If you sometimes move between the Estonian islands (and indeed there’s plenty of space to move around) — like Muhu, Saaremaa, — then you definitely encounter the ferries.

It’s just inevitable.

You’d think what could an eat-lover expect on a ferry (sic!), floating for only 20 minutes (!) – just like travelling by bus, though by an extremely exciting one?

But indeed there’s something.

Here the restless Scandinavians threw a real dining room: salmon, ham hock, chicken with pineapples and strong alcohol. Everything’s of very decent quality and it seems to me that they make twice as much profit on food as on the fare.

Oh well, there’s a dining room, so what? Pffh… Like we haven’t seen enough of dining rooms, even in the high seas?!

But things are not as simple as they seem (c).

Even if you don’t consider kama (the Estonian yogurt with grated bran) to be a hit – they serve SOLYANKA here!

A small bowl for €3.5, a big one for 5, and it’s damn good.

Really the shit! Sweet and at the same time sour, slightly spicy, filled up to the bottom with Estonian smoked sausages, which are cut into small pieces, with sour cream… alright, let’s get it straight, with double sour cream!

It completely knocked me over on my first trip to Muhu, and now I’m always looking forward to it. I don’t even have lunch ashore. Only with the leaden shining Northern sea, its fluorescent ships and the low sky outside the window – sorry, outside the porthole: magnificence.

There are about six hundred thousand breathtaking places in Tuscany. Most of the family restaurants and households sale rated red wine for around 15 euro and white ones for around 10 euro.  And all of the households have rooms for the ones tired from the city.

For a special occasion we were up for the best five star hotel in Tuscany: a swimming pool with a proper service, a bed like at home, vineyards and house 90 + wine.  Yet, in the end of the day we found out that there are only five places like that and they are usually fully-booked for 2 months in advance.  We kept on looking and suddenly we found a place just for a couple of nights. It’s called Borgo San Felice and they produce their own 8 red wines and 3 white ones. 75% visitors are from USA, the rest is old Europe (I mean some old people from Italy / France / Scandinavia).

OK, so what impressed us about this place the most was outstanding Osteria del Grigio for the lunch and the unforgettable Poggio Rosso for the night, and some madly delicious breakfast, not to mention the Italian standards for the food.

Morning.  Airy brioche right from the oven, just slightly cooled. Fruits just like in my beloved Dorogomilovsky market in July. Various types of cheeses including brilliant local ones. Salami, mortadella and bresaola just like at my butcher’s in Via Orti during my wild Milanese student life.  Draught Franciacorta. Unexpectedly 6 types of milk and 7 types of yogurt + toppings (for those 75%). And again by surprise yet understandable… 6 types of honey including honeycombs. It’s because at the cheese table there’s a basket with a whole sphere of perfect Ricotta. And it does smell of fresh milk. It was cooked just couple of hours ago at the nearby farm. Let me tell you how to eat this miracle: you do it with a scoop filled with honey and berries, which are placed by the Franciacorta. I would give it a go three times every morning, Masha – two.  And they used to change the honey. That was a whole new experience.

The afternoon in Il Grigio. Facacccia perfetta – with buffalo and aubergine / with vitello tonnato (with their house Vermentino) – convinced me that Naples is the only place to have pizza; pastas perfettas, in particular, cacio e pepe and penne with boar ragout (together with their house Pugnitello); each drop of the sauce to be collected with the non-finished focaccia crusts, strategically placed exactly for this purpose.

Some Americans at the table were very entertaining.

“I’d like a bottle of your house red.”

“We have a wonderful Chianti Classico from our vineyard.”

“I don’t know Chianti. Is it like Cabernet?”

