Bar Trek: The Next Generation

As we strolled in with our party of 6, the DJ was spinning remixes of old Eazy-E tracks as if to announce our arrival. We'd been waiting for this for seemingly an eternity, and the stars had finally aligned to bring us all together in this unique time and place, a cause in itself for celebration. An everyday celebration, but one that quickly came to strike me with new, heartfelt significance. First came our bottle of wine, followed by a plate of artisinally crafted cheeses, and then the beautiful, locally produced charcuterie. Here I sat with a group of my new friends, sharing my interest not only in gastronomy but also in the soundtrack of my adolescence... could it be? I felt as if my generation, the most aimless and hopeless, yet most impassioned generation of all, was starting to find its place at the dinner table.

At our last after-work cooldown, over goblets of the obscure Belgian ales that the North Shore pub is home to, Robin and I noticed the unexpectedly generous list of cheeses and cured meats chalked on the blackboard above our table at The District. We knew we'd have to return to lay down $17/plate for tastes of these savory treats, and this is what we so happily did last night.

We started with a bottle of Joie Noble Blend, also offered by the glass. This is a Naramata homage to the grapes of Alsace, a masterful menage of Pinot Gris and Blanc, Gewurtztraminer, Ehrenfelser, and Kerner. Drinking a glass of this crisp delight is like meeting a refreshing character with a unique and effervescent personality, knowing that you'll need to spend the evening in conversation before you begin to scratch his surface. This is one of the best wines in BC. Next we picked our cheeses, in round-robin fashion. As I was quick to call "second captain first pick," I leapt at the Abbotsgold, a medium cheddar incorporated with caramelized onions. Kevin chose the parmesan-like Piave, and Robin's best for last choice was Huntsman, a double Gloucester layered with Stilton. These were served with balsamic reduction and a homemade sundried fig compote.

For our charcuterie, all provided by Granville Island's Oyama Sausage Company, we had no choice but to elect a trio of game – elk prosciutto, smoked bison, and wild boar salami. Served with grainy dijon mustard (my favorite condiment EVER) and house-prepared pink peppercorn shallot relish. Each of these plates came with a soft, crusty baguette doused in extra virgin olive oil and black pepper. In the worlds of Lil' Jon... WHAT?!?! OKAY!!!!

First, I have to remind myself to take a picture. Then, I have to show some restraint and solo taste each one of these 6 sexy sedeuceurs, for the sake of science.

• Piave: slightly sweet & nutty, earthy, like a young parmesan, a little bit softer. Would be bomb with some cabernet.

• Huntsman: smooth & mild, punctuated with sharp crumbly stilton. As soon as this hit my toungue, I braced myself for the Kool-Aid guy to bust through the wall saying, "Oh yeah!"

• Abbotsgold: nice creamy medium cheddar flavor, with sweet caramelized onions. Carry on.

• Elk prosciutto: actually not very distinct. Salty, savory, chewy, like thinly sliced jerky.

• Smoked bison: more character than the previous, with a more distinctly gamey bison flavor, well balanced by the smokiness.

• Wild boar salami: like good, sour salami but with stronger flavor. Garlic, mustard, black pepper.

Next, I try to assemble the most likely suspects on slices of bread. Bison , shallot relish, huntsman. Piave, sundried figs, elk. Boar, abbotsgold, dijon. They're all... divine. Perfection. And here is where I start to lose touch with words, losing touch with my more precise faculties, losing touch with articulable reason. Apparently my creative capacity is insufficiently developed to pay due respect to such gastronomic ecstasies, and my animal instincts begin to get the best of me. Logic and reason pay no mind to my ensuing combinations. I'm just putting anything with anything else onto a piece of bread, and washing it down with healthy quaffs of the noble wine. My pupils dilate. My skin grows gooseberries, my hairs stand on end, and I start to grunt like a pig rooting for truffles. For a moment, I swear my soul hangs in the rafters, watching my body greedily construct tiny sandwich after tiny sandwich, bobbing my head to funky house beats. This is Foodist Mysticism.

