Knights of the Corner Table

Mount Washington Alpine Feast

2011-08-29T19:11:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Campbell River to visit my parents on Friday evening, expecting a relatively uneventful week perhaps filled with simply some fishing and some reading, but as we sat down with beers upon my arrival, my vigilant providers of life put a copy of the local newspaper in front of me. It was open to a page with an article/press release about the Alpine Food & Wine Festival happening at the local Mount Washington ski resort just a few minutes drive inland... my heart skipped a beat at this fortuitous happenstance. I'd arrived too late to catch the Wine Tasting that evening, but apparently they were hosting a six-course, wine-paired dinner on Saturday night. I called the reservations number immediately and practically begged them to have room for my parents and I. I didn't sleep all night, visions of syrah plums dancing in my head.

So the next afternoon I received a call back from Colleen, who said she had 4 seats left. I was worried that they might not allow a party of 3 to throw off the feng shui of the room and leave that one seat open, but she said it was no problem at all. I had to clarify one more thing though. "So, tickets are $100 for the six courses, yes? And wine is extra, right?" No, in fact, a flight of six paired local wines was included in the $100 (no tax) tab. Get out of town.

After a short drive up the mountain, overlooking beautiful alpine meadows to arrive at the lodge atop the mount. Colleen greeted us warmly outside the banquet hall, where we chose one of round tables of eight to sit down at. The two couples already seated were quite pleasant and conversational, so I chose to restrain my more controversial political viewpoints and keep it superficial. Talking about wine and critiquing food is not something I ever choose to censor, however. And thus began the meal!

First Course: Prosciutto Wrapped Smoked Cheddar

Served with a grapefruit and apple puree, as well as a currant compote on the side, this dish was a simple, but very well executed and composed amuse. I was expecting an oyster and 2oz of pinot gris, but here we were presented with quite a labor-intensive work of art and a 4oz glass of bubbles. The wine: Elephant Island Pink Elephant, which looks like a brut rose but its actually a sparkling dry cider, with the addition of blackcurrant. Very crisp and clear green apple and blackcurrant flavours, fine bubbles, bright acidity... pretty straightforward. Impressive though, for a fruit wine. Apparently produced in the methode champagnoise traditonnel, which would explain its finesse despite its origins in the orchard. Most impressively though, was the synergy with the amuse bouche. The bitter acidity of grapefruit and character of green apple from the sauce was echoed seamlessly in the wine, with the additional nod toward currant found in the compote. The saltiness of prosciutto well balanced with acidity from the brut, and the richness of the cheese well tempered by the body provided from the wine's mousse. This was a very fortuitous indication of a fine meal ahead.

Second Course: Dungeness Crab Cake

Perfectly golden brown, but lazily presented with some baby mixed greens and a slice of lemon, this was a mediocre crabcake. Sure, it was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, but that is where the textural interest stopped. I need a crab cake to have recognizable pieces of crab for my palette to play with, but this filling was overmixed into homogeneity. It may as well have been crab-flavoured mashed potato. The flavor was good though, the smoked paprika mayo had an effective balance of sweet and sour to drive home the universally enjoyed flavor of chipotle... but the baby greens were a lazy presentational afterthought. They may have well have saved their money and kept them in the cooler, if they served a purpose it was only to try to distract us from the failed texture of the crabcake. The wine, however was a delightful example of a local semillon - from Lake Breeze Vineyards in the okanagan. This one was much like a sauvignon blanc stylistically, though closer to a medium body, and exhibiting some waxy, wooly aromas behind the grapefruit and gooseberry that dominate the nose. Cool wine with varietal character, but I don't think this crabcake was giving it alot to bounce off of.

Third Course: Butternut Squash Ravioli

As soon as this arrived at the table I had to restrain my anger, lest I embarass my parents. I first noticed that these looked like they were made of puff pastry. The edges are golden brown, and the dough is filled with air bubbles. Something that looked like thousand island dressing congealed on top is the only thing that could explain the tomato and cucumber garnish... is this shitty ravioli, or a shitty greek salad with russian dressing? So I'm conceptually very confused... and then I made the mistake of taking a bite. I had to first cut it with my steak knife, the dough was such a rubbery mess, and the overly sweet filling was much more like Cactus Club than it was like Lumiere. There is a way to bring out the subtelties of butternut squash, and there is a way to make it too sweet and bland, and this was the latter. There was nothing culinarily valuable about this dish. If they had called it a perogy, I would be less harsh in my critique because it would be closer to the truth.. but still, a shitty perogy. I loved the wine though; Noble Ridge Chardonnay '09, a heavily oaked and creamy, yet tart and mineral green-apple driven chardonnay. I love these oaky, tart BC chards, with butterscotch and vanilla aromas, reminiscent of a candy apple in a glass. Oaky chardonnay, however, is a no-brainer with butternut squash ravioli and maple cream, and would have been a delightful synergy if the ravioli wasn't worthless.

Fourth Course: Chicken with Apple, Walnut, and Roquefort

I'd tasted the wine before the chicken arrived, and I must have spent the next 15 minutes with my nose down that glass. So lush and expressive for a BC Pinot Noir, let alone something from Vancouver Island! This was the 2007 Reserve Pinot Noir from Alderlea, in the Cowichan Valley, and this was so much more than strawberries and vanilla. This was fruitcake and twizzlers. Eucalyptus and cabbage! Medium bodied on the palate, with nearly medium but quite ripe tannins providing some premier cru structure... this is an outstanding example of BC Noir at her best. With so much going on, I couldn't much find the leather that was suggested by the sommelier's notes, until I tried it with the chicken. The blue cheese and walnuts waltzed off down my palate with the fruit and spice in the wine, leaving leather behind to fend for itselfThere wasn't much to say here about the chicken. Deep fried things are tasty (as this was), and blue cheese and walnuts are tasty with green apples. I didn't even have to take a bite of the wild rice pilaf to tell that it was overcooked, but I ventured one anyways and found that it was also underseasoned. I didn't take anymore, but I definitely finished the chicken with the pinot noir, an incredibly harmonious affair. Too bad you can only get this '07 reserve from the winery, and its production was very limited. That does explain, however, its exceptional nature. I applaud the sommelier for bringing this experience into my life.

Fifth Course: Bison Short Ribs

This dish was quite nicely done. Or maybe I just love short ribs. Sure, they were a little bit undercooked and tough, and sure, the couscous was the consistency of polenta (I could, at this point, tell you with some certainty that the starch guy was the weakest link in this kitchen), but the flavours all worked really well together. Having four glasses of wine already definitely helped to relax my seemingly unattainable demand for perfection in dish composition and execution -- I should mention that these were not 2oz tasters, but they were serving full 5oz glasses with each course. The dried fruit in the braisage was quite nice against the deeply savoury bison, and a little sweet plum jelly on the side of the plate echoed the insistence of dark plum from the wine quite aptly. Hester Creek Cabernet Franc 2008 was, once again, an impeccable pairing for this dish. The bouquet was full of concentrated plum and black currant, with plenty of spice and greenleaf, but I was really blown away by the intense black pepper that was not given away in the nose. With a long, mild vanilla finish, this is the best BC Cab Franc I've ever had. And with the complex and well-balanced spicing of the couscous, another incredible synergy was attained. At this point in the meal, I am in complete awe of the sommelier's choices. I have never had such a well chosen array of great quality local wines.