We spent the evening at the Poggio Rosso. You can have a set menu for the night or you can have something from their regular menu. Again pasta, during the last 10 days in Italy I haven’t had anything like it – Duck and Fois Gras Ravioli / Tagliolini with Porcini and Local Truffle. An explosive poached egg in pecorino-hollandaise sauce, vegetables stuffed with ricotta, couscous or capers. For the main course, there was chicken ficatum. This type of chicken is raised whether like wagyu cows or foie gras geese, I’m not sure, but everyone is going on and on about it – the meat’s much more tender and juicier. I was so intrigued that for the first time in my life I ordered a chicken in a restaurant. I didn’t regret. Poggio Rosso Chianti Riserva (100% Sangiovese) was perfect for the dinner.

Well, it’s time to sleep because tomorrow we can repeat the circle of a wonderfully tasty day.

The only problem were the wasps. Assholes. Unlike the bees whose honey is poured on ricotta in the morning. These ones are very much legit dudes!

You can hardly find a good cafe in the central square anywhere in the world.  It’s usually 100% tourist trap. The factor of some “fat tourist ass”, which by all means has to sit down and drink something right in the central square with a view on whatever central there might be (a tower, a cathedral, a fountain, etc.), is multiplied by the factor of having won the lottery of geographical location. As a result, there develops a severe form of fucking indifference on the part of the staff and an atrophy of conscience on the part of the owners.

You can’t reach them, they hardly respond. The food is from the microwave oven. In short, it’s a great place to urinate for 1eur. Don’t even have coffee there. I’m sure the cups aren’t washed properly.

Saint-Tropez Senequier cafe has all the features of a shitty cafe in the central square. It’s located right in front of the port and overlooks yachts and the deck routine of their successful inhabitants. Besides, it’s open since 1887. It’s got an extremely bright façade and some beckoning chaise lounges. There’s a constant fight between tourists with packages for the first and second rows of the tables with a view, and the waiters are mean. Alright, all this is indeed present.

Many years I tried to avoid this place, though couple of times, out of mere despair, I did take a seat in the first row. I was hiding from the family shopping or waiting out while my kids went for some ice cream.

But here’s a life hack: don’t sit in the first rows, go up to the manager and tell him that you’ve come here to eat. Then you’ll find yourself seated in the rear of “the tourist with packages” thing and the place will change dramatically – the tables are of other form and have white cloths, there’s a proper menu, the wine list, you see different people, different faces, including celebrities.

If such places, where you can eat three times a day and don’t get bored, exist, this is one of them. Under any scenario, food is ready in ten minutes. And it’s always perfect. Green salad, niҫoise, Caesar, salmon ceviche, tuna tartare, beef tartare, shrimps avocado, lobster pasta, fillet steak with pepper sauce in Thai style, wagyu entrecôte; side dishes: green beans, green salad, French mashed potatoes, the secret of which is 1 : 1 potato to butter ratio, omelet with truffle or without, 4 types of desserts – this is pretty much the whole of menu.

I won’t write about the taste of the food, its servings and other things here. If you’re lucky enough to be able to imagine a perfect French bistro-brasserie, you’ll understand me. Otherwise, it’s not even worth taking time trying to describe it. Always perfect, constantly, for many years. You can drop by or stay for a while, you can have a snack or a proper dinner with champagne.

On the wall there’s an advertisement of this cafe, a vintage poster of the beginnings of 20^th century that says: “Branded alcohol, prestigious champagne, delicate wines”. The beauty of the statement charmed me and should serve as a postscript to this short review of an ideal French bistro

asked for a gooseburger in the form of a patty. without accompaniment – no buns, no salad spreads. I sit and wait.  I carefully pick at my multicolored tomato salad.  still, I cough a little as I make my debut.  bkha-bkha.  suddenly, a rough decorated hand appears from the side and along with it a large man. subsequently, it turned out to be chef Zhurkin. so I immediately made myself humble, because I’m disarmed by the white chef’s jacket.

“would you like just a plain patty?”

“I’m curious, how is it, the goose patty”

“would you like salad with it?”

“just the one patty for me, please…”

“you don’t care for salad? what do you like?”