I should feel like a glutton for my carelessness. I should feel wasteful for dropping $45 on a bottle of wine and $34 on two tiny plates of bites. How selfish! How spoiled! How wasteful!

But as much as I might have many years ago, I feel no remorse for the extravagance of this fleeting experience.

I have met the woman who makes this wine... and she did so with great love and passion. I saw it on her smile, and read it in her eyes as they glowed while she told me about pressing the grapes. This was not flown around the world at the cost of tonnes of carbon emissions. She is practically my neighbor. I believe in a society that supports its neighbors. She deserves to be well paid for her work, and I know that the proceeds are well deserved by her and her family (and she happens to be expecting its newest addition).

These meats were cured from locally harvested game by a family business just across town. I've been in his tiny shop. I've shaken his hand as he passed me my duck rillette. He is a craftsman, and I believe in a society where craftsman can make a living. I will support him by reveling in the products of his passion. And these cheeses, though imported, are not mass-produced blocks of processed “cheddar” produced in a factory, but are the product of years of local tradition developed by European dairy farmers. I believe in a society that supports and celebrates global tradition. It is priceless to preserve them.

This is Foodism in practice. At its best, our Church is the Dining Room, and the cheque is merely the collections plate. To be nourished by my daily bread (and wine, and cheese, and meat) not only physically but spiritually, by knowing that we are also nourishing our planet, and our neighbors, and our cultures, I will gladly pay my tithe. For when I leave with my full belly and full heart, I know that my wallet may be a little bit lighter, but I have done well, for we have helped to create the change that we need to see in the world. One meal at a time.

GM Eggplant in India?

GM Crops are a bit of a grey area. Clearly we already have alot of GM cotton and corn being grown around the world, and nothing harsh has evidently popped up healthwise... and scientists generally seem to say they're OK, if not for the lack of long-term testing.
I'm concerned about them not so much from the health perspective (even though they could feasibly cause something nasty down the road, we don't know) but from the social perspective. For example, Monsanto puts a patent on GM corn crops, so you can't re-seed and you have to buy the seeds from them. Some small farmer growing a variety of boutique or organic corn that makes outstanding gritz has seeds from GMO corn blow in from the huge industrial farm next door -- Monsanto inevitably catches wind of their crop in his field, and sues him out of business. In the eyes of the huge corporate law machine, a team of greedy lawyers can easily convince a court that this is theft of intellectual property, and before you know it his farm is foreclosed. I bet you Monsanto, or somebody growing GM corn for Monsanto buys it up. Another one bites the dust.
I can hear my brother saying "who cares, let the more profitable system prevail." I'd say fair enough if this system wasn't rigged for corporations, Kelso, but consider this: Remember that little potato blight in Ireland that killed everybody? That was precipitated by a potato monoculture - they only grew one kind of lumper, so all it took to wipe out the whole country's crops was one strain of lumper-loving fungus. If we cover our continent coast to coast in one strain of Monsanto-owned GM corn, designed to protect against one strain of annoying insect, the chances are greatly increased that one flaw in its genetic code can lead to the collapse of our entire food system. Furthermore, that one strain of annoying insect develops resistance to the toxins in a GM product over 3 times faster than it does to chemical spray, because of constant exposure, so Monsanto will have to develop new organisms at an increasingly rapid rate. Not only does that make farmers increasingly reliant upon this one company (increasingly undermining the free market by supporting a monopoly of our food system) but it makes the science of GMOs increasingly specious. Sure, right now all of our GM foods have only one more gene introduced, and scientists are mostly OK with that... but what about 10 years from now when we've had to introduce a dozen new genes to keep up with how much smarter nature is than we are? Suddenly, we've engineered whole genomes, and quite honestly, we don't know what the fuck we're doing. I think we should just nip this in the bud now and buy preferably organic produce from preferably small, local producers, so that when the shit hits the fan in the GMO monocultures, at least the Fraser Valley has a strong system of local biodiversity.

