It seems that, Copenhagen-wise, I am spending these two weeks in the neighbourhood known as Nordvest — “Northwest” to you and me. Technically the district is known as Bispebjerg, and to get here from downtown you simply head, well, north-west, through inner-Nørrebro and outer-Nørrebro, right to the edge of the city proper.

You know when you’re watching Relocation, Relocation and the young couples looking to move up the property ladder talk about wanting to find a flat in a trendy central area “near all the shops, restaurants and bars.” This is not that area.

Which is not a complaint.

Having stayed on the cusp of Frederiksberg my first year here, in the heart of Frederiksberg my second year, and right downtown by Tivoli the third year, I’ve done the “near all the shops, restaurants and bars” scene and was ready for the “workaday residential neighbourhood.”

Which is not to say that I’m living in the country. Walk 20 minutes to the south-east and there’s good shawarma, good coffee, and and all the grocery stores, electronics depots and flower shops you might ever want.

My apartment is on Teglbrændervej, in the heart of an area full of 3- or 4-story older apartment blocks. Each block is about 200m long, and between each one is a combination parking area, garden and playground.

The apartment itself is a “0 bedroom” one: it’s got a large livingroom/bedroom, a tiny but large-enough kitchen, and the smallest possible bathroom you can imagine (it double as a shower when your unfurl a curtain around its edges). It’s the perfect-sized space for one. Which is what I am.

Tonight I headed out the door around 8:00 p.m. and decided to head away from the obvious eating choices. I stopped the first guy I met on the street and asked him to point me in the direction of the area with all the shops, restaurants and bars. He pointed me in the other direction, but did mention a place just around the corner that might suit me. He thought it was called Treblinka, that it looked a little rough on the outside, but that it was very good.

I decided to tour the neighbourhood before going to eat at a restaurant called Treblinka, and walked along to Frederiksborgvej, where I found a couple of pizza shops, an Indian café, and a sushi place that was just closing when I walked in the door.

I decided to throw caution to the wind, and headed back to where I’d started. Which is where I found a restaurant called not Treblinka but rather Tribeca NV.

This turned out to be a place otherwise almost exactly as described: a little rough on the outside, but excellent food on the inside. The restaurant described itself (machine translated) as one that:

…combines the mood of the pleasant Roman-Italian trattoria with the raw and fashionable atmosphere that is first and foremost know from the streets of New York

Which is a pretty good description. Their kitchen doesn’t close until 10:00 p.m.; I showed up at 9:00 p.m. just as most guests were on their desserts. I choose a table outside in the courtyard — a little chilly, but I’d been walking around, overdressed, in the heat all day.

I lucked into a very helpful waiter who insisted on translating and describing every item on the menu for me. I settled on a vegetarian paté plate (olives, fresh cheese, peppers, zucchini, giant capers) to start and the “Grilled salmon marinated in mint, chili with risotto” as a main course. I was not disappointed: each was very tasty, and the salmon was melt-in-your-mouth flaky and piping hot.

My server seemed somewhat perplexed that I’d wandered in off the street — apparently this isn’t something that English-speaking tourists do every day.

Which is one of the reasons, of course, that I’ve headed to the Nordvest.

Had lunch at Boys Shawarma og Isbar, a restaurant choosen for lunch completely based on typography. Excellent chicken shawarma. Nørrebrogade 216 in Copenhagen.

As anyone with children can attest, the presence of “bubbles” in a drink can have a dramatic effect on uptake. Which is why I appreciate the clear labelling on this can of Guava juice from Maaza:

The prices in the photo are in DKK; converted to Canadian Dollars, 11.67 DKK is about $2.50 per litre.

It’s 3:30 a.m. back home, 8:30 a.m. where I’m going, and 6:30 a.m. where I’m at. Iceland truly is a waystation en route to to Europe — the same role the Moon will play when we go to Mars.

