The IRONIC: Sweet Recollections

I escaped Iran alone as a child in 1978—just a few months before the country burst into revolutionary flames. I went on to live in four countries in five years before I landed in the U.S. and reunited with my parents. In many ways my recollections of those early years in Iran and traveling around the world as a refugee are vague and hazy, but I can literally mark my global trek through the desserts I ate.

One of my clearest memories of Tehran is walking around the corner from our house with my hand in Baba’s to a little store that sold little cups of crème caramel, a custard dessert with a caramel sauce on the bottom. I did not care for the sauce but absolutely adored the firm, creamy, velvety custard. Never one to savor anything slowly, I could dispatch the entire cup in about three or four bites.

Back then—it must have been the early 1970s—my grandparents lived in a glitzy Tehran neighborhood called Meydan-e Vanak. I do not remember much about their house aside from the beautiful garden with rows of glorious rose bushes. What I do recall in great detail is the nearby bistro where my aunt Lily and I would sit by a large window to watch passers-by and share a café glacé, basically a tall fountain glass of several scoops of very creamy vanilla ice cream with shots of espresso on top. Don’t tell me children cannot appreciate good espresso. I absolutely loved it and I could not have been older than six or seven.

At large family parties, the trays of napoleons would inevitably make an appearance: layers of puff pastry interspersed with pastry cream and iced with fondant and chocolate or powdered sugar. And no one dared come back from a holiday in England without a large tin of Quality Street sweets with their sparkling bright jewel-colored wrappers. Thirty years later and I can tell you which ones I liked the best: the round gold-wrapped toffees and the long purple-wrapped milk chocolate-covered caramels.

In Holland I discovered drop (rhymes more with rope than with mop), which non-Dutch people often refer to as licorice. I remember holding the tiny hand of my three-year-old cousin and making our way across the bridge over a canal to the sweet shop where I would buy bags of drop. In my opinion, comparing drop with licorice is blasphemous. Licorice tastes vaguely plastic whereas an authentic drop is complex and exquisite. Drop comes sweet, light salty, medium salty and very salty. I cherished them all and for years had to pay exorbitant prices to get them here in the States. They’re easier to find now but a word of warning: drop is an acquired taste and the earlier in life you try it, the better.

When I think of Germany, I think of gummy candies. If I ever had a slice of German chocolate cake or black forest cake in Germany, I have absolutely no recollection of it but I do remember the varieties of Haribo’s Gummi Bears and Cola Bottles. They were all fantastic and I don’t care what anyone says: American gummies do not taste the same as European ones.

This is all I have to say about the trifle I had in Scotland: one layer of custard, one layer of sponge cake, one layer of berries, topped with fresh whipped cream. Good Lord!

France has always been all about Paris for me—one of my favorite cities in the world—mostly because of the crepes you buy from street vendors. Some folks like their crepes with all manners of embellishment. To me, there is nothing in the world like a simple crepe with just butter and sugar—and not too much sugar either. (I just closed my eyes and strolled down Rue de Rivoli near Chatelet, stopping to buy a crêpe avec sucre et beurre. Anyone want a bite?)

While I had had biscuits throughout the world, I did not lay into my first true cookie until I arrived in the US—and once I did, I could not quite believe that I had missed out on the chewy, chocolate chippy goodness for all those years. I’ve lived in many of the largest cities in America—Los Angeles, Washington, DC, Chicago, New York and San Francisco—and I have searched high and low for the best cookie in all of them. I promise I am not biased (because I now live in the Bay Area) when I declare Hot Cookie in San Francisco’s Castro neighborhood the hands-down winner. I’m glad I didn’t spot the penis-shaped macaroons before I discovered the oatmeal chocolate chip walnut and the milk chocolate toffee cookies. I would have been turned off and walked out. And what a shame that would have been.

If cookies do not excite you, can we discuss bread pudding for just a minute? In my opinion, the top non-cookie dessert in America is from Blue Ribbon Bakery on Downing Street in the West Village. I could never decide between the banana walnut bread pudding with banana caramel sauce or the chocolate chip bread pudding with hot fudge. And each time the server would offer to bring me a half of each, I wanted to declare my eternal love for him. And if you go, always ask for a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.

Want to hear the bummer? The day I was diagnosed with a serious illness was the day my life-long sugar addiction came to a hasty halt. I don’t miss all the sugar as much as you would think I would. I still indulge every once in a while—sparingly, moderately, consciously. Also, my palate has changed so much these past couple of years that I now can’t even imagine consuming the volumes of sweets I once did.

And perhaps it’s also true that sometimes you savor the sweet memories even more than the real thing.

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Tags: Bay Area, Blue Ribbon Bakery Downing Street West Village, CA, cafe glace, Castro Neighborhood, Chatelet, chocolate chip cookie, creme caramel, crepe, crepe avec sucre et beurre, custard dessert, Drop, espresso, france, Germany, Haribo's Gummi Bears, holland, Iran, Meydan-e Vanak, napoleons, New York, New York City, paris, Persian, Pesia, refugee, Rue de Rivoli, San Francisco, Scotland, Tehran, trifle, World Food Thursday

Category: Europe, Middle East, The Ironic, The Kitchen Sink, Travel & Culture