Dessert: Cheese Plate

Sommelier Jason Hyde

I had to sneak outside to attempt a photo of the blue Vancouver Island Mountains in a fading twilight, so I missed the sommelier's descriptions of the cheese course as well as the moment to attempt documenting the attractive platter before it was torn apart by my merry tablemates. Great opportunity, though, to introduce myself in all my socially lubricated glory to this sommelier I'd grown to so admire over the last 3 hours. The wines were all chosen by the Alpine Lodge's resident expert, Jason Hyde. Turns out his capability has been well earned, most notably with some time spent at Whistler's crown jewel, Araxis. I was not hesitant to express my delight at having experienced such wonderful nectar, such impeccable pairings... and so generously at such a price! I also learned from him about the wine and cheeses of our dessert course. All of the cheeses were from Little Qualicum Cheeseworks, and included their Bleu Claire, Qualicum Spice (with prominent caraway), Rathtrevor (firm swiss with a little ammonium bite), Raclette (my first time having this classic swiss apres-ski cheese, very much like my favorite, Gruyere), and Dalala Hot Dill (with caramelized onion). They were all very nice, and each complemented the Averill Creek Cowichan Black 2010 blackberry dessert wine in its own unique way. I wasn't paying too much attention, because at this point I was quite potted I must admit. But I was very happy. And very impressed, ultimately; for a $100 six course meal at a backwoods ski lodge, you'd be hardpressed to find a better experience. Jason did all the heavy lifting, though, and the wines alone were enough to turn this into a meal to truly remember. Bravo, Mr. Hyde.

Cooking at Fishworks: Handmade Ravioli

2011-03-03T20:58:00.000-08:00

Here it is, an eternity in the making... my ravioli video! It will soon be posted at www.fishworks.ca, and with Allah's blessing there will be many more Fishworks inspired instruction forthcoming. Bon Appetit!

My Reviews

2010-12-23T23:19:00.001-08:00

After discovering photography and videography, I've moved away from writing, but it is something I've always found joy in. Here are a sample of restaurant experiences I've documented since starting this blog... so if you happen to be launching a dining website anytime soon, bear in mind that I wrote these reviews primarily for my own entertainment, not for any specific publications. Bon appetit!
The District
Cactus Club Cafe: Global Dining Lounge
Kim Penh Pho Xua
Suki Sushi
Quattro on 4th
Moja Roaster Cafe

La Regalade: The Soul of French Cuisine

2010-12-22T10:37:00.000-08:00

I arrived at the West Vancouver bistro in search of the soul of French cuisine: regional and seasonal produce, simply prepared. With its reputation well established, and having just read La Regalade’s eponymous 2005 cookbook, I had a feeling that this restaurant had what I was looking for.
With today’s menu up on blackboards, this rule was mostly followed. Duck, oysters, rabbit, beef, pork, lamb, scallops, and steelhead salmon all earn their place on the fresh sheet, but I found myself confused why the caesar salad and tomato tart were chalked up. These out-of-season items were out of place, and belong, if anywhere, on the single laminated sheet of house specialities. This menu must have been static since the restaurant was decorated, apparently sometime in the mid nineties, but I had already planned to order some practiced dishes from the cookbook.
One should first be aware of the intense nature of a French winter meal. This food has evolved over centuries to nourish peasants and aristrocrats alike through the cold, dark Gallic months. One should prepare one’s self for a serious meal. I found the classic pear and blue cheese tart an appropriate warm up to my main event of boeuf bourguinon, and though its presentation left something to be desired, this example offered a skilfully stimulating balance. Rich and light, with subtly sweet pear slices and savoury, smoky blue cheese. Its temperature and texture were, however, particularly uninspiring, and would have benefited from some oven time, rather than having been plated seemingly straight from its tupperware home.
The boeuf bourguinon was exactly what I wanted it to be. Arriving in an enameled cast-iron tureen, a generous portion of comforting stew. Any dryness was compensated for by abundance of braisage, textured with a dice of soft carrots and toothsome mushroom slices. The sauce was expertly thickened, ever so lightly with veloute, not thick enough to be called gravy, but enough to luxuriously coat my side-order of pommes gratin.
The wine list is composed of a few selections of each major style, and divided into two sections, France and BC. Selections by the glass range from $6.50 to $14.50, with some bottles as low as $30. The average markup from BC Liquor prices was about 125%, about average. The list was, however, very wisely chosen, with some great value wines. Wild Goose BC Riesling paired magnificently with the blue cheese in my tart, a $42 bottle well spent, but I was truly impressed by the 2007 Crozes-Hermitage “Les Brunelles.” For a $60 bottle, this is exactly what I want in a French Syrah. Spicy, medium bodied with generous but well-balanced tannin, with subtle herbs and leather. Did I mention spicy? This wine is driven by pungent black pepper and plum, an absolutely ideal pairing with my rich bourguinon. Kudos to the sommelier.
I had their very last tarte tatin, a gorgeously executed classic, with deeply caramelized apples and praline ice cream. As with all of their desserts, I found the presentation leaving much to be desired... but at this point of the night, it was past midnight, and they were probably being plated by the dishwasher. All the same, I think the whole table had simultaneous spasms of pleasure.
When the plates were all cleared, all of us were absolutely stuffed after 3 courses. And everybody was immensely contented by the food. As a cook, I admire the practiced simplicity and execution of every single dish I tried, although I was disappointed at most of the presentation. What really impressed me was the service. As a waiter myself, I admired the patience of our servers, as we all knew that we were that party everybody hates serving. We arrived more than half an hour late, ordered more than an hour late, and kept their chef in the kitchen past his bedtime. It is hard to be patient and composed as a server, balancing the interests of your kitchen and your guests, but I must say that the veterans at La Regalade are masters of their craft. This restaurant is not fancy, and this restaurant is not pretentious. It is not perfect, and it is not polished. But it is honest. It is the product of years of culinary mastery, if a bit sloppy. It is very clear, however, that this is more than anything else, the product of a family that really cares about food. And that is truly the soul of French cuisine.

The Story of the Curious Oysters

2010-11-29T22:28:00.000-08:00

Inspired by Kaoru and Dave's fantastic oyster party, motivated by Nicole's amazing mignonette recipe, here is the latest Knights of the Corner Table presentation: The Story of the Curious Oysters!

Video: Quiche Lorraine

2010-11-11T21:51:00.000-08:00

This video actually has a cooking demo! I'm making a reasonably classic quiche Lorraine here: although, I'm adding leeks and Gruyere, and I'm inverting the pastry onto the top, to make it like a quiche pot pie! These turned out really well. Try it yourself! I'll show you how to make the pastry later, so stay tuned :).

The Cooking Show

2010-10-03T16:59:00.000-07:00

Here it is! The moment the world of culinary media has been waiting for... Knights of the Corner Table: The Cooking Show! The product of countless hours of cooking, filming, and editing, and blowing the entire stack of tips saved under my mattress in order to do so, this is just the beginning! Maybe the next video will be about your dinner party... please, enjoy!

Link to 5 minute YouTube trailer...