We Are Smog Eaters

A 2-year study released last Tuesday by the Chinese ministry of agriculture suggests that, despite earlier projections, agriculture in China is responsible for the majority of its ground and water pollution.

"Fertilisers and pesticides have played an important role in enhancing productivity but in certain areas improper use has had a grave impact on the environment," he said. "The fast development of livestock breeding and aquaculture has produced a lot of food but they are also major sources of pollution in our lives." (source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2010/feb/09/china-farms-pollution)

As you may have heard from widely publicized reports in the last number of years, Chinese agriculture and aquaculture are not only unregulated but go largely uninspected by Canadian authorities upon their receipt into our food supply. You usually don't get to see where your produce comes from when you buy it at Safeway, but I can assure you that, from inspecting the cases we receive at restaurants, a lot of the cheapest produce that travels well (garlic, ginger, spices, and even lots of fruit) is Chinese. Unless you're very, very careful, I'm sure you eat it every single day.

Aquaculture is especially dangerous – some commonly used Chinese antibiotics have proven to be toxic and carcinogenic, and these things are going straight into our bodies and straight into Asian waters.

I have a nasty little habit of checking the “product of” labels on seafoods that are brought into the coolers of establishments I work at, and I can tell you with authority that any crab, in particular, that is not labeled as OceanWise is coming from Chinese crab farms – Aquastar is a brand that sells seafood to Sysco on the super cheap, and almost any high-volume restaurant you sit down to eat at orders a lot of their product from Sysco (or Neptune – same shit, different stall). What's more, I intermittently look at the boxes in particular and I have NEVER found a single Aquastar crab box that has the lot number or “inspected by” areas filled out or stamped. This shit doesn't get inspected – it would have a stamp if it had been, right? They don't even know what the lot number is, so if Aquastar ever had to recall a particular batch of deadly crab, cost-cutting chefs wouldn't even know if the crab in their coolers was in question.

Do you need to wait for any more reasons to take an interest in where your food comes from? Irresponsibly and unsafely produced food not only destroys the environment (apparently, in China, faster than all other industries if you include the pollutive output of fertilizer production) but injects chemical evil directly into your body. It's not that I want to necessarily scare you here, I just want to help you realise that when you think of the “big bad Chinese pollution machine” you probably think of coal-burning smokestacks... Maybe it's time you start thinking about that bag of frozen seafood you just bought from Safeway. You might as well be driving a Hummer... and piping the exhaust straight into the cabin.

To Penetrate the Earth

Aikido's founder, Morihei Ueshiba, was not only a legendary martial artist, but a farmer and pioneer who was among the first to colonize Japan's harsh northern island, Hokkaido. He based many of the basic concepts of Aikido's body harmony upon the most efficient movements developed while working the land. Karate, and its weapons system of Kobudo, were developed by Okinawan rice farmers, and its weapons derived from farm tools.
I felt this connection with civilization's founders today as I broke earth of my own. Part of the reason I chose my modest ground-level apartment was for the rather sizeable patch of earth beside my barbecuing patio... and today I finally found the motivation to prepare it for impregnation. I bought $30 worth of cheap garden tools at home hardware (a hoe, a rake, a transplanter, spade, and cultivator) and took the first steps, tearing up the moss cover and discarding of any evidence of neglect. I wouldn't be surprised if this plot had never been made useful, with all the torn up shopping bags and bottle caps I found buried in the first 3 inches of topsoil.
But what beautiful topsoil it was! The pungent, moist aroma of black earth must have been pining for release for years, and welcomed the rape of my hoe as liberation. Countless healthy earthworms and fat green grubs found my efforts a little more aggressive, I'm sure, but they will soon come to understand the meaning of my toil. The grubs may be doomed, but I will continue to enlist the longer warriors of my writhing legion as allies. My only concern, at this point, are the skunks that seem to have burrowed underneath my patio... I'm sure that, if they discover carrots and beets and parsnips popping up, my earthly occupation will seem like a gala buffet in their honor, and I will have to declare war.
Until these problems rear their heads, and I'm sure countless unseen enemies will wage continuous terror on my terroir, I will contemplate on the patio with a glass of riesling and a bowl of curry, considering the fate of its careful cultivation. Even if my efforts are destined to be doomed by the usual usurpers of organic utopias, the act of laying my seed brings me closer with the earth. Gardening is, for a Foodist, what the Reformation was for Christians. Through connecting with the earth with two hands and a hoe, we reduce our reliance on the interlocutors of our faith. Safeway shall no longer be my priest – I shall henceforth read the Bible of the earth with my own body and soul, and reap the rewards of direct connection with the dirty divine. Amen.

