Conch Fritters Taste Like Childhood

Memory lane looks a lot like a Turks and Caicos beach

By Mollie Chen
This past weekend, in the Turks and Caicos, I was thrown into Proustian fits of nostalgia by a deep-fried ball of seafood, flour, and spices. For me, conch fritters will always mean Miami - or, more specifically, a single restaurant in Miami.

When my family first started going to Scotty's Landing it was just a scruffy little outdoor spot near the Grove Key Marina on Biscayne Bay. The most coveted seats were at the rickety picnic tables off to the side of the main dining area, itself simply a wooden platform with white plastic tables and chairs. The Chart House was right next door so while the adults were drinking beer and catching up, us kids would dash up the slope to the windowed dining room, make faces at the fancily dressed folks eating lobster, and then tumble down the hill. The only things I think were ever ordered were cheese fries (to this day, everytime she goes to Miami my sister goes directly from the airport to Scotty's for a double order of these), chicken fingers, fish n' chips, and conch fritters. As kids, we loved that we were allowed to order 20-ounce sodas and Snickers ice cream bars for dessert; later as teenage sailing camp counselors, we'd motor over to gas up our dinky skiffs and get snacks while we waited. Now Scotty's has put in a real deck with fancy striped umbrellas over the plastic tables and I hear the picnic tables look suspiciously like those in a Crate and Barrel catalogue. They're supposed to have a great blackened dolphin sandwich but ordering that would feel somewhat unfaithful to the Scotty's of my childhood.

The secret behind Scotty's lovability was that you knew what you were getting: great setting, straight-out-of-the-fryer food, and a blasé, shit happens attitude. Same goes for most of the Turks and Caicos' eateries. And, more importantly, Scotty's was where I first came across conch fritters.

Mexico: Corn Fungus and Cutting-Edge Design as Far as the Eye Can See

Chiles en nogada and mole poblano in Puebla
By Mollie Chen
By marvelous coincidence, the special Latino America-themed September issue of Gourmet arrived on my desk just hours before I was scheduled to fly to Mexico City. The charred tamales piled on a cheery azure plate seemed to promise four days of lively mariachi music and rustic and authentic food. I sped through the magazine on the plane, salivating over Robb Walsh's story of lesser known taco truck cities and flagging Junot Diaz's article about Dominican food in uptown Manhattan. By the time we touched down, I was primed for Mexican food and I wanted it right away, preferably prepared in front of me and subsequently gobbled while standing up.

In reality, my first Mexican meal was a packet of Primera Plus galletas (delightfully buttery, with a subtle sabor de naranja) on the bus. When we arrived in San Miguel de Allende three hours later, where we had come to attend the birthday party of an old family friend, my parents and I were grumpy with hunger and poised to attack the next unsuspecting tortilla maker. But because we were in San Miguel, which is charming and beautiful but dominated by expats, we met our friends in the lovely courtyard of the restaurant Bacco. In a setting reminiscent of a more modest Italian villa, we ate pizzas and drank copious amounts of red wine. For dessert: chocolate cake. I went to bed dreaming of poblano chiles.

American Anthropologies, Part I (or, How the Materialist Spent Her Summer Vacation)

Well, another summer is--thank god--coming to its end, and so the Materialist feels it appropriate to share details of her two meager vacations, both of which involved road trips and both of which, combined, cost less than $300.

These trips, in their conveyance and budget, reminded the Materialist of her childhood, every summer of which was marked by some crappy road trip in the Americas. Unlike the Materialist's colleagues (or their children, for that matter), who spent their summers in Cairo or London or the south of France, the Materialist spent hers on the road, which was, admittedly, a slight improvement over where she spent the winters and falls of her developmental years, namely, eastern Texas. For this rigorously un-cosmopolitan childhood, the Materialist blames her parents, who spent their twenties living out their ersatz-hippie fantasies (the Materialist's father painted, wove baskets from pussywillow branches, and dreamed of being a German literature professor; the Materialist's mother spelled her name "Sioux," majored in ceramics, and was one half of a folk duo), being perpetual students, and not devoting any time to family planning, much less thinking of ways to make money as adults. Consequently, most of the Materialist's adolescence was spent hanging around the house, reading and dreaming about escaping East Texas, which is something like hell's waiting room, completely populated by Klan members, up-and-coming Klan members, and people who enjoy waiting under bridges to beat up gay people after a long night of getting drunk in parking lots and throwing watermelons off rooftops. Every summer, the Materialist's parents would stuff her and her brother into the car for a two-week car trip, the scope of which grew more ambitious by the year (the Materialist's family had by that time a long history with road trips; when the Materialist was eight, her family drove from Baltimore to Irvine, where the Materialist's father was to begin a new job, in two VW Rabbits, only one of which had air-conditioning. Every night, the Materialist's mother would go foraging for food in 7-11s, while the Materialist's maternal grandparents, who were traveling with them, would cook hamburgers on a hot plate in their motel room. This enraged the Materialist's father, who found such behavior unacceptably FOB). One year, the family drove from East Texas to Madison, to visit an uncle. Another year, it was East Texas to Wood's Hole, to visit another uncle. There was also East Texas to Mexico City, East Texas to Frederick, MD, East Texas to Toronto, East Texas to the Asian-American Promised Land, Cambridge, MA (there is a picture of the Materialist sitting unconvincingly on the steps of some library on the Harvard campus that she would never again see), and, best of all, East Texas to Saxon River, VT, where the Materialist remembers frolicking through country stores and eating candy while her father attended some conference.

Delicious Reads for All Types of Travelers

Mexico: Land of one thousand bus rides.