Just Words

2010-10-02T07:25:00.000-07:00

I was just looking over my previous posts, and thinking about the people who make this culinary life worth sharing. I've spent the night drinking wine abundantly and making merry with some fantastic people, and have come even closer to my inevitably fruiting realisation that life is nothing if not for the people we live it with.
Life is about creating the world we would like to share with people, and shaping that world with the people we would best hope to share it with. Such a creative life is limitless, if you create it in trust with limitless people. I'm increasingly coming to realise how blessed I am to be surrounded by such people.
Shallaw and Tyler and Robin and Sean and all of the staff at Fishworks are wholly exceptional souls. Not very often does an idea experience the synthesis of this breadth of experience and interpersonal harmony. Not only is Shallaw's concept and execution of the highest order, but his social intuition is able to bring together a very unique and exciting group of people. This is what makes me the most hopeful for Fishworks -- I think everybody knows that this is about more than business.
So I think it is important to recognize the people who make us who we are. None of us exist in a vacuum -- for better or for worse, we are created by the people we let in. And my life has become infinitely richer for allowing myself to open up enough to let in some very genuine people that I have come to trust.
Life as an old man can be rewarding, after all.

Fish House Farewell

2010-09-21T20:03:00.001-07:00

A bittersweet affair, I'm afraid. A farewell to a few of my fellow foodhandlers from the Fish House. The time had come for me to swim against the current, toward greener waters, and it was my pleasure to host a few of my favorite ladies to commemorate the occasion. We began with twilight bellinis, made simply of prosecco and Okanagan white peach puree in syrup.

When everybody had arrived, I set out our homemade antipasto platter as we opened the Chianti. Grilled ciabatta accompanied our roasted BC Hothouse peppers, Quebecois bocconcini, Spanish olives and artichokes, and my own pickled local green beans and eggplant. Served with olive oil, reduced balsamic, and my homemade BC Hothouse marinara. The roasted organic garlic spread proved itself a shining star.

As crustini consumption casually came to a close, we began work on the first seated course. My homemade, organic crimini mushroom ravioli was laid on a bed of unbelievable organic cauliflower puree, and crowned with Parmesano Reggiano. Sauteed wax beans provided a bit of crunch, and organic chicken demi adds the ultimate in savory depth. Well-oaked yet crisp, my CedarCreek Reserve Chardonnay was very nice with this dish... I will definitely do this again.

One of my favorite dishes at the Fish House is the Pad Thai, but since I learned about the implications of supporting South Asian tiger prawn farming, I haven't been able to order it. Agro-colonial subjugation and ecological devastation are just too heavy a price to pay for cheap seafood. Fortunately, Safeway is now offering organic tiger prawns -- I'm sure they're still ethically flawed, but I will always support a step in the right direction. Thus, I offered my organic take on the Fish House Pad Thai. It was well received by my co-workers. Robin was very wise to pair this with Mt. Boucherie Ehrenfelser. Sweet and aromatic, balanced with plenty of citrus acidity... just like Thai food.

Finally, 'tis the season for blackberry pie. And like a good little ant, I'd spurned the grasshopper's summer tomfoolery and elected to pick about 20lbs of the succulent fruit from my neighborhood hedges. Served with homemade vanilla bean ice cream, I presented Mount Piesuvius.

Goodbye, my fishy friends. You will all be sorely missed... but always welcome over for dinner.

Island Coast Centurion

2010-09-14T17:19:00.001-07:00

My long shadow in the waning twilight suddenly reminds me that I'm lugging 50lbs of cargo on my back wheel. I can't tell if I'm going uphill or down, I only know what gear I'm in. Propelled only by my focused breath and the fantasy of destination, I'd finished the last of my energy bars at Bowser (unicorporated), and quaffed the last of my liquids overlooking Fanny Bay. Night is falling, I'm running on fumes, and I'm so low on electrolytes that I can barely move my fingers

About 5km outside of Courtenay, I can start to smell the wood fires of what folks up here consider civilzation. And then, like an aromatic quasar, the most pungent barbecue fills my lungs and opens my eyes. As my breath deepens, hoping to find some energy in the airborne chicken molecules, my focus and determination are renewed, the light at the end of this long tunnel is brightened, and an old man pulls up along side me on his bike. Apparently I'm just crawling down the highway.

From what I can tell in the twilight, he's wearing jeans and a mackinaw, has no helmet but a handlebar mustache. He's friendly, though. “Hey feller! How's the pushing?” I struggle to make sense of his words as I pull my consciousness back into the realm of language, until I realise that he's on an electric bike. And I'm pretty sure he's drunk. “Where ya headed?” He reasserts himself.

“The next pub, brother. Where can I get a beer?” I knew he'd have an answer near at hand for questions regarding beer, and didn't have the energy to articulate my overwhelming need for fish & chips. As it turns out, he was headed to the Whistlestop Pub, about a kilometer away just inside the Courtenay city limits. We ride together, united in our urgent quests – mine to re-feul, and his to re-up. We make pleasant, folksy small-talk for the last few blocks along the seawalk before reaching the pub. His name is Gary Smith, and in the fluorescent glow of the liquor store parking lot, he is every bit the redneck I'd expected. But on an electric bicycle. Only on the Island.

Hobbling inside the pub in my cycling tights and race jersey, I only get a few funny looks before I collapse into the padded leather booth in the corner. It doesn't take me long to order a french onion soup and oysters & fries. Nor does it take me long to realize that I'm borderline hypothermic, my right knee doesn't want to bear my weight anymore, and my cramped ass isn't interested in helping. I turn on my cell phone just in time to answer a call from my mom and dad. They'd started to worry about me as night fell, so they'd left Campbell River to scan the road for me and were presently about a block away from the very pub I was sitting in.

I can't accurately express to you my overwhelming sense of relief at this synchronous situation. My wonderful parents bought my meal and drove me, and my bike, and my cargo, the remaining 40km of cold, dark highway up to Campbell River. And now I am drinking a beer and watching CBC in a La-Z-Boy before bed, ready to prepare for salmon fishing tomorrow. What a great way to start my vacation.

Food Storage

2010-09-07T22:16:00.000-07:00

Eating locally seems like a great idea, and I'm so into this idea for such a vast array of reasons that it tires me to even think about outlining them yet again. You should know by now, eating local just makes sense on a number of levels. The thing that makes it hard, though, is the seasonality of our beautiful northern climes. When I first gained awareness of the importance of everyday food choices, it was the dead of winter, and it really forced my tastebuds into a certain degree of asceticism. Beets and potatoes are delicious, not to be misunderstood, but the wonderful selection of root vegetables stands in stark contrast to the summer's strawberries, the variety of stonefruit from the okanagan, the fresh hothouse tomatoes and cucumbers, and the sweet, wild things that grow in my very neighborhood.
And so it came to be that we gained access to a large chest freezer. Immediately, it found itself stuffed with organic chicken and locally finished natural beef... but it felt empty. It was missing a certain variety. It was missing blueberries! And blackberries! And corn, and beans! So I began to fill bags... so many bags... and then I discovered jars! The things you can put in jars! Peaches, apricots, cherries, blueberries, blackberries, beans, pickles, eggplants, tomatoes... all of the things that we are so blessed with in this time of abundance can be frozen in time, preserved for the long winter ahead! Such discoveries have opened a whole new world of local gastronomy.
I feel much like those first homesteaders to discover canning must have felt (minus the many botulism deaths they must have initially endured). The excitement of expanded winter eating, followed by the realisation of the responsibility to engage in the work of food storage, and the feeling like I could never possible squirrel away enough for the winter. The mad rush to pickle everything, everything, everything I can. I'm now sitting on about 6 dozen jars of preserves and 30lbs of frozen berries... never enough... never enough.
If you want the crib notes of actually how to get this canning done, send me an email. It's actually quite easy, if you are aware of a couple lynchpin concepts. But I think I'll save the mass-publishing of the mechanics for my book.

