Cioppino (chuh-pee-noh) is San Francisco’s answer to bouillabaisse or burrida, a tomato-based seafood stew that arrived here with Italian fishermen in the mid-nineteenth century.
These fishermen, most of them from Liguria, would combine their leftover catch with whatever ingredients they had at sea, mostly canned tomatoes and wine. Eventually, the stew moved off the boats and into the Italian restaurants of North Beach before returning to Fisherman’s Wharf. Today, between colourful souvenir shops and statuesque street performers, visitors can find restaurants named after some of the oldest Italian families: Castagnola’s, Tarantino’s and Alioto’s. Adjacent to the California Shellfish Co. sits a restaurant simply called Cioppino’s. It’s a fitting place to have my first taste of the namesake dish.
Despite living in the Bay Area for five years, I have somehow avoided the famous fish stew. I wondered if it had become a cliché – reserved only for the most touristy of waterfront eateries – or whether locals embraced the soup, too.
“The fishing culture is alive and well,” says Taryn Hoppe, as we sit down for lunch at a red-and-white chequered table. Taryn is a fourth-generation San Franciscan and the daughter of Nick Hoppe, who opened Cioppino’s in 1997.
Taryn summarises the history of cioppino, which is also printed on the restaurant’s menu. “Back when it was called Meiggs’ Wharf, the fishermen would pull their boats in for the day and pool together all the seafood they couldn’t sell. Someone would go around calling for leftovers to throw into a pot, saying ‘chip in, chip in’. That morphed into chip-ee-no [the ‘in’ is pronounced with an Italian accent].”
Others say the name is derived from ciuppin, which means ‘to chop’ and ‘little soup’ in Genoa, the capital of Liguria, home to a similar seafood concoction.
A shallow red bowl loaded with mussels, clams, shrimp and half a Dungeness crab appears in front of me. Before I know it, I’m cracking legs and wiping my mouth on a white bib emblazoned with the outline of a crustacean and the word ‘CRAB’. Spooning deeper into the bowl, I discover flaky snapper and springy calamari swimming in the broth laced with fennel, chilli and parsley. My Anchor Steam beer and sourdough from Boudin Bakery are the perfect accompaniments.
A few hours later, I meet Richie Alioto at the longstanding Fisherman’s Wharf establishment that his great-grandparents Nunzio and Rose Alioto opened in 1925.
Alioto’s started as a seafood stall, where the family would stoke a fire of coal or wood under the crab pot, mainly feeding local fishermen who would come in to trade or get their catch cooked by Nana Rose. Rose’s cioppino grew out of that tradition, and the recipe hasn’t changed since the early days, Richie says.
The dish is rich, with a spicy finish, and I ask Richie his secret. “I usually don’t share it,” he says, “but I will. We take a crab and crack it live, then sauté it right into the sauce. Some people get mad about that, but all the flavour comes from inside the shell. We call it butter. Tomato sauce is tomato sauce; it’s what you eat on pasta. This is something else.”
The next day, I find myself on the border of the financial district, not far from where Genoese immigrant Giuseppe Bazzuro first popularised cioppino at his eponymous restaurant in the 1850s. At this point, I still can’t tell whether cioppino is a tired tradition served mainly to out-of-towners or a staple as popular now as it was 165 years ago. I seek out Tadich Grill, which dates to Bazzuro’s day, for inspiration.
“Our cioppino is the most popular dish,” says general manager David Hanna. “On any given night, a third of the restaurant’s entrée sales are cioppino.”
Hanna says they butcher the fish on site, and little goes to waste. “The tail ends aren’t appetising to look at on a plate, but they’re still very edible and we can use those in cioppino. You can put anything in it,” he says. It occurs to me that the reason for cioppino’s invention – to save wasting the local catch – might also be reason for its survival.
