food photography

A Magical Trip to Fäviken

It happened by chance, as so many of the best things often do.

Magnus Nilsson was in Berlin on August 31, 2016, at the SoHo House to talk about his new book, and Ash and I stayed afterwards to chat with him and get a signed copy.  We introduced ourselves and I quipped about how this was probably the closest we’d ever get to eating one of his meals.

That’s when he informed us that reservations for the next six months at Fäviken would open at midnight that very night.

Naturally I rushed home, and with some waiting, refreshing and cursing, managed to secure us a table for two on March 15, 2017.

Sometimes I take living in Europe and being a freelancer for granted, but this was not one of those times. I would not have been able to plan so far ahead, nor to rest assured that a flight to Sweden would cost so little, had I not been a freelancer living in Europe. A lot happened in between, but more than six months later we were on a flight to Stockholm, and days after that on a scenic, snowy train ride in a compartment packed with ski equipment up to Åre, the town closest to Fäviken.

I haven’t spoken a lot about this because I don’t feel the need to brag, but when asked, I can reply honestly that it was the experience of a lifetime. There are many “destination” restaurants you can go to, enjoy, and simply cross off your list. Fäviken was different, because even before the meal had ended we knew we would have to come back. Sure, it’s the genius of the place that it creates an entirely different world for you each season you visit, but it’s the all-encompassing, sensory experience of the visit that makes it like no other.

Everything was charming, everything was perfect, and the momentary snowstorm that greeted us upon arrival was tempered by our delight at finding coats and galoshes available for our use at the door. I thought “winter wonderland” was a Christmas cliché until I came to Fäviken.

We were welcomed upstairs to our rooms, each with a gentle, childlike animal painted on the door, and shown to the sauna and its anteroom, which of course included an ice bucket of wine, beer and prosecco, as well as a jar of pickled turnips and chewy, oily, dried sausages on a cutting board. Practically the first ones there, we relaxed before dinner, enjoying the extreme calm even as chefs dressed only in shirtsleeves rushed across the snow carrying equipment under our window.

By the time mealtime had come around, we were so blissed out they could probably have served us anything. They welcomed us into the main room of what appeared to be a log cabin, offered us a specialty cocktail with pickled forest berries, and proceeded to dance out an array of choreographed fingerfoods and snacks, each more strange and beautiful and delicious than the last. By the surroundings, the food and the roaring fireplace, I was reminded of my favorite book as a child: the richly illustrated, frightening and thrilling Vasilisa the Beautiful. We were led up to the main room, a dim, low attic space with only six tables, and seated us at the table in the very center. As luck would have it, this was the perfect vantage point from which to snap pictures of not only the food as it was carried in by an entire team of people, but also various platings and preparation methods. I couldn’t have been happier.

What followed was a meal that was simply indescribable, so much so that Ash and I would repeatedly taste the dishes that were brought to us, watch each other’s eyes grow wide and stutter, grasping at words that wouldn’t come, only to gasp out, “Whhhhhat? Hhhhooowww?” To use vague, foodie terms like “food porn” and “foodgasm” wouldn’t do it justice. We were in the presence of masters.

By the end of the evening we were being offered the holy trifecta: schnapps, cigars and snus. We retired pleasantly but not overly full, our sadness at the meal’s end tempered slightly by our anticipation of breakfast, which we’d heard from many accounts, would be dinner’s equal.

Upon checkout we were presented with a calligraphied envelope containing a menu of the past evening’s delights, and an exhortation to come back soon…perhaps at hunting season.

As we headed back into town for a day of recovery, we promised each other we would do just that.

Click on any photo to be taken to the gallery

Click on any photo to be taken to the gallery

Preserving Lemons - in Jars, on Film

About a month ago, I finally put some of the skills I learned at the Alentejo Workshop to good use - in my first solo photo shoot for an article on preserved lemons, published in Paste Magazine.

I had hoped rather than expected to jump into this quickly, and in the end, I imagined what would be a three-day venture (a day for making lists and testing out angles, a day for buying props, a day for shooting) turned into one long day of inspiration.

Once I'd set up a "test" shot I simply couldn't stop. Suddenly I was covering windows and moving furniture, standing up backgrounds and throwing tablecloths over my kitchen counters. I dashed out to KaDeWe, Berlin's best department store that also just happens to be steps from where we live, and proceeded to buy a couple of "props" (read: items I really wanted anyway but can now offer up an excuse for purchasing as they are "work").