Neufeld Farms blueberries in 1lb bags for freezing

Cherries and peach halves in syrup

So many pickles! Beautiful pickles!

Pickled beans, dill cucumbers, and Ashcroft eggplant

Pickled eggplant antipasto

Producer-Direct Resources

2010-08-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

I've been very busy lately attempting to preserve the season's abundance before the rains start to fall, and fresh produce becomes scarce for the winter months. It appears I am becoming more like the ant, and less like the grasshopper, in my advancing age. The unfortunate result of this ongoing productive activity is a decrease in update frequency as well as a slowdown on big dinners.
I'm still living the values of the Corner Table with every sip of pure Vancouver water I take, with every bite of locally produced ambrosia I consume, and am even more active with my interest in educating the community about food-related issues, and I pray for our message to reach more and more of our neighbors as the seasons change.
It becomes increasingly important for us to share not only ideas, but resources and contacts with one another. I have begun a small list of links to organizations and individuals I have been dealing with in my culinary crusade, people whose fine work can be found on my pantry shelves, and in my freezer and frying pans. Please send me an email, and share your sources and resources with me, and we can strengthen our agri-cultural community with each other. Soon enough, I will share stories and photos of my food storage activites. Bon Sante.

Sunday, July 18

2010-07-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

Amazing dinner. Thanks to all who participated. We were graced with the presence of Dan, Anna, Mia, Sean, Dave, Steph, Mel, Ben, Tristan & Katie. Everybody lent a hand, which enabled this meal realize its full potential.
Tristan baked while Katie prepped shallots & salad, Ben & Mel washed up between courses, Sean served and helped Anna peel prawns, Dave serenaded us and Steph brought beautiful Chilean Late Harvest SVB. Mia set the table and made the centerpiece, which were gorgeous as you can see... and provided the photographic record.

Mia's centerpiece

Long table of beautiful people

Organic Thomas Reid hen & homemade caesar of organic BC romaine

Seared Sablefish with honey-buttered Abbotsford haricots & chimichurri

Korean BBQ of Hopcott's Top Sirloin & kimchi

Dusk begins to fall, Pesquie is poured

Risotto with BC Spot Prawns & Hopcott's Own farmer's sausage

Banana muffins, whipped cream local organic blueberries

Night settles as the meal winds down. Soon, we will sing and be merry.

Chateau Inauguration

2010-06-09T21:43:00.000-07:00

The Chateau's inaugural dinner was definitely one for the books. Mia McLarty took photos.

Seared Seafood Amuse
total cost $2.50 each, $4.25 with 2oz wine pairing

Huge,Fresh B.C. Spot Prawns ($7.50/lb from Albion, through Shallaw @ Fishworks)

With Shaved Fennel & Apple Salad, apple-cider and local wildflower honey reduction.
Beautiful sea asparagus from Chef Karen Barnaby... "The best in six years," she reckons.

With Blue Mountain Pinot Blanc.

Risotto Course
total cost $2.75, or $4.25 with 20z wine

Herb & Cheese risotto

Sauteed local criminis, shimijis, oysters and chantrelles with herb & shallot

Robin and I plating for Nancy, Andrew, Adam, Mia, and himself.

Finished with Pecorino Romano and white pepper, echoed by the Chateau Pesquie Cotes du Ventoux (Southern Rhone Grenache/Syrah). Did I mention the white truffle oil to finish?

Boeuf
total cost $5 each, or $6.25 with 2oz wine

Aged Alberta Skirt Steak, $15.99/kg

With oven roasted organic Delta tomato, grilled Washington asparagus, and grill roasted local leeks.
Finished with truffled herb butter and red wine jus. Paired with Sumac Ridge Black Sage Merlot ($20). Gorgeous.

Organic Creme Brulee
total cost $2 each, $3 with 2oz sherry

Made with local, organic whipping cream and organic cane sugar. Tahitian vanilla bean.

Served with homemade wild blueberry jam, sweetened with local wildflower honey.

Paired with Nutty Solera Oloroso Sherry. Deep, nutty, caramelized flavors, cut with blueberry acidity. Words are not sufficient.

Total cost of this meal: $13.50 per cover for food, $4.25 each for a flight of wines...

$17.75 each

Success. Time to plan the next dinner.

Epic Bosa Trip

2010-06-08T21:12:00.000-07:00

It's been far too long since I've had a bottle of truffle oil in my pantry. As I left the kitchen at the Tea House, Chef Knowlson bestowed upon me a beautiful bottle of Elle Esse white truffle infused olive oil, and I used it frequently for the whole year it lasted me. Its last drops were, unfortunately, spent in the hot pan of a roommate, who had unwittingly wasted it to cook bacon for his Kraft Dinner. Never mind its relatively exorbitant cost, using the stuff like olive oil yields extremely displeasing results... I came home to a house filled with truffle smoke, and my roommate telling me, "Dude, that truffle oil is shit."

Hoping that my new roommates are more gastronomically aware, I once again strapped my panniers on the Time Machine and made my way out to Burnaby for an epic shopping trip.
From my "research" on GoogleMaps, I'd decided that taking the TransCanada Highway from the Second Narrows to Boundary would be the most direct route -- the information I'd failed to acquire was that bicycles are strictly forbidden from the freeway. I also failed to obey the clearly posted signs telling me so. When I've got somewhere to go, I get there. Potholes, deep gaps between sections of the road, and fully loaded 18-wheelers leaving me no room on the shoulder were the first sign that an alternate route might have been better... crossing lanes of 120km/hr traffic to avoid unwanted exits and access left turns reminded me that truly death-defying experiences are infinitely more entertaining than the simulated ones at Playland.
Finally, I found the importer's retail superstore on Kootenay Street just off 1st and Boundary, but I couldn't find anywhere to park my bike. How very un-European. I wish they'd imported some ideas along with all those olives.