Free Photos! Naked 18 Year Old... Portafilter?

I hate pulling myself out of bed on a day off... it takes something very important to wake me up before the crack of noon. Today, however, was one of those days... I had a loosely scheduled appointment to meet up with Tristan at Moja Roaster Cafe near Phibbs Exchange, and I wasn't planning on missing it. I'll pull on a sweater and wipe the sleep out my eyes for a free cup of coffee and some barista training any day.
When I arrived at the modern, minimalist cafe, Tristan wasn't behind the counter. Instead it was Mileesa (I know I've met her before at a bar or a party, but she refuses to admit my acquaintance) doing her best to deal with the demanding assholes that think they own the place for the price of a $4 latte. I blame Starbucks for the fact that people think its perfectly OK to order their “nonfat vanilla extra hot half-caf” or some other bullshit. What happened to coffee for coffee's sake? How fucking spoiled have we become? Mileesa manages to maintain composure and a smile, which is more than I could say for myself at 11am on a Monday.
I ordered a large latte... and waited patiently for the bitchy yuppies to waste her time trying to choose the Goldilocks scone. Well worth the wait, for what a beautiful coffee it was... two simple ingredients: expertly pulled sweet, balanced espresso painting a softly steamed microfoam canvas Your special order, yuppies, is an illusion designed to distract you from the half-assed teenagers' lack of skill at your local chain. THIS, my friends, is coffee at its best. For once, I remembered to capture its beauty photographically before I tucked into its luxurious, foamy warmth. The perfect way to start a productive morning, while leisurely absorbing the impassioned prose of Michael Pollan's “Second Nature.”
Tristan's welcoming tenor resounds jovially from behind me. He's finally made it out of the roastery and onto the cafe floor. Inviting me behind the bar, the first thing I notice is the GORGEOUS old-school espresso machine. This one, explains Tristsan, is a hybrid of old and new: instead of pushing a button like on the new automatic machines, the barista pulls down a lever above the filter head to pressurize a loaded espresso shot. In the classic machines, this lever would have to be pulled down by hand slowly to extract the shot; but with this mechanism, after the lever is pulled down, a precisely calibrated spring releases it upward as hot water (just shy of boiling) is forced through the puck. Most of the finer points of this art of extraction, the different times required for different bean varietals, and the flavors that are pulled out of the grounds at different stages of the process, fly right over my head because I'm too absorbed with the absolute pornography of what is pouring out of the naked portafilter.
Brunette with streaks of blonde and luscious auburn lowlights stream gracefully into a heated espresso cup, practically trembling with anticipation below. One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, I reckon, and I'm beginning to understand why baristas can fall in love with the older style of apparatus as well as the flavor and texture of the coffees they create.
To finish our Coffee 101 crash course, Tristan could not have been more excited to introduce me to Moja's new Kenyan blend, roasted from heirloom varietals that have apparently been rooted in African soil since the dawn of time. And like an old-vines Zinfandel, these ancient plants produce some stunningly complex flavors. I've always found it hard to ascertain “citrus” and “tropical fruit” from coffee, and always thought it the kind of circle-jerking that wine experts can get lost in during their arcane tastings. But this cup, brewed in a french press with beans measured to the gram and water tempered to the degree, tasted like a good cup of light roast at first... but finished like strawberry fondue. If you don't believe me, go down to Moja Roaster Cafe and ask Tristan for a taste of the Kenyan. You won't regret it.