The little white mortar and pestle, ramekin and silver citrus juicer were all new, for example. The linen tablecloth was a wedding gift, the Provençal pattern a simple swathe of cloth my mom had never used, which she once gave to me and which I'd saved in hopes I'd make pillow covers out of it (no longer). The big blue-and-white bowl, as well as it fits in this faintly French-inspired scene, is an old GDR model. The beautifully patterned jar on the left? A souvenir from a ceramic market in Córdoba several years ago.

Click on the embedded preview above for a link to the article, the thumbnail page below for a link to a gallery of "outtakes" - photos that weren't chosen, but nonetheless make me very proud to have ventured down this particular path.

The Alentejo Workshop

"All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. [...] Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. [...] And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. [...] It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions." - Ira Glass

A few years ago, I went to Morocco to learn how to cook. Well, not exactly. I already knew how to cook when it came to finding recipes, choosing ingredients, and following directions. What I didn’t know was how to improvise, and so I felt I wasn’t really a cook. This trip I went on – a workshop of sorts but really just a lot of food and fun with crazy, spontaneous people – was a way for me to challenge myself and learn something new. I looked at the roster beforehand, and found that I would be there with folks who knew what they were doing – award-winning food bloggers, restaurant owners, food and wine PR people, company owners. I knew I was out of my league, and the combination of excitement and nerves was strangely familiar, like I was once again on the way to my first day of school.

I look back at that workshop – which was marked not by uncertainty about cooking so much as wet shoes, a terrible cold and cancelled trips to the beach, as it turned out we were in Morocco during a storm so severe it practically washed out the streets of Essaouira, our home for four days, and neatly matched the TV images we were seeing of a washed out US East Coast during Hurricane Sandy. But I look back, and I think about that feeling of uncertainty, of only knowing enough to know how little I knew, and then I compare it to how confident I feel in the kitchen now. I routinely plan meals based on what I see at the market – something that would have been unconscionable to me then. I tweak recipes to come up with my own, better versions; I rarely simply do what’s written on the page. This was a skill that had to be learned through practice, and I think of this now, upon my return from another workshop that has challenged me, bashed me up a bit where ego is concerned, introduced me to new ways of looking at the world and new creative yearnings, and once again, taught me just enough to know how very little I know.

This time it was in Portugal on the Alentejo coast, and this time I found myself surrounded not by food industry professionals, but by 12 photographers who knew a lot more than I did. The learning curve was steep, the frustration keenly felt, and of course, by day two, I found myself in the midst of a kind of personal crisis. How to keep your spirit up when you find yourself at the beginning of something that all others around you have seemingly mastered – and effortlessly at that? How to keep trying to get the right shots in the right light after a technical discussion that makes you realize how severely limited you are not just by your skill, but by your camera? Indeed, to paraphrase a famous book, play and film, how do you succeed in photography without really trying?

I found out that photography, more than most other forms of creativity, is where visual art meets performance. Photography is actually a lot more like dancing than it is like painting. It is only when you produce a photograph that looks highly natural, spontaneous, graceful and exciting that your viewers begin to think your process really was all of those things. Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly made it look easy – what’s more, they made it look joyful – and these women I was with seemed to me to do much the same, tapping out a cacophony of shutter openings and closings (most of them, of course, artificial these days, on digital SLR cameras), waltzing and twirling around the room, appearing to know without looking, feel without seeing, where the best light was, where the best angles were, and exactly how far they needed to crouch down or climb up to capture them. Sometimes the entire thing was so complicated and enticing, I had to stop for a moment and watch. Perhaps because I’d given up on getting my own perfect angle, confronted by the sharp elbows and tilted heads and furiously working fingers of so many woman who were better at this than me, I could step back and observe it like a theater scene. Once I did, I could marvel at how each and every person in this room seemed to know the movements of being a photographer. It really was something like a dance.

Here, then, is a tribute to those dancers, myself included. I can think of no better way to give my thanks for the moves they taught me then to present my own collection of photos, which came out better than I ever could have hoped. I feel my own steps getting better now, a few weeks later; I’m more sure-footed when I take them. I can also perceive subtle changes in my attitude, an objectivity that makes me more likely to say, “I did my best, and there are some great shots here” than “I’m sure somebody else would have done better.” I look forward to many more opportunities to improve my camera skills. I know I have a long way to go before I become Fred Astaire.

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