But what olives there were! Walking through the front door and picking up a basket, I was struck dumb by a diffuse, ethereal, almost holy glow emanating from Bosa's shrine to olive oil. I've never seen such a variety in my short, provincial life. From bulk, cheap, cooking oil, to single-variety and regionally specific bottles. I'd noticed the phrase Denominazione di Origine Protetta

on some of the bottles, the first time I've ever encountered a non-wine product bearing appellation status. Holy shit.
Nonetheless, the only truffle oil I saw on this shelf was Italissima oil with white-truffle extract for $10/375mL. I picked it up, a little disappointed, but ready to move on to mushrooms, meat, and cheese.
Lots of dried, Italian mushrooms. I definitely should have picked up a bag of dried Porcini (good idea...) but, instead, turned up my nose in discontent at the absence of local varieties (elitist idea). In the cooler, however, there were a couple of packages of Ponderosa mushrooms. I used to deal with this company through the Tea House. It was a guy in a Van full of mushrooms - fully above board, but small, and I met the pickers sometimes. Awesome. These mushrooms were $6/100g though. That's $60/kg. But I don't need much, they'll make a big difference to my risotto, and I know that this item represents a short food chain - Bosa buys these fresh from Ponderosa, who recently picked them themselves. I'm on board.
Cheese was insane. Huge variety, mostly imported, but all in wedges or wheels... and gorgeous. One deceptive brand called "Okanagan Falls" is actually produced in the USA but it doesn't say exactly where. I can't tell you if this cheese is any good or not, but I can tell you from looking closely that it doesn't come from Okanagan Falls, BC. I don't want to buy this product, simply because they're pissing on my head and telling me it's Fresh, Local Rain. Whatever... in any case, my wedge of true Pecorino Romano was 1/3 the cost of any comporable cheese at Save-On. I would highly recommend Bosa for a massive cheese trip. They also have a full spectrum of Raincoast Crisps, and Terra Breads fruit & nut crisps. I chose Fig & Olive Raincoast Crisps... the Terra Breads was organic though. Whatever, choosing organic is less important for small amounts of dried fruit and flour, than it is for choosing beef or chicken. I saw the meat department on the port side.
There is some beautiful meat here. And if I recall correctly, an organic chicken that was even more expensive that Safeway (who is, I think, doing fairly well on the organic front). Beef enderloin was about $20/lb and sold $100 at a time, and the pork is all from Quebec or Ontario. I was happy that the guy at the counter was forthcoming with this information, though assuring me that the beef is Alberta (local enough, really, but not awesome) and the chicken is local. Pretty standard meat department, I think, though displaying some larger cuts and good quality meat. I bought a gorgeous whole flank at $7.50/lb, and some beautifully aged skirt stakes. They later proved immensely flavourful, and I'm still eating the medium-rare flank sliced thin in sandwiches.

That was about it, I thought. Some cool sausages and cured meats, but I wasn't interested in those and had to be at Fishworks soon, so to the checkout I went. And there it was, so close to the beginning of my journey, but so far, the truffle oil display right next to the checkout. I spent some time here. Mostly taking pictures -- this is like a sacred place for me. In my experience, truffle oils are the best expression of truffle flavor available in this city. And here they all were - I would assume Bosa is one of the city's largest importers and wholesalers of truffles and truffle oil, based on its size and Italian focus... and here they all were. Including, in fact, the round, $20 bottle of Elle Esse white truffle infused extra virgin olive oil, the very bottle that Chef Knowlson had kindly introduced me to many years ago. I knew then my destined mission was fulfilled successfully. This trip was meant to happen, and I found myself more than happy to pay $80 for my load of premium local and imported gastronomic reagents. So happy, in fact, that I went to Liberty wines on my way home and picked up a $25 bottle of Blue Mountain Pinot Blanc to celebrate... but not until dinner...

Oh yeah, I also bought some salt pork. I fried some up and put it on my Annie's before work. With, of course, truffle oil.

2 Courses on a Monday Night

2010-06-02T23:39:00.000-07:00

Coquilles St. Jacques
Scallops
White wine
onions
breadcrumbs
butter

I've recently found a rekindled passion for uber-classical French cuisine, and the way it interfaces with local produce. After taking a book called "Cuisine du Terroir" from the library, I was immediately struck by a recipe I'd heard of, but never actually eaten or cooked. Or seen. But from the looks of the recipe, this must be a shining example of what French cuisine is all about: simplicity and technique.
I knew I had to celebrate this discovery with a perfect wine pairing, and though the book recommended Muscadet-sur-lie as a regional complement, I had a craving for Cremant d'Alsace (bright acidity and toasty autolytic character is a no-brainer with this beautiful, light seafood dish) and found a beautiful bottle by Sumac Ridge -- the Steller's Jay Brut. Not only has this bottle been aged en tirage (in contact with the spent yeast from bottle fermentation) for three whole years, this primarily Pinot Blanc brut is actually riddled and disgorged by hand - a painstaking process that is usually done by computer-controlled gyropalettes nowadays. At $26, I doubt you can get a bottle made with this much love in too many other places.
I will have to make this dish a few more times to get my ideas straight. I've looked into a few different versions since, and there seems to be many takes on it -- some with cream, some with bechamel, some with mushrooms and parmesan... Chambar even has one with pork cheek, pickled green beans, and horseradish. I'm not sure if that captures the simple spirit of the dish. Creative and delicious, I'm sure, but it seems to me that les coquilles st. jacques must be about scallops and only scallops. In our search for new, exciting, and marketable dishes, we have lost the spirit of la belle cuisine. I aim to reclaim.

Course 2: The Risotto
Now, les coquilles is not a dish to fill up the belly, though perhaps the soul. So I made a fat batch of risotto. I have a bag in my freezer I think of as my "stock bag" which includes broccoli and onion scraps, chicken bones, etc, so I just made a quick stock out of that with which to hydrate the risotto. Here are a couple of pictures of the risotto process to give you an idea of my risotto philosophy -- dry during cooking, wet only during finishing. You will not achieve risotto by covering the rice with water (until the final stage) -- you must let it steam until it is finished. I added sundried tomatoes and artichokes to this one. Enjoyed with a bottle of 2007 Menguante Carinena DO old vines garnacha ($10.50 @ BCL). Raisinated fruit flavors, white pepper, medium body and tannin, beautiful pair with the sundried tomatoes and white pepper I chose in the risotto to echo the character of the garnacha. Make risotto and try this... please.

Left: my risotto looks like this for at least an hour in the pan - dry.

Right:
my risotto looks like this in the last 2-3 minutes of finishing: soupy wet, emulsifying with butter

Granache with Panache!!! ;)

2010-05-28T23:02:00.001-07:00

2007 Chateau Pesquie "Terrasses", Ventoux AOC (Southern Rhone) Grenache Syrah

Bright medium ruby in color, with a mediumplus nose of red plum and raspberry - preceding nutmeg, and somehow, olive grove? Something vegetal and earthy.
Dry, mediumplus acid with medium tannin and medium weight. The red and black fruit take a backseat to licorice and white pepper. Olives remain in play -- black and savory. Yet, red cherries take the lead for the home stretch of its medium-plus length. Not jolly rancher cherry -- homemade cherry pie filling. Mmm.
The high acid keeps the Terrasses lively amidst its pungent complexity. It ripe fruit and spice don't obscure the unique woodsy character -- there is a harmonious community of flavors asserting itself in this glass. Al dente tannins grip without staying attached... again, acid moistens and balances this firm structure. Conclusion: Fuckin 'Eh.

ps. I drank this bottle (actually, the last of Robin's bottle -- I definitely owe him a replacement) with fusilli in olive oil & greek olives, sundried tomato & basil, onions, garlic and thyme -- and Robin's aged Parmesan wedge, grated. God damn. This is what life is about.

Blueberry Tart

2010-05-25T21:37:00.000-07:00

I saw frozen wild Canadian blueberries on sale at Safeway the other day, so I figured they'd be good to have around at $5/600g. Good idea.
Last time I made pastry dough, I made extra and saved it in the freezer. Good idea.
Seeing them next to each other in my freezer last night, and having a craving for desert... led to a good idea.