My Vitriolic Prose

Since I've started writing this blog, I've noticed that my disdain for the least grateful 5% of my customers has diminshed greatly (though, not entirely.) This is so cathartic for me... any server harbors a certain degree of resent and hostility for being in the position of waiting on people, a small percentage of whom can ruin the vibe of a whole night. But since I've started this blog, I've noticed that it's becoming easier for me to focus on the good people, the joyful talkative barflies, the happy-go-lucky locals, and the progressive compatriots.
So I would hate it if any of my friends, whom I serve so genuinely and passionately, would find themselves alienated by my characteristically vitriolic prose. I've made good connections with people like Brian and Frieda, Wendy and Joanne, Lenny and Erin. I like you, and people like you, and I hope you like my blog. So I hazard this extension of self.
It's actually very intimate, to share a webdiary like this. My previous posting about Cactus Club reveals as much about myself as it does its object. Any faults that I find in others can only be those things I disdain about myself... and inevitably, the things I most oft expose unconsciously. My vitriolic prose is a mirror of my own uncertainty and insecurity.
So, my aforementioned friends, I hope that you will take my passionate opines as an expression of self, and not a statement of fact. Throughout life there are things that we each support, as a matter of philosophy, and things that we abhor with equal arbitraire. As the sun takes its rise, and its set... we are who we are, and I strive to be unashamedly thus biased, ever aspiring to see my brother's view. As we all grow, we twine together, reaching for the same sun... and the stronger we grow as one, the stronger we shall become together.
So please accept My Vitriolic Prose as exaltation rather than condemnation. Cactus Club: you've done alot for the dining scene in this town. Because of you, service standards have risen noticeably for upscale-casual establishments. You serve primarly local (and therefore better than Tyson chicken and Chilean pork farms) proteins and a great list of local wines. I just want you to do better... you have so much potential! You have such buying power and market share! I hope you can push us even further, Rob, and that you and Cactus Club set better than pineapple gelee. Because you're a magical cook, and I have the greatest faith in cooks, you of whom are a king. Do us proud, and speak economically of the WestCoast zeitgest as your Canadian Classics did culinarily!!! You're the man, Rob, that can take those five foot LCD screens and turn them into community supported agriculture. I can't wait to taste your Fraser Valley pork chop with Joie Riesling, organic cremini mushrooms and Okanagan gala applesauce.
Until that day, I do my best to represent establishments that have shown a commitment to the Ocean-Wise program, in particular, and expression of local terroir in season. It's not just local sablefish and spot prawns that represent our support of a short foodchain, but roasted golden beets and organic fingerling potatoes. Because every dollar we spend on sustainable harvesting with local labour prevents 50 cents of overfishing or unsustainable farming. The conversion rate is astronomical.
But as you dine, my friends, my opinions are forgotten and your comfortability is placed at a premium -- because ultimately, I value the dining experience, and politics have no place in the dining room. Politics are like cellphones: they're best if you only turn them on once in a while. The rest of the time, I can tell by looking into your eyes that we are both humans, and all we seek are the same... the same Comfortability, Delight, and Satisfaction, that dining rooms are designed to elicit.
So let us relish in this shared experience while we dine together. Because we all want the same thing, ultimately. And that ultimate experience, I believe, lives in the here and now... it is roommates with Dining. So let us work together, do our best to enjoy one another in this moment, and let our politics be a matter of discussion for the forums. Thanks so much for reading my blog.
Love,
Shane

Dear, Table 18...

Oh my God... what a bitch. People like you are the reason I don't want to be a Maitre D'. Maitre D's have to kiss your ass whether you're a reasonable human being or not, and quite honestly my dear, I don't think you're worthy of the title.