For my final meal, I head to Pesce, a 14-year-old cichèti (Venetian tapas) bar located on upper Market Street. The modern interior features white walls, light timber floorboards and a subtle nautical vibe exaggerated by a Japanese-style fish mural in the back. It’s not the kind of place that would offer a bib with its cioppino.
I order a single version of the shared cioppino special. I’m told Pesce can’t keep it off the blackboard menu. I understand why as I sop up the final puddle of broth at the bottom of my terracotta dish. It’s simple yet modern, with meaty chunks of fresh rock cod and strong notes of saffron and green capsicum.
“We’re not reinventing the wheel,” chef-owner Ruggero Gadaldi tells me when I ask about his recipe. “It’s hard to erase so many years of history. When people think about San Francisco, they think about sourdough bread, they think about seafood on the wharf.”
Cioppino keeps those traditions alive. It’s little wonder it retains such a warm place in the hearts (and stomachs) of locals.
INGREDIENTS
1⁄4 cup olive oil
1 brown onion, diced
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
1 green capsicum, diced
1 red capsicum, diced
4 cups fish/shell fish stock
salt and white pepper, to taste
800g can chopped tomatoes
pinch saffron
pinch chilli flakes
18 clams
18 black mussels
12 large green prawns
450g cod
2 tablespoons chopped basil
11⁄2 tablespoons chopped Italian parsley
2 tablespoons grated parmesan
85g fresh crab meat
METHOD Heat olive oil in a large saucepan. Add onion, garlic and capsicum and cook for five minutes, stirring occasionally until the vegetables soften slightly. Stir in
the stock, salt, pepper, tomatoes, saffron and chilli flakes. Bring to boil and simmer for 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, place the clams and mussels in a bowl and rinse under running water for 10 minutes. Strain and set aside. Peel and devein prawns and set aside. Dice the cod into 2.5 centimetre squares.
When the base is ready, add the seafood, except the crab. Bring to the boil and cook for three minutes or until the clams and mussels open. Stir in basil and parsley. Sprinkle with parmesan and a pinch of fresh chopped parsley.
Divide cioppino into bowls, topping each dish with a spoonful of crab meat. Serve with a slice of sourdough.
Experience a wild night at Coco Bongo, where even the venue is a heady cocktail: part nightclub, part floor show, with a dash of Cirque du Soleil poured into the mix to keep things very interesting. Think lip-synching pop star doppelgangers, acrobats, wild movie costumes, dancing and social lubricant by the litre. If you tire of the place in Cancún, head to its sister venue in Playa del Carmen.
Also known as the Manhattan Solstice, this is a natural spectacle during which the setting sun aligns with the east–west streets of New York City’s main grid. It makes for some killer photos, so photographers, take note: it only happens twice a year, and the best chance to catch that perfect moment on camera is usually between the end of May and the middle of July.
It’s not marketing hyperbole. The Cliffhanger roller-coaster at Glenwood Springs literally dangles on the edge of a two-kilometre-high mountain face. The rollercoaster was relocated from Branson, Missouri, and now you can feel the adrenaline rush through you as you flip and turn on this white-knuckle fun park ride.
There was once a time, not so long ago, when Williamsburg wasn’t somewhere people visited. Now things are different and, even if they weren’t, it’d still be worth crossing the bridge to visit Brooklyn Brewery. From Monday to Thursday, the crew here runs bookable Small Batch Tours – part history lesson, part guided tasting – where you can ask questions and chill out afterwards.
On the weekends (it’s a no-tour zone on Friday), it’s a bit more laissez-faire with tickets for afternoon tours available on site an hour before. Order some pizza nearby, grab one of the seasonal brews and enjoy the atmosphere.
Think you’ve got the downward dog, cobra and child’s pose down pat? Try doing them on a board in the water, smartypants. Introducing YOGAqua, a stand-up-paddle-boarding-meets-asana caper for yogis who like to multitask. In 90 minutes of bodily bliss, learn how to limber up on a paddle board and sprout new muscles as you test your balance on a moving surface.