ACTION! Pulled pastry dough out of the freezer and drank a bottle of wine while I thought about how I'd tackle this problem. By the time I had my gameplan, the dough was ready to be rolled.
With an oven preset to 350, I rolled the dough out (folding it several times, to build flaky layers) and onto a pie pan. Docked and blind-baked.

Step 2: Melted milk chocolate, brushed onto the inner surface of the cooling tart shell.
Aside from the obvious benefits, this layer of chocolate, when cooled, acts as a moisture barrier, allowing a crispy, flaky dough to coexist with a moist, gooey filling.
Step 3: Blueberries with a touch of local wildflower honey and 1tbsp of red wine/cornstarch slurry (to thicken). Brought to a boil and cooled in a pie pan in the freezer to firm up. This filling should be started while the pie shell is cooking, and cooled by the time the chocolate is brushed on.

Give those nice little berries a home.

Step 4: Hallelujiah! There is a Jah! Whipping cream in the fridge. Trader Vic's in the liquor cabinet. Vanilla bean in the pantry. Not only did I scrape the bean, but I chopped it up TINY and threw the whole thing in. The pod has flavor, and vanilla is super expensive, so I don't see the need to be shy with it. Shot of Trader Vic's, and whisk whisk whisk. Pile high, high as she goes. I poured on the remainder of the melted chocolate, because... why not?

Fried Chicken

2010-04-26T13:51:00.000-07:00

Just in case you want to try fried chicken that is made from real chicken, not the Colonel's patented doppel-poultry. I used Thomas Reid cornish hen.

There are many delicious variations on this idea: this recipe may not take the gold medal, but its definitely the simplest, which certainly puts it on the podium.

You'll need:

chicken (breasts, thighs, drumsticks; wings require a different procedure to be both crispy and juicy)

egg
milk
flour
salt and pepper

sunflower oil (I prefer it to corn or canola, since these crops are very often GMOs. Sunflower crops... a bit less often.)

do this:

Put 1L of the oil into an 8” pot, set to medium heat. This is enough oil for a shallow fry, which just means that you'll have to flip the chicken a couple of times. If you want to deep fry, use 2L. Not much difference. Set the stove to medium.

Beat the egg in a bowl and add some milk. I used 1 egg to about ½ cup milk. The more milk you use, the less flour will stick and the lighter the batter will be.

Add some salt and pepper to the flour, in a bowl, until it tastes a little salty and peppery. This is just to season the chicken, so this is where you'd want to add your own secret blend of herbs and spices. I think good quality chicken is its own secret blend of herbs and spices – the ones they ate in the pasture.

Dredge your rinsed and dried chicken breast into the flour bowl, then coat it in the egg-milk, then back into the flour. Here, you'll be well advised to press the flour into the chicken skin and make sure it is 100% coated. You want to create a starchy shell that entirely encapsulates the meat, to keep the juices inside (and out of the oil, where juices cause spits and pops). The shake-n-bake, toss-it-in-a-ziploc-bag, Rachel Ray method of easy fried chicken makes shitty fried chicken. Take your time on the little things.

(this is golden... breasts may be done now)

Once your chicken is coated, test the oil with a small piece (I use a tender, the muscle group that is loosely attached to the breast). You want to see the oil bubbling rapidly, but not violently. If it is bubbling violently, take the pot off the heat and add a few pieces to the pot, filling it but not crowding it. This will cool it down, and when they are frying happily, you can return it to the heat. You might have to turn down the stove. Conversely, if it bubbles too slowly, you might just have to wait for the stove to heat up, or your stove's thermostat might be running cold, so you'll have to kick your heat up one or two notches. The goal is to achieve the kind of happy bubbles I've captured photographically.

(this is amber... extra crispy legs and thighs!)

Every few minutes, if you're shallow-frying, turn the chicken over. How long this will take depends on how big the chicken is, but when the batter starts to turn a deep golden colour, pushing on amber, take a piece out and slice into it to see if it's done. No more blood = done (although, I do like my thighs and drumsticks a little on the overcooked side – extra crispy!). Keep in mind: drumsticks and thighs will take longer than breasts.

Once you've pulled your cooked chicken out of the oil, sprinkle just a little bit more salt on it. Maybe some pepper. Essentially, season it one last time: straight out of the fryer is the very best time to season anything, the oil just soaks up flavor as it stops bubbling outward and retreats into the pores of the crispy batter, bringing any seasoning with it.

Voila: Home-Fried Chicken!

p.s. - save the oil for your next frying: after its cooled, just let it drip through a coffee filter, and it comes out crystal clear.

Tiny Chickens!

2010-04-23T01:17:00.000-07:00

After work on Saturday night, I immediately took my fresh, tiny, Thomas Reid-raised hens to task. I was up all night butchering a dozen birds and roasting their bones for stock... I put the caramelized carcasses under water with mirepoix just after 5am, and left the heat on low while I napped.
Up at the crack of noon, I immediately put on a cup of coffee, drained the stock, and spent the day cooking with Destiny.
We chopped potatoes and mushrooms for hash, celery and leeks for soup, and she julienned and caramelized a bag of organic onions. We made a light chicken stock with the remaining little bones, for use as a soup base. I crashed the large pot of dark stock down to a half litre of chicken demi, and made creme anglaise with free range eggs and Surrey honey, to be cooled and churned for dessert. As the clock wound down, I trayed the chicken quarters, seasoned and seared.
When Tristan and Kaitlin arrived, I put bread in the oven and Tristan harvested chives and arugula sprouts from the garden. Robin and Mia arrived with Rob and Alex just as I sliced bread, finished the soup and ladeled out creamy bowls. Vichyssoise!

(avec ciboulettes des jardin)

After soup, Robin rendered a tray of Dawson Creek double-smoked bacon, with Delta cherry tomatoes and thyme. We tossed pans of mushroom and pea hash in foaming butter while the chicken quarters finished in the oven. The chicken demi was added to reduced red wine and mounted with butter... Robin cut makeshift ring-molds for us to plate the pedestal for our
perfect poultry, crowned with caramelized onion and micro-arugula. Wines: Garnacha del Fuego (old vines Granache from Spain - plummy, peppery purple velvet, $17). La Buxynoise Reserve Bourgogne (classic French Pinot - light, brisk and woody, but driven by fresh red cherry), Cedar Creek Merlot/Cabernet 2006 (amazing $19 Kelowna bottle - so very currant, plum and chocolate, decadent and well balanced). The stage is set for: Local, Organic, Cornish Hen!

(I can't believe how horrible the best of my photos of this chicken turned out. I'm sorry, tiny chickens.)

Finally, with the help of Tristan's amazing white chocolate anise biscotti and clean, crisp Columbian from Moja Roasters, I was ready to finish this locally-driven meal with 100% locally produced honey ice cream (forgive me the organic Hawaiian ginger and Indian baking spices). As a delightful treat, Tristan produced a chilled bottle of Prospect Winery's "The Lost Bars" Vidal Icewine! Such a likely partner to fresh, homemade honey and spice ice cream! Echoes of wildflower honey and dried apricot sweetness, followed by pleasantly prominent acidity (a foil!), to balance and fill the palate. Bliss.