From Submersible Design in New York, the Urine to Fertilzer DIY Kit:

We all think of human pee as gross and something that ought to be vigorously “cleaned up” or sanitized. However, human urine is actually sterile (unlike faeces, urine is bacteria-free). This liquid by product of our daily lives can be a rich food source if it gets into the RIGHT part of the right ecosystem. Now, most human urine travels untreated into the waterways and is a significant cause of eutrophication, a toxic condition caused by harmful algae blooms, in the oceans. The excess Nitrogen and Phosphorus in our urine overfeeds algae (like Red Tide) and effectively suffocates fish. However, a pioneering biological waste treament process being used in Switzerland can extract this phosphorus & nitrogen for use as a fertilizer, leaving the rest of urine almost harmless to aquatic life. This kit gives users the opportunity to replicate the new technique at home and fertilize their plants with their own pee.

Pointer from the Icelandair in-flight magazine Atlantica.

You may remember that Clarkie Innis died in March, leading to the gradual closure of the Hambly & Innis clothing store he ran for many years. After a succession of sales over the past few months (during which Catherine was able to secure an entire 1920s wardrobe for Oliver), they’ve finally closed the doors for good:

We had plans to go out to the Thai place on Kent Street for a Father’s Day dinner last night but, frustratingly, they were closed for a private function. So we ended up across the street at Piazza Joe’s.

It’s hard to believe, but Piazza Joe’s took over the old Tradewinds in 1996, twelve years ago. I still think of it as “that new Italian place on Kent Street” but it’s not been that for a while. And we hadn’t been there for a long, long time.

In the beginning, Piazza Joe’s had aspirations: read the article from The Guardian that they have mounted in the downstairs men’s washroom and you learn that the plan was that the Kent Street location would be the first of many spreading out across the country. That was in the days before East Side Marios, Boston Pizza et al, and I suspect that the world domination plans were long-ago set aside.

Although Oliver and I walk by the front door every morning on our way to school, I hadn’t eaten there, well, at least since Oliver was born. Probably in a decade. Something about the “bread bar” and the plastic bricks and the faux Italian dioramas put me off. Their recent drive to take over at night where Myron’s left off as the happening dance place for the kids didn’t help. And I never really like their take on Italian food.

So, in other words, there wasn’t exactly a “oh wow, Piazza Joe’s!” smile on my face when I walked in the door.

But they surprised me.

You can’t walk into Piazza Joe’s hoping for anything remotely resembling actual Italian food. The chicken comes from a bag. The ice cream comes from 5 gallon tubs. The “Expresso” sign having in front of the bar belies the lack of an actual espresso machine. In short, Piazza Joe’s fills the same culinary niche for Italy as having a plate of sweet and sour chicken balls at the Canton Café fills for China.

But once you set aside your Euro pretensions, they do pretty well on everything else.

Our server was friendly, witty, and capable, indeed all the staff were really nice, and pleasantly free of the amped up “maximum service, always” attitude that infects most chainy places these days.

The food itself — Chicken Tetrazzini for Catherine, “Kickin’ Chicken” for me, and kid-sized lasagna for Oliver — was surprisingly tasty (there actually was a kick to the chicken, which is rare in an city where the “Super-Spicy Baconator Killer Burger” comes with mild barbeque sauce).

Even the bread bar — you take a slice of bread, slather it with “spreads” of various types and put it on a open grill — was a welcome respite from severe hunger, and a Fun Activity for Oliver. They had 6-grain bread, which was nice.

I love places that offer an expensive tiny dessert option, and their tiny brownie sundae fit the bill perfectly: $2.99 for a tiny brownie, a tiny scoop of ice cream, a tiny bit of whipped cream and a tiny dolop of chocolate sauce.

All in all, a not-unpleasant night out. Not remotely like “going out to eat in Milan,” but a lot better than I expected 2 blocks from our house, and executed, for what it is, very, very well.

I’m headed off tomorrow night for Copenhagen, by way of Halifax and Iceland, for a two week “working vacation.” Assassins, stalkers, etc. can find my complete itinerary here and, as usual, you can follow my Plazes presence stream for a detailed blow-by-blow.

At the end of the trip comes reboot 10, my nominal reason for the voyage (it didn’t seem just to go to Copenhagen for just two days; two weeks seems slightly less unjust).

I’m looking forward to it all; I just hope that I can shake this snarky cold that’s had me in its grips for the past week.

Back July 1, meaning that this space will be pleasantly free from Festival of Lights diatribes this year.