days: after spending quite a bit of time beforehand making decisions about hotels, eateries, excursions, I let all that go once I've begun the journey. Those expectations slip away and the day unfolds. When I catch myself thinking -- oh, this meal wasn't great, or this weather sucks, I try hard to erase that thought because really, I'm not in search of perfect anything. I'm in search of listening, looking, feeling open to whatever takes place around me.

It's a lesson I learned in France and it's become a goal for me, something to strive for: I had noticed over scores of meals eaten in restaurants there, that the French -- perhaps the biggest food snobs (sorry, French people!) on the planet, never complain about food they're served while eating out. I've never once heard a grumble, never seen a dish sent back. The tables are filled with happy people chomping away. Americans, by contrast, often evaluate -- you can see it in their faces, read it in their posted comments! (And yes, send back if dissatisfied.) And honestly, I do value their evaluations. I read all those negative thoughts, say on Tripadvisor or elsewhere. I rely on them! So thank you! At the same time, I know that an evening spent in a restaurant is a happy experience for those who let go of judgment and just enjoy the meal for what it is. It doesn't have to be perfect to be absolutely great. 

Just like a meal, a travel day as well doesn't have to be perfect, the weather doesn't have to be excellent, nor the food exceptional, for the day to be totally sublime. It surely will be rich in detail no matter what.

 

After breakfast, I take an umbrella (but I never use it -- the rain stops right about now) and walk over to where there is a semiweekly market from 7 -11. I happen to be here on one of those mornings, which turns out to be incredible luck.

The market is awesome!

(artichokes in all shapes and sizes and pink lettuce!)

And I've been to many markets, including our own in Madison -- considered to be one of the country's best. What the Zurich one has going for it is not quantity (of vendors), but quality (of foods and flowers) -- achieved in large part because their season is so much longer than ours!

Like in France, presentation matters, though the French are more fastidious in this regard. I'm enthralled by the veggies -- mostly Swiss, though the white asparagus is German...

But I am absolutely mesmerized, charmed, and enchanted by the spring flowers.

I cannot say enough good things about them. Such art in the bouquets! Such variety!

I can see that our own spring market is smaller in scope (though larger in size). We're nowhere near the variety that I find here. 

 

 

 

(Something to be remembered: women in Switzerland were given the right to vote in federal elections in 1971, so yes, it is a socially conservative country, though not a religious one: 35% claim to have no religion, outdistancing the next most popular group -- Catholics at 31%)

 

(Swiss cheeses...)

 

 

Afterwards, I return the unused umbrella. The rain takes a pause!
 

 

 

I head out toward the old town. It's very pretty, albeit there is some street construction (pipe replacement? new cable installation? Don't know...) that you have to navigate.

I have a goal. I'd heard there is a great collection of Impressionists at the Kunsthaus Museum. I love the Impressionists. I'm on it!

Oh my goodness. 

I did not expect this: it will go down in my memory as the most emotional museum experience of my life, for reasons I could not possibly have expected. At the end of it, I had to talk to someone, review this, summarize it in my head in some fashion. I call Bee in Poland (she is an art enthusiast!) and we talk.

Let me see if I can explain it here without losing the thread and spirit of Ocean. (As you know, I tend to summarize and focus on a theme briefly, then move on.) What they have done on the second floor of the Kunsthaus (that's where most, but not all, of the museum's Impressionists are) in the last two years is extraordinary, in part because the history of that collection is extraordinary. Or perhaps not so extraordinary, when you think about it. It's just that we don't think about it. 

(In one room, you read how the public reacts to the idea that we should actively discover the provenance of art displayed at a museum, specifically this museum) 

When you go to a museum, you dont give much thought to where the art is from, who acquired it and with what means. At the Kunsthaus, they've done just that, in part because they had to. Their huge, sumptuous collection (only at the Orsay have I seen more Impressionism in one place) was established at the hands of Emil Georg Bührle. I'd never heard of him, but I bet every Swiss person knows the name. Bührle was a German born Swiss industrialist who became the richest man in Switzerland (!) back in the day. He bought a machining tool company and converted it to the manufacture and sale of weapons and ammunition. He sold to everyone. Wherever it brought in more money. And when the war started, he sold big time to Nazi Germany. To Mussolini. And the thing is, he did this with "neutral" Swiss blessing. But also without it -- after the war, he sold illegally to Pakistan. And his production methods? Horrible victimization of poor women, children. And after his death,  in the 1960s,  his son was found to illegally export arms to South Africa. It was that kind of a family.

 

(The collection, which spans many many rooms, is arranged chronologically -- by date of acquisition. But at the very beginning of the exhibition we have this: a very famous Renoir; next to it is a full story of who was painted, for what reason, whom it was passed on to over the generations, and in the end which owner was killed by Nazis, who had it after that, and how Bührle acquired it. A story of one sorrow and tragedy after another. )

 

 

His was (is?) also a family that bought art. Bührle used art as a way to solidify his stature among the rich and famous of Zurich. He bought or acquired mainly Impressionist canvases throughout his life. It's important to know how he bought and acquired it: some was art that had been looted by Germans. Some was purchased under-price from Jews seeking funds to flee Germany. Bührle went on art buying sprees in Nazi occupied France. The guy was ruthless!

 

(Bührle himself donated three large canvases to the museum. This is one of them)

 

Bührle contribute a lot of money to the building of the Kunsthaus. Blood money. 

(so much to read here! I dont expect you to delve into the details, but while there, I read every word, fascinated. Horrified.)

 

 

After his death, his family arranged for even more canvases to be displayed at the museum. Some 200, on a complicated loan arrangement that I do not fully understand. But it's just a fraction of their haul. They also kept a lot of the art for themselves. 

Initially, the "donated" art was not displayed. But in 2012, after long negotiations, the Zurich City Parliament and a vote by the public (53% voted yes, but only 35% voted...) approved the showing of these masterpieces in a new extension of the museum. It opened in 2021. And right away, protest erupted.

What the museum has done is this: it is tracing the history of all of it -- Emil Georg Bührle, his wealth, his art fancy and presenting it in written format on the walls of the museum, along with the canvases -- some of them with blue tablets signifying that the provenance of the art is still under review. Some canvases have been traced as stolen from Jews. These have been removed and returned to original owners. Blank spaces with just cards remain.

 

 

 

(blue cards: under investigation)

 

All of it is there for you to read and take in. And each Wednesday -- the museum entrance fee is waved and there is an open discussion as to what should happen next. 

What absolutely blew me away was the open, honest way the museum is looking back on its history of complicity and the country's complicity, and on the moral underpinnings of art acquisition. I'm living in a year where back home, we are trying to shut down any discussion of historic failures -- ones that don't fit into a comfortable understanding of our own splendid position in this universe. To see how an uncomfortable discussion might proceed was so moving for me!

(not only Impressionists: Bührle expanded his repertoire toward the end of his life)

 

 

I accosted one of the museum staff (did you know that the Swiss are reserved and do not generally look for conversations with strangers?) and I talked about all this with her. (And of course, American politics came into full focus, though this sweet person did not try to shift the narrative to the faults of other leaderships, she fully embraced the idea that all governments are suspect and do things that are corrupt, it's just that currently -- but not exclusively! --  America ranks high on this dimension.) She spoke of how important it is to speak up and question the status quo (and yes, she did ask why we are not protesting openly in America right now). 

And so ended my museum visit. The levity that I had so stamped onto this trip was momentarily dispelled and my heart pounded with the pain of those years of fascism in Europe. 

One last moment: I was going down to the exit, passing through a more conventional floor of museum pieces, also famous, also beautiful...

... and I came across another installation, this one by Refik Anaddl (called "Glacier Dreams"). Think: AI. Think: The biggest challenge of our time -- preserving our endangered environment. Then step inside and experience this (it's moving and dripping and melting...):

 

 

Time to leave. 

(3 generations, making their way up to the exhibition...)

(walk back, through the "old town")

 

 

(view toward my side of the river; the pink building is my hotel)

 

 

I pause for a while at the hotel, talk to my friend who for once shares the clock with me, and as the afternoon very quickly moves from one hour to the next, I decide to do one more outing -- nearby, to a church of all things (the Fraumunster), and then to Cafe Sprüngli.  Let me explain both:

The church is one of few in this world that has stained glass windows by Chagall. I want to see them. The weather had turned again and it's raining when I step outside, but the church is close by and they have plenty of umbrellas here. (And plenty of rain!)

(five panels, not really possible to photograph in one shot...)

From there, I go to Sprüngli. 

Maybe you've heard of it? Sprüngli is 190 years old. First established (by David Sprüngli) as a "confection" shop, it was an important keg in the machinery that propelled Switzerland to "best chocolate in the world" fame.  Many generations of Sprüngli men (!) have owned and operated it (though the Sprüngli empire was initially split between two Sprüngli sons: one brother went on to establish the industrial production Lindt-Sprüngli company, while the other stayed with the Sprüngli candy shop (eventually also cafe and restaurant) in Zurich (and beyond).

