Topic: The Musicality of It All
Romania Travel Journal
Part III
by Eric Pardue
My name is not Rachel Ray, and I do not write about breakfast. Oh, never mind me trying to convince you of this--this is more of an exercise in self restraint. I pride myself in writing about the odd quirks of travel, the this and the that which your tour guide and travel book won't cover. I decided long ago that I wanted to bring to the table a certain non-sequitur, a je non se quas, that focused on most of the things that go out of focus in travel literature. This is why I have to tell myself that breakfast, such a common thing, an ordinary segment in the life of anyone who can afford time or money wise to feed themselves is not something that a self proclaimed travel writer writes about. The thing is, however, that breakfast at the Phoenicia Grand Hotel is nothing common or ordinary, it is extraordinary and deserves to be mentioned.
I could have overlooked it if it were not for the brilliant omelet bar in the corner of their dining salon where hotel guests can get a variety of mushrooms, meats, vegetables and fresh basil or feta whipped in with their eggs. I could have moved on to the next chapter if it weren't for the cheeses on that wrap around the whole curve of their display table and the cheeses in the cooler--none of which whose name I really know besides the obvious mozzarella, feta, etc. There are brilliant pastries, cakes and cookies. There are cold meats, hot sausages, bacon, stuffed pork chops in fine red pepper spices and about four different varieties of baked and fried potatoes. There is rice and eggplant and, God only knows what else--I not only don't recognize everything, I also can't read all the signs. This isn't brunch, this is breakfast, and if I weren't looking too closely and wasn't hearing what seems to be Romanian to the untrained ear, I would say that this is a Las Vegas buffet. Don't like the varieties of coffee we have you for you? No problem, we'll bring you an espresso, latte or cappuccino. The tea not to your liking? Ask the staff, we'll see what we can do. Peach, orange, strawberry, cherry juices and morning cocktails. Soups, delicious and wonderful soups that I've been deprived of, and fresh fruit coming out tray after silver tray.
How did I bag paying less than one hundred U.S. a night for this?
Know that the trick to employ when approaching such a beast is to not get carried away--way easier said than done. The idea of such a buffet is to appeal to he international crowd the hotel serves--not to eat through all the hotel client's countries in one sitting. Such will result in heartburn, lethargy and a general sluggishness over the rest of the day. It will kill the zest for the next meal and leave your pallet closed during open season. Reject what your mother taught you--take what you want, but don't feel obligated to eat everything on your plate. Breakfast is included in the price and no one in a third world country is going to applaud your effort to gorge yourself or get to eat the leftovers you or the hotel throw away.
Room service at the Phoenicia is quite pricey and so is the mini-bar. Not a waiter, hostess, concierge or receptionist will bat an eye toward a hotel guest who decides to take a few sodas or waters out of the refrigerator and up to their room. But you couldn't? You can, may and should.
I'm far too much of a hypocrite to take my own advice, especially on the first day of such a frenzy. I was up early with all the suits of the international business world and the only man in the house not wearing a tie. Yet after breakfast I went back to the room for a nap and then, as penance for my gluttony, downstairs to make heads and tails of the hotel's gym. Then I had to enjoy something the rest of the world has, but my small villa in Crete doesn't--water pressure. I took a nice long man-shower and shaved while the it was still steamy. I wasn't ready to meet Bucharest until the early afternoon.
I decided that I'd brave some of the public transportation, but not all of it. In order to get to the Bucharest Metro system, I'd have to go to tobacco
stand or kiosk, buy a ticket, wait for a specific numbered car, get off at an unpronounceable street and walk three blocks. The hotel's bell hop told me all of this, and I decided that it's much better to just take a taxi to the Metro. This taxi driver was much more calm and far less colorful than last night's pimp that took me to the hotel from the airport. Yet I found it odd that when he pulled out of the hotel parking lot, he went to complete opposite direction of where I was told the metro station was. "You're taking me to the Metro, right?"
"Of course." He said.
"Then why are you going this way?"
"You want Metro, right? Is this way."
We passed a sign that said Metro with an arrow indicating we should turn right, and I was halfway baffled. Was this man going to take me to the border of Montenegro to get some extra Lei out of me? I understood the confusion, however, when he pulled into the parking lot of a huge K-mart like store called "METRO." "No," I told him. "Not here. Metro, you know like choo-choo," I motioned my arm straight and mimed a moving train.
"No want here? Metro you say me. Ah! Station? You want station?"
"Yes, the metro station."
"Next time say 'Station.'"
"Got it."
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