I'm bartending on a Saturday night, and the lady at table 18 orders a Grey Goose martini -- dirty, with limes. Personally, I'd use olive and lime juice to mask the imperfections of a cheap vodka rather than sully a well crafted premium like Grey Goose, but to each their own. So I shake lightly with a little olive juice, and put two lime wedges on the edge of the glass. She sends back the martini: she wants it shaken with the lime juice. I can see her looking at me. Smugly. She's been in here before. I don't recall her having been a twat last time I served her, so I think nothing of it as I pour the martini back into a shaker with the freshly squeezed lime juice and give it another go. I pour it into a fresh glass with a lime wheel floating atop. Classy, right?

She sends it back. Again. She claims that this muddy green martini was not made with Grey Goose. EXCUSE ME?? Are you calling me a liar??? I can see you from the bar! You should have watched me pour this from the Grey Goose bottle!! I've had assholes send back martinis saying I used too much vermouth (when I didn't even look at any vermouth), but this is some next level bullshit. Don't pretend to have such a finely discerning palate, when you fuck up a well crafted premium spirit with olive and lime juice. If you were a true vodka drinker, you'd order it straight up, not fucked up... you're a poser. If you want to be a poser, fine, but don't waste my time and call me a liar by sending it back because it makes you feel important. Fuck You, table 18.

Fascist Grub Passé: Globalized Dying Scrounge

Sandwiched claustrophobically between a pair of cheap suits wearing Chinese made Vancouver 2010 pins, I stir cream from a dirty carafe into my cup of pre-spilled coffee. The lounge's bar looks out into the business district, fragile crystal citadels yearning to pierce through the oppressive grey canvas overhead. Any office windows not yet obscured by megalithic media messages mirror the anxiety of the pre-Olympic plebeians rushing about their lunch hour below. Trolley buses click and spark their way around the city selling civic spirit brought to you by McDonald's and Coca Cola, and the busy floor of Cactus Club Bentall is starting to suffocate me like a corporate cafeteria.

I'll admit: I thought this lunch was going to be a lot worse than it was. I agreed to meet a dear old friend of mine here, who for some reason unbeknownst to me, frequents the local franchise. I might as well also take the opportunity to see how my old chef Rob is doing in his new digs. And, as much as I hate to admit it, Feenie isn't doing too badly at all.

Sure, the service was a little slow to start, but I wasn't a businessman on an expense-account lunch like most of the room seemed to be. Showing up in a leather jacket and toque amidst the lunch rush of the busiest upscale-casual restaurant in town isn't exactly the kind of entrance that's going to command any extra attention from the skin-tight-skirted girls on staff. They didn't curl their hair and load their make-up gun that morning for my sake.

And sure, I thought it was a little hokey that one of the 5 menus they gave me wasted my time with a greeting-card version of Feenie's biography. Apparently he didn't join the booming chain 2 years ago because daddy Sidhu took away his name and his BMW in the divorce settlement, but because he suddenly asked himself, “Why should eating well only be for the rich?” This must not have been a rhetorical question, since the reserve list boasts $3000 magnums of Dom Perignon, a 1982 Chateau Canon for $1200, a 7oz steak for $36 and a fucking $18 club sandwich.

Putting my cynicism and undying hatred for Cactus Club Cafeteria aside, I began to enjoy my conversation with my friend and finally got a moment's time from the server as the rush slowed. I knew she wouldn't have any pertinent information at the ready, so I sent her back to the kitchen to find out where the beef was from, if the chicken was fresh or frozen, and if the Peking Ducks for the aforementioned club sandwich were made in house. She returned 15 minutes later to tell me the beef is Albertan, and the chicken and ducks are from BC. Not the brightest bulb in the vanity, but at least it seems that she could parrot back that their proteins are local. Point: Cactus Club. If I can trust this information, I can no longer hope to vilify them on the basis of careless, purely profit-driven sourcing. Damn it.

The wine list, too, had a great selection of BC wines. And it claimed that they would open any bottle for you as long as you committed to drinking 2 glasses from it. Not too many restaurants can do that... I guess for all the sacrifices they make to push 8 minute entrees out of the kitchen and squeeze in two dozen turns a day, the big-box advantage translates into flexibility by the glass. Point: Cactus Club.