If it all becomes too much, you can always ditch the board and trade downward dog for dog paddle. After all, you’ll need to know how to swim if you want to make it back to shore.
Scarf-wearing, cigar-toting Maximón is believed to be the reincarnation of the Mayan God, Mam. A scarecrow-esque effigy of this curious character moves house every year in the Guatemalan village of Santiago, and attracts a steady stream of worshippers. Local children will lead you to Maximón for a fee, and you can make an offering of incense, whisky (his favourite) or cigars, but that will cost extra.
With its endless rugged cliffs and deep red crevices, the Grand Canyon couldn’t be more awe-inspiring – that is until you discover its hidden jewel, Havasu Falls. Nestled in the tribal lands of the Havasupai Indian Reservation, this spring-borne waterfall plunges from a 30-metre-high cliff top into a natural amphitheatre.
Clear blue-green pools glow against the terracotta-stained rock, their luminous colour generated by naturally occurring calcium carbonate and magnesium. Rise early and hike there or, if you’re super keen, take a helicopter. However you get here, this is one gem you want to find.
Take a break from Tulum’s ruins and jump straight into this emerald sinkhole. Part of the Ik Kil Archeological Park – also home to Chichén Itzá, a pre-Columbian city built by the Mayans – this swimming hole is just one of about 7000 cenotes (the word means natural well) dotted throughout the Yucatan Peninsula, thanks to an elaborate underground river system.
It’s a 26-metre drop from the lip of Ik Kil to the water. If you’re brave enough you can take the plunge – the water is about 40 metres deep, so you’re not about the hit the bottom. For the rest of us, there’s a set of stairs carved into the limestone for a more sedate entry. Get there early, or leave it till the late afternoon, to avoid the tour buses.
Residents of Kangerlussuaq, Greenland, are very proud of their tree. “See that tree? That’s the tallest tree. In all of Greenland,” one tells me. It is about 150 centimetres tall.
Viking Erik the Red named this tundra Greenland when he discovered it in 982. Evidently he thought it would entice people to move here from Iceland, making it quite possibly the ballsiest marketing move in history.
Kangerlussuaq is located at the head of one of the longest fjords on the planet and a bumpy bus ride parallel to it eventually leads to the sea, and my home for the next two weeks, the Akademik Ioffe.
From here we are taking the journey of a lifetime: a 12-day adventure with One Ocean Expeditions travelling westwards through the treacherous Northwest Passage that connects the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans along the north coast of North America. It’s a journey few ships are able to undertake, but the Ioffe is a scientific research vessel built specially to handle the harshest conditions on earth.
Overnight sailing takes us to Jakobshavn Glacier, one of the largest in the world and thought to have birthed the iceberg that sunk the Titanic.
At 120 metres long, the ship is remarkable and packed with incredibly sophisticated engineering. Its two diesel engines crank at a massive 3500 horsepower and have the ability to thrust 360 degrees as they run almost silently. Gigantic sub-marine, high frequency antennas map every crevasse on the seabed up to 3000 metres away. This, along with the fact that it was launched at the height of the Cold War and operated by a fully Russian crew, has made it a notorious spy ship. As a result, it’s never been allowed to sail in US waters.
Even though it’s a working vessel, Akademik Ioffe is remarkably liveable. The berths, while small, are still larger than a NYC dorm room, and have comfortable bunk beds along with small sinks, desk areas and even a little couch. Outside the rooms there is a large dining hall, library, sauna and even a lounge with a well-stocked bar. On the top deck an outdoor hot tub offers the opportunity, if you’re lucky, to sip a cold beer and watch polar bears at the same time. Could you ask for a better setting for an adventure story?