“tomatoes.”

a silent scene // border lights on the face

and then they brought us deskinned tomatoes, lightly singed with a kind of smart-ass pesto, bold and easy-going.  well, right away I was ready to kiss the ground you walked on.  from thankfulness.

and then still they brought a leg of confit.  and they brought a goose patty.  and still tea a number of times.  and I just couldn’t leave.  the temperature was rising.  and together the two of us had been sitting a long time.  and we had a few casual encounters.  and they even brought us hare kidneys, there was just no going anywhere!

the kidneys, I will point out, were of a pure and simple trap.  all of this cunningness with temperature curtseys, turning the texture of the colored cabbage into a forest hazelnut, and allowing the kidneys to open their flavors “page-by-page”, in layers, leading up to a distinct sugary finale – there it is. hello. where are you going to get away to?

and still they brought leafy lettuce with simmered goose inside.  then tomatoes with anchovies (this is not shocking) and crème fraiche (this is shocking).  gazpacho with watermelon scoops, not artisan, as I figure, not meant for an overall rustic quality, but tender and silken.  and still there was another soup, a grape one, that was candy-creamy with alarm bells of smoked goose.

then anya-the-waitress said, “how about I make you tea with lemon, honey, and ginger, so you don’t go straight belly up here!?” and she brought us a fucking flawless ginger tea.  it wasn’t hellishly atomic, nor overly sweet, and not eye-popping.  I couldn’t wish for anything better.  just couldn’t!  and more pies.  millions of pies.  In general, it was this line that completely captured me.

in the end, we took home almost every pie on the menu.  I cried over two-of-six, no joke.  I wanted to hug the pies because they were glorious.  understand, they were invented and cooked up like a complete work of art.  pies!  your noggin cannot contain all that is said within, although it is so.

there’s a pie with mutton core that’s a small triangle: minced lamb with spices, but without overpowering cumin, wrapped in extremely thin and transparent batter.  and roasted.

I will not write about the pie with duck and pear.  that would be a spoiler if I did.  you must get it, it goes with wine (I’d take it with a semi-dry rosé, but there’s a particular approach with the wines there), and go to a park.

on the whole, these pies combine with the park like pieces of a puzzle.  and the place combines like a puzzle, for example, with me. it’s just Tsvetnoy boulevard that doesn’t combine well. but that I can tolerate.

If the French learn that you’re going to Camargue, one of the first places they advise you to visit is the Chez Bob restaurant.

Camargue is famous for bulls, white horses, red rice, and flamingo. They devour all these, with an obvious exception for horses and flamingo. Especially the black bulls. This main local attraction is located literally in the middle of nowhere: in the suburbs of Arles, right on the road between all the villages, under a self-made sigh hidden in bushes.

A rough-looking man called Bob, whose figure is severely damaged by meat and wine, and two women who look like his family, manage the place. No one is really happy about your arrival. The restaurateur and his women have no time for fucking around – they constantly receive buses full of people. At times you can even run into live music performed by some crappy local guitarists. Things get even worse if you come while some loathsome British retirees are around, then it’s totally screwed. Still the restaurant’s worth attention.

Outside right at the entrance the fire’s burning and there’s a grid. On top of the grid there’s some meat. They don’t marinate meat, neither do they twist it, nor sprinkle it with anything. They just take it out, put it there and forget about it, then they return to take it and bring it in. That’s all. The quantity of pieces on the grid tells you how many people are inside at the moment.

When you come in into the Bob’s tavern, Bob’s women are there to meet you. It takes them damn way too much time to finally grasp the names on the reservation, then it takes time to find the reservation book and after that your names in this book. In another 5 minutes, you’re at last seated at a table.

On your table there will be a basket of fresh vegetables, a plate of local rural cold meats of all sorts, a jar of mustard and some bread. At first all this, especially the meat plate makes you wanna run away. The table setting reminds me of some restaurants in Kolomna set to receive foreign tourists. And here comes the fat Bob and asks what we’re going to have. The menu doesn’t exist. Announcing this very fact, he makes his proposal – duck leg confit, duck breast with fruit vinegar, mutton (just like this, no specification on the part of the ram), entrecôte and “a bull for two people”. After comes the woman with a question: “White or red?” No wine list, no names, simply red or white.