Good chocolate is very in right now. Some of the best marketed chocolate is in fact so good that I dont even especially like it. Way too intense. But Sprüngli is of a different tradition -- it's fine chocolate, but it's also enjoyable. People of my generation stay loyal to it even as the babes of the world flock there as well.

I have especially fine memories of Sprüngli, because I came here with my two girls on their very first trip to Europe. We didn't exactly visit Zurich, but we flew to it because in those days (one girl was 8, the other 5) Swiss Air offered the best overseas flight fares. And in our several hour layover in Zurich (we were on our way to Madrid, where my now ex had a conference), I decided we could zip over by train to the city center to explore a bit of it and to eat Swiss chocolates. I took them all to Sprungli. Neither girl remembers that visit, but I do! Their first European meal!

Today, I stared at chocolates, fighting with myself about taking any home. (It's not as if we lack chocolate in the US.) I'll let you know who won once I get back and start making family dinners and brunches again!

Then I went over to their cafe. As luck would have it, one of the limited tables opened up. 

(what luck: a mirror by my seat!)

 

 

I literally asked the server which pastry she regarded as most Sprüngli appropriate. She pointed me to this one.

Sprüngli is heavily into the production of macarons these days. Of course, it was delicious.

It's hard to take back food memories. Photos and words commemorate experiences, sights and sounds. But the whole act of eating, drinking -- that's another dimension of experience. For instance, my hotel room has a coffee/tea machine. (I dont know many European hotels that do not have it, as the British will not travel unless you give them a pot for boiling water in their room.) They've selected tea bags for my sampling pleasure and one of them called Brener Rosen (a combo of fruits and plants) is just heaven. Especially as I sip it, sitting by the window, looking out on the view of the river. At least with tea, I can bring some home (or order online!). But so many eating memories go by the wayside. And perhaps that's as it should be. Perhaps your memories should be of a whole, rather than its minuscule parts.

 

Speaking of food, in the evening I go to Neue Taverne. That is one strange choice considering where I am (Zurich Switzerland!). It was a last minute selection. I was supposed to meet up with my American friends who are spending their year in southern Germany, but they got sick and I'm a barely recovered sickie, so we cancelled the meetup and I scrambled to find a suitable venue for just myself. (Eater is a good guide for this place, but, too, so is Michelin.) Neue stood out at first because it had only two $ in the Michelin listing (as opposed to their usual three or four!). And it also had a rosette. And it's two minutes away. And it's totally vegetarian. Considering all the meat eating done in this country, I thought this to be a real plus -- I'll fill up on veggies before being tempted by meats once again.

And it is in fact a superb place. An extraordinarily talented chef heads up a team in an open kitchen and they do wonders. Too often in Michelin favored places the visuals dominate. The ingredients blend well but many are lost in the small bites and the adornments are little more than that -- adornments. Not here. Everything made sense. The taste of each dish was a magnificent match-up of flavors that only a very talented chef could think of.

I could have done the tasting menu, but I chose instead the a la carte so I could control my intake! Brioche with parmesan and truffle, eggplant with wasabi, herbs and crispy bread, and finally a desert of parsnip, dried pear, walnut and black cherry molasses. I was blown away!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 [I've become a bore with my thank yous -- they are excessive, I'm sure. I seek out people to thank in this restaurant that seems to be 100% full of Swiss people. I thank the waiters -- mine, not mine, who cares. The cooks, the chef, who catches my eye, the people at the table next to mine. I have this need to compensate for the horrible words said by our leadership about Europeans, about everything.]

 

As I walk (the two steps!) back to my hotel I think about this brief trip to Zurich in its entirety (tomorrow morning I'm leaving, so that tonight marks its end). I haven't been feeling great about city visits lately (with the exception of Paris). Too chaotic. Why then did I like my 1.5 days in Zurich so much?

A lot of it is having it fall into place so well (in my perception). My hotel room was available early, so I did not have to drag myself around town while I was dead tired yesterday. When I did go out, it felt warm and flowers were blooming. My hotel room has that large window and when I sit down to write, I'm very close to it. As if one foot in Zurich as I try to put down in words how it feels to be here. Then there is the quiet. Much of Zurich center is pedestrian. I see no cars on the opposite bank as I look out. I dont hear their roar. It's heaven! And the market this morning! The food! And of course -- the emotional walk through the rooms of the museum -- it all comes together into a memorable whole. It's been quite the wonderful visit to this city. Tomorrow, I'm off to the country.

with so much love...