I knew I had to order a signature Feenie dish, and it wasn't going to be the burger (I forgot to ask where they make it and from what kind of beef... I guess I also forgot to care) or any of the seafood dishes that all seemed to have farmed Indonesian tiger prawns (have I mentioned before that these prawn-like shelldwellers are equal parts chemical, antibiotic, and social oppresion?). Since I was once chef du partie of the pasta brigade at Feenie's bistro, I couldn't help but blow $17 on his plate of butternut squash ravioli with white truffle beurre blanc, crispy sage and amaretti. When it arrived, to my surprise, I found myself not entirely revolted. 7 large raviolis came smothered in nicely emulsified butter sauce, each topped with an individual leaf of fried sage. After my first bite, I actually said aloud, “wow, these aren't gross.” The filling was smooth, the pasta was nicely cooked, and the use of truffle was judicious but not sparse. I really enjoyed my first ravioli! Point: Cactus Club.

Unfortunately, like my inaugural sexual experience (sorry Jenna), the dish climaxed early. A couple of bites into the second ravioli, and I realised that the filling was a little too smooth, a little too sweet. Initially pleasing, yes, but so was Full House in the early '90s. Pretty soon, you start to wish it was over a long time ago. It turned out, it wasn't really clever TV at all – it was cutsie trickster twinswaps, firehazard hair and Dave Coulier. This filling had something in it that was once butternut squash, but after the endorphins from all the glucose wore off, it started to resemble little more than sweet, squash flavored, bright orange marscapone cream. And no beurre blanc I've ever made had this kind of balance. Beurre blanc should be reduced wine vinegar and butter, and neither of those things stick to the tip of my tongue like crème anglaise. If I'd ordered the appetizer size, maybe they would have hoodwinked me, but I'd had to chug 4 pints of water by the end of the meal just to keep from candying myself.

On my ensuing urgent dash to the restroom, I couldn't help but stop to ogle the fashion models walking down the runway on a 5 foot tall LCD screen next to the ladies room. I didn't have any trouble ignoring the olympic-flogging sports reel on the LCDs above both urinals in the mens room, but it's harder not to take notice of the several uber-trendy canvases begging for my gaze on the concrete bunker walls on the way back to the table. These are the kind of paintings that look like they might be modern art, but art usually has a message and the only thing Cactus said with these was, “we have so much capital that we can pay way too much for bullshit that doesn't have any substance.” At least the Museum of Modern Ikea chandeliers above the bar serve the purpose of giving the waitresses some soft lighting to check their makeup in.

So as much as I have to concede a point here or there for the most popular girl in town, every moment I spend inside of her I become increasingly convinced that she's more glitz than goods. Not that she's all bad; she's an easy bet for a quick drink on a moment's notice, and she always says yes. But I, for one, could do without all the saccharine. I'd rather pay $17 for handmade ravioli when that money is spent on fresh ingredients and good cooks to make them by scratch, than for shitty modern art and media monarchies trying to convince me to buy more shit while I shake the last dribbles from my willie. When I was a cook at Uncle Rob's namesake, I spent countless hours on my days off perfecting the art of ethereally thin pasta dough. I was taught to add depth and saveur to my cuisine with aromatic spices, seasonings, and love, rather than to trick droves of uneducated palates with endorphin-releasing hollow calories. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to spend my dining resources on quality and craftsmanship, not mass-produced and focus-grouped facades of glamor and pseudo-status. If the success of Cactus Club is an indication of the sophistication and gastronomic education of the dining demographic in this wild-west saloon town, it shows that perhaps we've taken a step closer to understanding the value of local ingredients, but we still care far more about our image than what's actually behind it. For the same prices, without all the glitz, an earnest eatery could easily be providing all-local, all-organic ingredients cooked from scratch with love... and for all the money we've spent on the Olympics, we could be actually creating the greatest city in the world instead of buying time to whore her out on the world stage. I guess Cactus Club and Vancouver are like peas and carrots, after all.