That’s it. The doneness levels and side dishes are left to the discretion of the owner. I really think that if someone asked there about the doneness, fat Bob and his women would just fucking throw the asshole out. Or have they been frying meat for the last 35 years in vain? Don’t they know the best way to cook all these pieces of meat? I remember a story about the ex-wife of my friend Sasha Lagutin whose name was Sveta. We all went to a new restaurant Da Giacomo. Ironically, this place’s taken by one of my restaurants now. So, back then it was a fashionable restaurant and each of us started to show off while ordering. A typical situation for Moscow and as well for the crazy infernal America, in other countries the custom is to believe the chef and respect his taste. So everyone began: “please, make this with this, and that without that,” but Sveta was the one who outdid us all. She ordered pasta in cream tomato sauce and asked them – ATTENTION! – to put there less tomatoes and less cream. I was in fucking shock for a long time after. So meanwhile they were cooking my “bull for two people”, I was entertaining myself by visualizing in my mind what would happen to a Muscovite if he asked here for medium rare and less tomatoes in tomato sauce.

Ugly Bob and his women know their business. They bring food fast. They’ve never heard of meat aging. They cut and sell. No aging. Bull’s meat is rich in taste and easy to chew despite the 100% free range grazing on grass. Only blue rare. The amount of blood on the plate makes you think they’ve killed someone. Meat’s cooked on fire, not even on coals. You get it with strong smell of fire and smoke as if it was shish kebab – it turns out to be a sort of a mix of shish kebab and steak. Duck breast’s very regular, but the fruit vinegar sauce’s very good. It’s some sweet vinegar, which tastes of berries. And again the duck, it’s regular for France, here in Russia you won’t find such a duck.

Overall, Bob deserves a visit but only for lunch. I can’t imagine a dinner there.

If walking from Prado towards Retiro you meet a gray-haired dark-browed mister in a hat and leather pants, be sure, this is Abraham Garcia.

Abraham’s a legend of the Madrid gastronomy and he’s been the permanent owner, the managing director and the chef of Viridiana restaurant for more than 40 years already. He’s a connoisseur of expensive wine and magnificent women and an expert on literature and cinema.

A gastronomy rebel could do no other thing than choose the name “Viridiana” as a cover for his restaurant: the name comes from a drama by Luís Buñuel released in 1961, which was way ahead of its time. It talks about dreams, delusions of youth, hypocrisy and the feeling of changes that were still to be awaited and awaited, but were definitely coming. The movie caused anger in Vatican (this is quite explainable) and was forbidden in the Catholic Spain up to the middle of the 70s.

The design of the establishment is conservative in Spanish style: tables with white cloths, wooden trim, some tableware and black-and-white posters of stills from the just mentioned film. They smoothly distract you from people devouring their children in Goya’s canvases and the psychedelic triptychs of Bosch in Prado.

The cuisine can be described as central Spanish with some interweaved Mexican motives and elements of Nikkei. There aren’t any contemporary tricks with nitrogen and sous-vide but it’s authentic and fresh, breathtakingly plated (there’s a fusion of local seasonal products, the menu changes three times a month). Abraham Garcia treats the modern chefs’ technical delicacy with slight irony. He takes it for a fleeting hobby, it’s just some temporary fashion for him.

He isn’t a friend of Michelin ideology. Some time ago he expelled the Michelin guys from his restaurant and it cost him a star but allowed no to lose the unique style. In the mid-eighties Herald Tribune included his place into the top five in Europe. At the same time, his disciple David Muñoz is the youngest three-star chief in the world (Diver X.O.).

One of the most expensive and diverse wine lists of Madrid is here.

In short, while you’re reading all these, Abraham is serving the Parker’s 100-point Pedro Jiménez to some beauties. A powerful old man and an iconic personality. A visit to his restaurant is a total must!