European journeys: Pilgrimages for lovers of food and drink

last updated 8 January 2015

Swirling and sniffing in Cognac

Cognac is what Napa wants to be, said Rosemary McClure in the Los Angeles Times. So claimed my guide as we traveled through this sunlit region in southwestern France, dotted with picturesque farmhouses, crumbling stone walls, and endless vineyards. Though I laughed at his smugness, he had a point. Exploring California wine country just doesn’t quite compare “with spending a few lazy days” in Bordeaux, the Loire Valley—or Cognac, home of the world’s most famous brandy. The town of Cognac lies on the banks of the Charente River, which winds through the countryside. Its steep cobblestone streets are lined with half-timbered 15th-century houses, a Romanesque church, and the stately Château de Cognac, birthplace of King François I. A tour of one of the great cognac houses—Hennessy, Martell, Rémy Martin, and Courvoisier—costs from $10 to $25, including a tasting. Over the next two days I leisurely swirled, sniffed, and savored samples of their distinctive brandies. At the end of my touring, I remembered that the region is also home to 300 smaller cognac houses, and there was still much more to see. “A heady thought indeed.” Contact: Swfrance.com

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Once, I spent three days in Vienna and ate “almost nothing but classic Viennese pastries,” said Alan Behr in the Chicago Tribune. Now, “older and wiser,” I determined to be more abstemious in Austria’s capital. The first day, I ate lunch at Griensteidl, one of the city’s great cafes. I ordered Weiner schnitzel, but sliced off about “half of the fried bread-crumb envelope” that makes the dish so delectable (and dangerous). To reward myself, the next morning I indulged in a Sachertorte—the timeless chocolate pastry. After all, I was staying at the Sacher Hotel. For lunch, I had a low-fat chicken breast, but couldn’t keep from indulging in something richer, a beef broth with crêpe strips. After cherry strudel that afternoon at Café Gerstner, then another Sachertorte the next morning, I got back on the wagon that evening with a low-fat organic chicken dish at Vestibuel, across from the parliament building. I knew I had a lunch reservation the next day at Steirereck, “often named by critics as Austria’s greatest restaurant.” The multicourse meal featured a lovely roast venison with Brussels sprouts and Jerusalem artichokes, but I told the waiter to hold the cheese course—I needed room for a Sachertorte nightcap on the way back to the hotel. Contact: Sacher.com

The classic English pub may be a disappearing relic of a bygone era, said Henry Shukman in The New York Times. More than three pubs close down every day in Britain, and very few thrive. Yet it’s still possible to raise a pint or two in a traditional pub, some of them offering food and lodging. One of the best places to look is in the Cotswold hills of North Oxfordshire, roughly a one- to two-hour drive from London and best toured by car. Chipping Norton, a classic market town, is home to the Red Lion. This pub “has made no compromise with the times.” A fire gently hisses away, patrons play an old-fashioned game called Aunt Sally—“involving wooden battens, a clay pot, and a lot of tipsy near-misses”—and the only thing on offer is drink. Contact: The-cotswolds.org

Emilia-Romagna is the northern heartland of Italian farming, said Patrick Symmes in Condé Nast Traveler. Its vast plains are layered with rich, chocolate-brown earth, which has washed down from the Alps over eons. Bologna, Parma, and Ravenna are three of the region’s best-known cities, and the Po River runs through it. Ravioli, tagliatelle, lasagna, polenta, and tortellini were invented here, and the region is also known the world over for its prosciutto and mortadella. Curiously, Emilia-Romagna is “a kind of lost region” for tourists, though it’s home to some of the country’s most authentic cuisine. Mario Batali, who learned his craft in Emilia-Romagna kitchens, has particularly touted La Greppia, a restaurant in Parma. My lunch there featured Parmigiano-Reggiano served three ways—whipped into “a savory ice cream appetizer,” shaved over pasta, and pried from a wheel in fat chunks. In Modena, hometown of Luciano Pavarotti, the Giusti family runs Hosteria Giusti; its four tables, accessed through a tiny passageway at the rear, are “among the most coveted in Emilia-Romagna.” Our meal, consisting of al dente pasta and milk-fed veal, ended with a “stunningly simple dish”—pillows of fried dough with just a few drops of 60-year-old balsamic vinegar drizzled on top.