Such auspicious eating can only be followed by similarly momentous merrymaking, and more wine was drank as the clock's embrace widened. As those with other engagements made their way, I remembered tray of cornish chicken wings that I had earlier floured and par-baked!! And the sunflower oil I'd brought in specifically to fry them in!! I put 2L of oil on medium heat and tested it with small pieces of chicken until they bubbled just a little too fast, and then put in 2 dozen tiny chicken wings to crispy. Quick sauce: honey, Destiny's raspberry vinegar, salt, pepper, cayenne... and micro-arugula! Cornish munchies!

Thomas Reid Chicken

2010-04-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

Driven by the duty to deliver, seduced by the deal of the century, I loaded up the Time Machine early Saturday morning in preparation for a veritably epic trek.
Destination: Thomas Reid Farms in Langley. I'd only seen their website, where they offer boxes of cornish hen for $50. I'd done some loose math and worked it out to about $2.50/lb... for certified organic, free range, locally family-farmed chickens! This kind of deal demands a pilgrimage.
Arriving at King George Station, via Skytrain, avec bicyclette, I donned my Viking suit and ventured into the unknown in pursuit of pillaged poultry (at $2.50/lb, I almost feel guilty about taking so much chicken).
I cycled under persistent Fraser Highway rainfall, through the Green Timbers Urban Forest. I cycled down the steep hill past Fleetwood Centre, up the gentle slope beyond the Surrey Golf Course... into the trough of Surrey's farmland, back up the hill to old Langley City. Turning left at the new Casino, I turned onto 56 ave, past the Langley Bypass, past the Langley Airport, into the Agricultural Land Reserve, into the land of the Lord.
I was taken into a lush, idyllic shire... a land of meadows and mist, of cow patties and gravel lanes, and gently rolling hills. These did not feel so gentle on my return, with 30lbs of tiny chickens hanging on my back wheel.
Just over the creek, past Clovermeadow and Wagonwheel Crescents, I saw the sign: Certified Organic Thomas Reid Farm, turned the corner, and found no storefront. I found chicken houses and pastures, for sure, but nothing but sheds and farmhouses otherwise. I called the number on the website, and was answered with simply, "Hello?"
"I'm trying to get to Thomas Reid Farm. I made an appointment with Brad earlier in the week - I'm looking for organic cornish hens."
"Brad will be home in a few minutes, just come on up the driveway."
I cycled into the basketball court of a family home with teenage boys, and their mother greeted me at the door. "Hi, I'm Karen..." she saw my bike in the driveway and the bicycle helmet on my head... "you want a whole case?"
She led me inside to sit me down to a fantastic cup of tea, and hear about my trek from North Vancouver. Her eldest son David soon entered the room, apparently still a little worse for wear from Friday night. "You came all the way from North Van?? You're crazy, man. Next time you want some chicken just let me know, I'm out there alot diving and climbing." Maybe we can work something out -- but I'd definitely tip a man generously, who would bring me this much great poultry for $50. Brad finally came in, with a bluetooth on his ear and a large box of chicken held by zapstraps in his hand. "I heard you biked in all the way from North Van, so I brought you the biggest box I have. 13.9kg."
My jaw drops at the sight of 17 individually wrapped and cleaned, healthy little chickens. After a moment's awe and reverence, I pull a single red bill out of my wallet, and incredulously hand it to Brad. Thanks were exchanged, and I had to fight the urge to tell him how much more he could charge. $50 for 17 hens... less than $3/hen... just under $4/kg, about $2/lb. Significantly more weight than I'd budgeted for... I couldn't believe that the primary protein for up to 17 meals would only cost me $50. Produced by a local family in a natural, ethical way... and all guests would agree, delicious. The real star of this meal was Thomas Reid Farm. Thank you.

East End Food Co-op

2010-04-07T23:23:00.000-07:00

In need of culinary inspiration and an entry-level epic ride, I strapped my panniers on The Time Machine and hauled ass over the Second Narrows. I cruised suburban neighborhoods, admiring lush Mediterranean gardens but too pressed for time to whip out the Nikon for each green thumbs up. I finally made it to Broadway & Commercial, only to discover from friendly neighborhood information officers that my quarry was well down the hill, beyond 1^st. Commercial is a very colorful neighborhood to cycle past... 'nuff cute alternative girls. But I digress.

Parking my panniers near the entrance with all the others (2 other pairs!), I cruised the store for a couple of minutes before commencing photodocumentation, which I figure is the best way of displaying the variety and prices you can expect of the produce. Mostly organic, location of production made note of, prices better than Capers etc. but nothing amazing. A few standouts: wide selection of organic meats and sausages, noteably local, organic (which in terms of poultry, always means they are pastured or “free range”) chicken breasts for $6/lb – boneless and skinless. I like the skins and bones so I'd rather go for a whole roaster or fryer, but I know a lot of you like your chicken fatless and easy. This is the deal for you.

So after a couple of minutes of shooting, I was approached by a woman who asked brusquely, “Can I help you?” I explained to her my intentions of photodocumenting her store for my little blog, and she was very helpful. I've heard that grocery stores don't like you photographing their shelves, but Roisin was entirely cool with it, and explained to me how the labels work on the bulk bins. Green labels mean organically grown, and blue labels mean conventionally grown. I noticed that they said “naturally grown” and she explained that some suppliers, though not strictly organic, nevertheless reduce their reliance on chemicals by engaging in simply natural practices like crop rotation, or like the aboriginal “three sisters” approach – plant crops closely together that benefit each other, rather than vast monocultures that require chemical crutches. Makes sense. Cool.

Some other cool stuff: bulk organic maple syrup (in a huge jug with a tap!), good deals on wholesome bread (check next time you shop: everything has “mono- and di-glycerides” and at least a few other dough conditioners and preservatives in them... these Uprising Breads ingredients would each be recognized by my great-grandmother, for $3/loaf), and 5kg sacks of organic flour. Restaurants should always use organic flour – it's almost the same price as chemically-treated flour, and obviously a better choice holistically. Walk behind a wall into the bulk corner – bulk organic sugar, sea salt, himalayan salt, nuts, dried fruits, and of course... granola.

As I prepared to pay for my bread, produce, and chicken, I expected to be encouraged to purchase two shares in the coop ($20) to become a member... but one of the staffers let me use their membership number, since it was my first time. Thanks, EEFC. I'll for sure be back to stock up on hard-to-find items like organic garlic and ginger, and scan the sales.

Fiddleheads and Shellfish

2010-03-29T23:24:00.000-07:00

It didn't take me long to discover this week's theme - walking to work at the Fish House, I discovered a sprouting fern patch: FIDDLEHEADS! The fiddlehead season is only about 2-3 weeks long around here, so I knew I had to take advantage of them immediately. I went out as soon as work was over and harvested about 3lbs of the natural Fibbonacci fronds, one at a time. I wish I had my camera then.

I had some egg whites left over from making ice cream last weekend, so it was either Pavlova or pasta. I had to make pasta, because everybody looked at me weird when I suggested making egg-white pasta. Trust me, it works. Once I decided on pasta, clams seemed like a natural pair with fiddleheads. Vongolaise!

