‘Exploring Between Meals’

I have a confession: I don’t travel the world--or this country--to explore all those historical monuments and museums. (So what do you suppose all the intellectuals will think of that?) Oh, I do check out a lot of those places and feel awe at everything that preceded our little existences. But here’s the thing--I do my exploring between meals .

I don’t care where a restaurant is. And it doesn’t have to be “in.” I just want great food indigenous to the area and presented in an interesting way.

Most vacationers read travel guides and brochures when they are planning a trip. I, too, spend a lot of time doing my homework before I journey to some new and wondrous place, but this adventurous Tennessean spends a lot of research time on restaurant reviews--four-star, three-star, two-star and no-star bistros. I quiz every friend who has been there before me--whether that there be Paris, Singapore, Cleveland, Pittsburgh or Rio.

And I keep my eyes and ears open for fallen stars, too. Tragedy to me means a former gastronomic miracle that has lost its glory because the chef left or the owners became absentee owners or the prices were allowed to go through the roof.

When I’m in Florence, Bangkok or Auckland, I do see the sights (besides golf and tennis). Honestly. But right now, if you snapped your fingers and said “Florence,” I’d tell you in detail how the whole city turns gold at teatime, about finding great buys in leather goods before lunch or a spaghetti with broccoli and funghi to die for before dinner.

When a waiter sees an obviously kindred soul nodding approvingly and savoring every description, hanging on his every word with almost sensuous appreciation, that waiter is bound to wax eloquent and become dewy-eyed at the very mention of the succulent delights lingering in that kitchen and waiting to be consumed by the discriminating guest.

On a couple of occasions in Italy, misreading my receptivity as pure sensuality, a waiter or maitre d’ discreetly mentioned that he would be off duty at 10:30 p.m., and should I restrain my appetite a little, it would be his pleasure to escort me to a wonderful adventure at an even more buonissimo ristorante than the one in which I was dining at the moment. Never mind what you’re thinking; I didn’t go.

It’s not that I make these gustatory binges only when I’m abroad. When I’m on a concert tour or a television show tour here at home, I never forget for a moment the post-program joy of keeping body and soul intact.

For example, Cleveland might not be your average everyday favorite holiday town, but mushroom bisque at the Earth-By-April restaurant is a good reason to go there. To say nothing of the angel hair con fruitte de mar at Giovanni’s. Honestly, just writing about it, I can hardly wait to get back. The audiences are terrific and the food is unforgettable in Cleveland. You heard me, Cleveland! And Chicago and Minneapolis and Philadelphia.

And Detroit! I’ll admit that town isn’t particularly engaging, but 45 minutes from the airport, Mrs. Morgan’s Boarding House--its long tables covered with gleaming white tablecloths--is loaded with home- style food. Have the potted short ribs of beef, chicken and square dumplings and deep- dish peach cobbler. Gawd, I’m hungry just remembering!

I’m a real stickler for starting my shows on time. When the ticket says 8 p.m., my shows start at 8 p.m. I don’t like long intermissions, and I always try to end a performance between 10:15 and 10:30 p.m. I can’t eat too much during the day of my appearance, so five minutes after that last song and the last autograph, I’m off with friends and members of the orchestra (trust musicians to know good food) to the prized restaurant in the area. I’m one of the show-business world’s great makeup-removers-in-the-limo.

The truth is that I haven’t had too many “vacation” vacations. They are mostly working vacations, but when I do get a little time off, it’s planned more around a restaurant route than a scenic route.

A few years ago, with the help of a friend at the great Mediterranee Restaurant in Paris, we put together a marathon trip from Paris to Rome that was truly memorable. It didn’t make any sense geographically, but it was a marvel for the right reasons.

I suppose that you could cover Paris to Rome in a couple of days of driving. It took us two weeks! We even dashed across an additional border or two. After all, we absolutely had to try a fabulous restaurant with an unusual veal dish in Zurich, then rush over to Vienna for the world’s greatest Bach and Handel (as well as a visit to Demel, the renowned confection shop, for pastries).

In Italy, there was a spaghetti carbonara in Rapallo, risotto and grilled shrimp in Florence. In France, anything en croute at Les Baux, quenelles des brochet sauce nantus at Le Coq d’Or in Saulieu.

I kept hoping, wistfully, that I could keep my weight down to a ton, but by the time we got to Rome, I was having hook, zipper and button problems. The secret for me is not getting too much meat on these bones while enjoying my gustatory benders. I eat big during the day but a little lighter than usual in the evening. Also, I take it easy on the wine, and I exercise. I’m an early riser and I always try to walk or jog a few miles early in the morning. Sometimes, when I don’t know a city too well or when I’m afraid of getting lost, I do my running in hotel corridors. You get some funny stares and have an occasional run-in--especially in the Middle East--with security guards who aren’t too comfortable watching sweat-suited Americans dashing up, down and around corridors in search of nothing but a little physical fitness before breakfast.

In Las Vegas, on the other hand, it’s really not too bad, because anyone you run into at 5:45 a.m. in that town is either just getting in or slipping out.

There’s one other little secret to keeping the weight manageable. Try, no matter how much you love the food, not to finish everything you order. I’ll tell you here and now that sharing a table with me almost always means sharing your food as well. I pass around goodies from my own dinner on my butter plate and expect everyone else to do the same. Of course, with this Chinese concept, it’s mandatory that you dine with adventurous people who all order differently.

Wouldn’t it be fun to take a trip purely for the fun of it and travel exactly where your stomach tells you to go? (A bonus would be to have a wonderful golf course nearby.)

I’d try Rio for feijoada , then on to Singapore for a Malaysian dinner--Chinese-Indian. You’d come with me. Next we’d go to Tokyo for sushi, grilled vegetables and meats from the thinnest beef and ginkgo nuts. Then to Hakone in the mountains and let them order for us. (It will soothe the soul as well as the tummy.)

Later we’ll touch down in Bangkok for just about anything that they want to serve us. I guarantee that it’ll melt your socks.

I’d love to visit Amsterdam for reistoffel and nasi goreng . I’d try Denmark for the herring and the way they do potatoes--and Stockholm for the mounds of little crayfish and the dilled, sliced, roasted potatoes. Madrid would be on my list too: the Plaza Major for the gazpacho and tiny grilled lamb chops, the Prado for its art, then some Flamenco dancing after our dinner. Just you and me. . .

Then on to Nazare, a small seaport town near Lisbon, to watch the fishermen in the Portuguese version of Scottish plaids hand-mending their nets and grilling marvelous, fresh sardines for dining on the beach.

We might dash over to the Middle East, where there’s a little restaurant named Philadelphia in Jerusalem that is run by a young Egyptian. Imagine! And get this: The owner maintains that Philadelphia is his dream city, and he’s dying to go there. The meals at the Philadelphia were sensational, by the way.

Then just you and I--it will be back to Italy for any and everything, including those cantaloupe-size, perfect peaches and whatever is new in the line of pasta, vitello, salads, breads. Gelati any day.

And we couldn’t forget New York. Wow! It has a bottomless pit of places to see between restaurants. I don’t take New York for granted. It’s always there, with everything from clams oreganoto at a spot I know downtown, to the uptown Zabar’s--and all the quiet, exquisite French restaurants in between.

Finally, we’ll jet back to my beloved California and fist-size strawberries, red to the core, enormous vine-ripened tomatoes, fresh corn on the cob, every great vegetable and herb you could conjure up. Fresh salsa, spicy and succulent Mexican food, oceans to soothe the ear, mountains to hike on and golf courses to play. And waiters with melting eyes and a little smidgen of fresh tomato sauce on an otherwise pristine shirt.

Much of my research has been done with the future in mind. I never experience these glorious cases without thinking that sometime, when there’s some wonderful somebody, I’ll return and share my treasure with him--though when there’s a somebody that special, a Denny’s six miles outside of Barstow can take on a new dimension.

And then there’s Venice in the fall, and Harry’s Bar when the sun sets and the water has turned to quicksilver. For that matter, any place on the water should be shared.