By Mollie Chen
I just got back from a four-day trip to Mexico where I fell in love with corn fungus (more on that later) and the "first class" national bus system. Fung Wah and Greyhound, take note: Mexican buses offer complimentary snack packs and eclectic movie selections, ranging from director Yimou Zhang's soaring Chinese epic House of Flying Daggers to the low-budget 80s heartwarmer The Slugger's Wife. Between approximately twenty hours of flights and driving, I had ample time to catch up on my reading. For your own late summer jaunts, our latest issue has 86 must-reads; in addition, here are some of my most recent food-themed favorites.

Local Intelligence: Robertson Boulevard, Los Angeles

Jean Therapy: Paige Premium Denim is just
one of the celebrity haunts on Robertson
Boulevard in Los Angeles.

By Nandita Khanna

When I'm traveling it's not the guidebooks that I turn to, or even the area magazines (but I do buy them)-- it's the locals. Who knows where to eat, sleep, and hang out better than those who call the city home? Earlier this spring I headed to Los Angeles on assignment for the magazine's 20th anniversary issue. While I'd like to think I know the city well--I grew up there-- much like New York, things change in the blink of an eye. And while I insist that In and Out Burger is still the best place in town to grab a bite, I invited these three trend-setting women below--all of whom have taken up post on perpetually packed Robertson Boulevard--to share their favorite secrets and tips in the City of Angels.

Next Generation Spa Food

The restaurant at Miami's Canyon Ranch Living will cater to those seeking spiritual enlightenment with a side of perfectly seared grass-fed beef

By Mollie Chen
Ironically enough, yesterday's International Spa Association media extravaganza was absolutely exhausting. I am not kidding. Before I started at Traveler, I thought spas were somewhere to get your nails done. Wrong. Spas are seriously big. Huge, actually - in the US alone, they have revenues in excess of $9 billion annually. And from working on our annual Hot Spas list, I know that every year there are more elaborate and more luxurious resort, destination, and city spas opening around the world. 

I've never been a spa person -- I get stressed out during massages (a strange Type A personality tic that never ceases to baffle people) -- but I do love lounging about the plush meditation rooms and snacking on the various edibles that are on offer. It is not just lemon water and cucumber slices: Hawaii's spas always have a surfeit of tropical fruits and refreshing teas; city chic Bliss outlets display trays of brownie bites and cheese; and the Willow Stream at the Fairmont Scottsdale Princess is known for their signature Anzac cookies. And, from what I saw (and tasted) yesterday, spa-goers have a lot of happy eating in front of them.

Endless Summer

We heart NY: Bond No. 9's latest tribute to New York.

By Nandita Khanna

What's summer for if not to conjure up scents and memories of vacations past? Or even, in many cases, to inspire one's peripatetic pursuits. Personally, I prefer the latter, as I'm longing to escape the sweltering heat of New York at the moment. While editorial deadlines (and, ahem, financial constraints) permit me from hopping on a plane on a whim, I'm delighted to report that there are several new perfumes, candles, and even diffusers (my absolute new favorite olfactory trend) to help transport you--even if temporarily-- to far more idyllic destinations. No SPF required.

Forecast Says 90 Degrees with 100% of Whining

The view from 4 Times Square? Right. Nairobi through the eyes of a non-office bound traveler

By Mollie Chen
This morning, while compulsively flipping between news channels, the only segments that I could seem to catch revolved around the miserable weather. "Scorcher," chortled Al Roker. "It's going to be a steamy one," said Sam Champion. "Temperatures will hover around 90 but it'll feel like 100 degrees."

Lovely.

After a sticky subway ride, I staggered into my office and wilted into my desk chair. I logged into my email and, buried amidst half a dozen spam-cum-press releases, found two travel dispatches that added insult to humid New York injury.

As my exceedingly wise editor observes, working at a travel magazine means that you are a perpetual voyeur. While I breathe the rarified air of the glamorous cocoon that is 4 Times Square, my friends and family are off cavorting around the globe.

From Runway to Room Key

Short Story: A sketch from Tadashi Shoji's outfits for the Ivy Hotel.

By Nandita Khanna

From the look of things, stylish hotel-goers aren't the only ones upping the ante these days with their ultraluxe Goyard luggage and effortless separates from YSL's new 24 Hour collection. Crimes of fashion are no longer de rigueur in the hotel industry as fashion designers like Michael Kors, Tadashi Shoji, and Jenni Kayne are reworking runway pieces and applying a pragmatic, day-to-day aesthetic to hotel uniforms. Black and white frilly maid uniforms? Let the underage collegiate set have 'em. In their place come jersey, wool, and lace fabics cut in modern, tailored styles--that are both surprisingly chic and, well frankly, long overdue.

The Materialist's Mea Culpa

Yes, it's true--after months of silence and neglect, the Materialist is back and wants once again to be friends, like a parent who abandons her child and then returns years looking like a hussy and wanting to be best pals. And like the sullen kid, the Materialist's few remaining readers (read: her friends and "friends") are not having it.

Over the past few months (eek!), the Materialist has been asked many questions about her disappearance and the life of her untended blog, most of which fall into the following categories:

1) Where the hell were you?
The Materialist must beg mercy. The truth of the matter is, the only place she's been is in her office, spending her days trying to close the September issue and attempting to control the vast oceans of rage that seethe beneath her placid moonface. Does the Materialist's reappearance mean she's gotten her life together and learned to manage her time? No. In fact, the primary reason the Materialist is writing this entry is not just to reassert her title as Conde Nast's most inconsistent blogger, but more importantly, to avoid writing her Iconic Itinerary: Southeast Asia piece (coming in the November issue!) while still operating under the illusion that work is being accomplished.