Local organic apples are SO easy to find and SO cheap (about $1/lb year round), and I've never made a Tarte Tatin, so I thought I'd give that a shot. I had some leftover Avalon organic butter, and found organic Canadian flour at the Food Warehouse (1st & Lonsdale) for $3.50/kg. Mmm, 100% organic, local gala apple Tarte Tatin. I also stopped by Cinnamon's Chocolates on 2nd and picked up a half dozen handmade caramels for petit fours - I saw the Avalon organic milk delivery truck pull up there a couple of days ago, so I knew I had to take a chance on their chocolate.
And I felt like having oysters... but I can't stand being fleeced by those hosers at Lonsdale Quay: $18.69/dozen! Unshucked! No thanks... even if I have to buy 5 dozen at a time to get wholesale prices, that's what I'll do to keep my hard-earned dollars out of yuppie market profiteers. Needless to say, I spent the next morning picking oyster shells out of my couch cushions.
A small group of dedicated diners arrived in time for oysters and freshly baked Island City filoncini, and the rest was history - Karen brought a Muscadet from Loire (honeysuckle, melon, floral bouquet, with crisp dry finish - NICE) and Tristan brought a single-origin Ethiopian Harrar coffee for a little intermezzo (tropical fruit driven by acidity, to open the eyes and the palate). We tasted a bottle of El Bulli's new beer, the Estrella Dam Inedit (very light, unfiltered wheat beer - gorgeous and crisp!) Finally, in the 11th hour, Destinee rolled in with some watermelon sheesha. Another successful Knight at the Corner Table.

The Foodist Mangia-festo - A Call to Farms! (The Pork Fatwa)

2010-03-16T16:04:00.000-07:00

I believe it was Voltaire who said that every philosophy contains the seeds of its own destruction. Today is a sad day, my friends, for I am beginning to feel this way about the state of dining in general. I've just about had enough.
As a cook, I felt like a slave. As a server, I feel like a servant begging for scraps. Yet, I cry tears of joy for the most reverently and fearfully created dishes, and experience some of my greatest peak experiences in the midst of a busy dinner service. I cannot seem to reconcile these experiences!
With my increasing interest in food ethics and food security, my philosophical inclination predisposes me to believe that having a plate of food and, if one is lucky, a glass of wine to enjoy it with, is the only thing of any importance in this life -- save for the company of loved ones.
Yet, restaurants are invariably concerned with profits above ethics. Even the best and most ethical of restaurants that are popping up in this town, on the cutting edge of dining responsibility as it is, charge exorbitant prices. It seems that dining in the best interest of society as a whole is reserved for the upper class. And more often than not, from my experience in the dining room, these people are barely aware of the importance of food ethics, let alone even actually care about the future of food security. As much as dining is the shrine of the moment, and the dining room is a place to put all of one's worries out of one's mind and enjoy the beauty of this one meal, this is no excuse for the ignorance of the rich.
What's even worse, are the attitudes of the people who work in this industry. So many of us are indifferent to what we put in our sautee pans or carry in our own two hands on the way to the table. We're more concerned about our careers, or our tips, or the hostess we're trying to shag. Even of the cooks and servers who are informed about the pressing issues surrounding our food system, there is a big shrug and a "what can you do?" about the fact that every single restaurant pushes countless litres a day of GM corn in the form of cans or boxes of soda. The best you can do as a frontline worker in this battle is to keep doing what you're told until, some day, you too can make a tiny difference in our evolution toward gastronomic awareness - also accepting the golden handcuffs of profiteering as your master.
Well, we don't have time to fuck around with our tiny lives and self-interests. I don't care if you become a celebrity chef. I don't care if your restaurant makes money. I don't care if your ethical eatery gets 28 in the Zagat guide, because 70%* of food consumers in this city will never spend $30 on an entree. The 30% of us who will are just as likely to waste our money on an unethical alternative, because we only do eat out "once in a while," or because we simply don't care. The only reason any of us have enough money to eat your $30 entree is because, somewhere along the line, we've sacrificed our ideals and mortgaged the future of our species in some way. Those of us who can afford to eat ethically at $30/plate are merely outsourcing our pollution and karma to those who can't afford boutique ingredients at a four-star restaurant. Everybody needs to make a living, we tell ourselves, and overlook our daily overconsumption and reckless disregard for the stewardship of this planet.
Fuck that! I say. We need to wake the fuck up. And our restaurants aren't doing anybody any good, we're only getting better at being wasteful. Everybody needs to be able to eat locally, organically, and ethically. Everybody needs access to an affordable meal, and good company. And even the poorest of us deserve to experience the beauty of gastronomy, once in a while.
I will never become your chef. I will never become your bar manager, your maitre'd. I will never actually care about any arm of the unquestioned profiteering restauranteer agenda. I care about the future of our food... I care about where it comes from, and what it does to our bodies and our producers... I care about the taste, the love, and the passion. But we don't have much time left to cast our votes for our future... and we can only do it one meal at a time.
*Every single one of these numbers is completely anecdotal and improvised. Statistics and polls these days aren't a far cry from opinion anyways, so fuck it.

Review Biased by Good Company

2010-03-15T21:27:00.000-07:00

Halfway through my tiramisu, cupping my last slurp of creamy espresso, it seems the warm lighting and velveteen sabayon are going straight to my head. Maybe it was the flight of local wines, or maybe it was the attention of the doe-eyed English major next to me, but somewhere in between good food and good company, I've long since filed this 3-course prix-fixe at Quattro on Fourth a glorious success of an evening.

I arrived too late for a coveted seat at the round table under the ornate, iron-leafed romantic chandelier in the corner, but from my banquet table seat with the rest of the candle-lit class, I heard my name whispered loudly from its other end. I could swear I saw the leather-bound lips of the hefty wine list move in time. Obligingly, I leaf through to find a delightful list of local wines by the glass, from the crisp and aromatic $11 Joie Noble Blend to the legendary Black Hills Nota Bene. For $24.50/glass, I'm happy that they offer this, but I'm not going to pay that much for a glass of wine and I don't know how they sell enough of it to keep it lively night in and night out. Fat bordeaux blends are not often agreeable with the menu's vegetarian options, either.

Primi: three little balls of bocconcini wrapped in grilled raddichio, balsamic reduction. Joie Noble Blend seemed an easy friend of this light vegetarian dish, but I don't know many dishes that wouldn't get along with this glass. Firm, yet lightly melted mild cheese was made all the more substantial and savory by the charred, pleasantly bitter flavor of fire-kissed raddichio. This mild textural affair found its counterpart in the intense sweetness and acidity of balsamic reduction, and even the garnish of frisee in lightly sweet cherry vinaigrette provided a nice break from everything that was going on in each of these subtle yet luxurious vegetarian bites. I chased each one with a leaf of the undressed endive garnish, like a glass of water shaped like a tulip petal.

Secondi: mushroom fettucine. Quail's Gate Pinot Noir. How could I not have pasta at an Italian ristorante? Besides, I just like saying its name – fettucine tartufate. Perfectly al dente fettucine dressed in a porcini gravy with plump wild mushroms and liberally shaved parmesan cheese. Light fruit and acidity in the local pinot pairs perfectly with the rich savor of this fantastic pasta. A hack restaurant would have served this fettucine in a cream sauce more like an alfredo, but this was clearly a highly reduced porcini jus, delicately mounted with dairy. So simple: just pasta, mushrooms, and cheese. I haven't had pasta this good since last time I made pasta myself.

As I considered risking an after-dinner cocktail, I was happy to hear that we also had a dessert option – cherry cheesecake or tiramisu. Of course! