beetrock

Stella Artois is still stellar, even in the alcohol-free version. Only 0.5% by volume, it is also drug free, I would assume. It takes a few gulps to get used to the sense that something essential is missing from the beer, but eventually, the taste of that familiar Belgian brewing kicks in. In my search for a proper image of the bottle, I found an article online that talks about the launch of NA Stella in Ukraine. What a failed campaign that must have been. Only people who have been “coded,” aka injected with medications that could (maybe?) kill them if mixed with alcohol, drink weak stuff like this east of here. Thankfully, the fear of death is not the only thing that stands between me and my vodka. Healthy cheers to all!

Pishechnaya
Bolyshaya Konyushennaya 25
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Map

This fried dough cake is called “pishka” in Russian. Whenever I have them or even think about them, Guy de Maupassaunt’s sad novella, which was translated into Russian with the same name (in French it’s Boule de Suif), pops into my mind. The novella disturbed me in my youth with the apparent injustice its other characters do the plump prostitute nicknamed Boule de Suif. This, however, had not stopped me from consuming a large quantity of pishkas covered in powdered sugar between the ages of 13 and 16. A trip to a Pishechnaya on Bolshaya Konushennaya off of Nevsky Prospect is mandatory during any visit to Saint Petersburg. Apparently, this particular cafe is an acclaimed Soviet antic.

I went pro on flickr. In addition to unlimited uploading capability I also got a red eye from spending about 12 hours in front of my Mac. But at least now if I die on my next transatlantic journey, there will be something to remember me by. On dying – I am not going to, but I might kill my neighbors who had a roof party last night that went well into the wee hours of the morning. On memories – so many flocked to my photo-inflamed mind – I will have to spill them out here.

Chicken, anyone? When in Bangkok – eat! Finding a place for a quick chow is never a problem in the Big Mango. At first, I didn’t trust the suggestions of the suspiciously Californian China Williams of Lonely Planet. And what is she, like, China White? But anyways, China means business. She said, in my Bangkok Encounter book, that the best food in the city was served by sketchy looking cart vendors and on plastic tables. Very true – there is nothing tastier then fried tofu on a stick, served in a plastic bag with spicy sauce and crushed peanuts mix. Yum!

There are of course meals that are not served in plastic bags. At Silom’s Tling Pling I got addicted to fish cakes and some relatively good green curries were had at, what we thought was, Ton Pho. China, like everyone else, warned against drinking tap water. So we drank bottled water and cold Thai Singha to avoid cockage charges.

I am a week behind on my travel diaries, but the memories of Bangkok are fresh. For one, I am still slightly tan after being in the Thai capital for just a week. Surprisingly so, because the tropical sun is stopped in its tracks by Bangkok’s heavy smog; the gloomy skies don’t help the temperature one bit and definitely blotch up scenic photo shoots. But scenery is secondary in Bangkok – people and food are the cities’ most appraised valuables and there is never a shortage of either.