The ship, however, is just a vessel for the experience, which is expertly crafted by the impressive One Ocean staff. Each has specialised skills that, when combined, create the perfect storm for their onboard companions. The set-up is similar to that of a video game, but instead of having a demolition expert, a sniper, a medic and a marine on your team, you have a glaciologist, a naturalist, a historian and a masseuse. Each and every person here is dedicated to this expedition and an authority on some aspect of the Arctic. They not only bring the history of the Arctic within reach, but they bring it very much to life.
Safely on board, we’re ready to face the unknown, and head north up the coast to the ridiculously picturesque town of Sisimiut. Houses are strung along the rugged cove like Christmas lights, each one painted a solid primary colour as if the local hardware store had a sale on the brightest of hues. In the centre of town, below Greenland’s oldest church, Bethel-kirken, is an outdoor museum with a handful of houses from different epochs. The interior of the oldest, a basic peat house, is breathtaking – clean simple lines, large living spaces, oil lamps and simple decor. You can almost see where IKEA gets its inspiration.
Overnight sailing takes us to Disko Bay and the Jakobshavn Glacier, one of the largest in the world and thought to have birthed the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. Walls of ice, 150 metres long, are calved in our wake as we explore in Zodiacs. We skim over frozen chunks of white, through blue-green canyons and over inky water, as glaciologist Jimmy McDonald waxes poetic about the different types of ice – candle ice, grease ice, pancake, white, black, brash, what is healthy ice and what isn’t. Seems it isn’t just a key ingredient in my frozen margarita, but also another life form on this planet – and one that is responsible for all the other life forms on the planet. “The ice is what controls global warming, not the other way around,” Jimmy explains. It soon becomes evident that if global warming didn’t exist we wouldn’t even be able to take this trip.
Crossing Baffin Bay we stop in Canada at Devon Island to go hiking. Chalk-white bones of fallen animals lie in our path as we cross gentle summits. Walking the shore of Lancaster Sound, we wend through large warped ice chunks that give the pebbled beach the appearance of a sculpture garden. Finally we reach the sweeping bay of Dundas Harbour, where two battered and abandoned houses sit trapped in time. These are the last remnants of a doomed Royal Canadian Mounted Police post that lasted a mere nine years, from 1924 to 1933.
On an embankment there’s a small cemetery where three bodies are interred – one is an Inuit girl who died of unknown causes, another belongs to an RCMP officer who was killed in a walrus hunting accident, and the final one is a Mountie who took his own life. In the ghost town below, you can peer into the buildings to see old cans, empty whisky bottles, and magazines and books left as they were when the inhabitants abandoned the settlement more than 80 years ago. It becomes apparent the cold here preserves everything, including the Arctic’s dark history.
On the southern side of Baffin Bay we reach Beechey Island, where a thick fog has settled in and visibility is about five metres. “It’s always like this,” says Ian, one of the expedition leaders. He is a big Nova Scotian who always looks as if he’s about to wrestle some wild animal. “Doesn’t matter if it’s sunny and warm on the water – as soon as you land, fog. Everywhere. All the time.” Traversing the island is like walking through an Ingmar Bergman film – a rocky beach stretches for miles, the horizon blending perfectly with the fog so that infinity surrounds you. Then, maybe a hundred paces from us, we find four small wooden gravestones. This is the last sign of the great Franklin expedition.
Sir John Franklin is to the Northwest Passage what Madame Curie is to x-rays: a tragic figure whose death only brought on more discovery. You cannot travel to this part of the world and not speak of Franklin. He was the glorious son of the British Empire, and the favourite to finally find a true passage from Greenland to the Canadian mainland. Outfitted with two immense ships, the HMS Erebus and HMS Terror, Franklin had a massive advantage over previous expeditions. Besides being well funded and loaded with the most advanced equipment, he had a tremendous amount of experience, having already made three successful trips to the Arctic Circle. Unfortunately, things turned out differently on his fourth. In 1845 he left England with 129 fit crew. In 1846 he wintered on Beechey Island, and buried three of the men at the gravesite we’re at today. A note was left with them saying things were going swimmingly, morale was high, and Franklin expected great results as the coming of spring would free his ships to travel further west.
That was the last anyone ever heard from him.
Franklin’s wife Jane wouldn’t believe her husband had perished and, in the decades that followed his disappearance, championed to send dozens of rescue missions to bring him home. Ironically, it was those searching for the sailor and his men who filled in the blanks on the Arctic map, and gave rise to the ultimate crossing of the Northwest Passage by Sir Robert McClure and the crew of the HMS Investigator, by ship and sledge, in 1854. Franklin has since been heralded a hero despite his expedition being a failure and the discovery of evidence suggesting he and his men resorted to cannibalism in an attempt to survive.
What is truly outstanding is that for the following 150 years people searched for Franklin’s two huge ships with little success. It wasn’t until September 2014 that a Canadian expedition, using sonar, stumbled upon the wreckage of the Erebus in Queen Maud Gulf some 800 kilometres from Beechey Island. Unfortunately any sign of Franklin’s grave or those of most of his men are non-existent. Many are thought to have perished trying to walk to the mainland. How do I know all this? Each night, Arctic historian Katie Murray, in her Scottish brogue, recounts the tales of lives risked and lost to discover the Northwest Passage.
Sailing away, we begin heading into the thick of the Canadian archipelago that makes up the Nunavut territory. Every day the crew checks charts and remaps the route to ensure safe passage through the ice-choked channels. The ice here dictates your path and plans for the day, and making it to the final port at Cambridge Bay sometimes seems like an impossible feat. It is possible to get trapped in an inlet or blocked from proceeding by changing ice floes, giving you a real-time sense of how treacherous this crossing can be.
On the morning of the tenth day we pile into the Zodiacs to tour the massive cliffs of Prince Leopold Island, one of the largest bird nesting sites in the world. At first I’m taken aback by the sheer size of the granite wall in front of me, then I realise it is covered in thousands of birds. They come here to lay their eggs, which are an exaggerated conical shape. It’s nature’s way of ensuring that if the eggs roll they spin in a tight circle rather than off the edge of a 400-metre cliff. As we cruise past the clamouring, avian-infested precipice, we are greeted by another fantastic surprise – a large male polar bear.
Polar bears are unique creatures. Most people never encounter them, but we all have an idea of what they look like. Let me tell you, you’re wrong. They are massive. Half-a-tonne massive, and pure white with large paws that give them the appearance of a huge puppy. Their obsidian eyes peer out over the surface of the water, as their mouths, overloaded with jagged teeth, curl in the manner of a smile. They are captivating, and it’s a rare treat to see one in the wild.
Which is why over the next two days, when we spy another 14 of them, our minds are blown. “They must have known you were coming to write an article,” jokes expedition leader Boris Wise. Even he admits seeing this many bears is rare. We see them feeding on land, hanging out on icebergs, taking a dip and protecting their young from larger males. There are so many, in fact, that when I’m in the hot tub and the call comes over the ship’s PA that another bear has been spotted off the port side, I simply crane my neck to watch it enjoy its fresh meal. It doesn’t get much better than that.
With our expectations surpassed, we cruise silently into Cambridge Bay. On the final night the chef prepares a birthday cake for two passengers on board, and bartender Vanessa invents a drink special called Arctic Ice, a concoction that makes saying goodbye to new friends a little easier. We trade pictures, stories and contact information, then return to our cabins to pack.
At the airport we cross paths with the next group who is taking the ship back to Greenland. We smile at them, half envious that they’re about to witness something that will possibly change them forever, and half proud because we’ve completed a journey that has challenged so many before us. As we board the charter flight back to civilisation I am reminded by Katie, our historian, that Queen Victoria called the Arctic Meta Incognita, which is Latin for ‘the unknown limits’. That is exactly how completing this journey has made me feel – like there would never be any limit to my fondness for this experience.
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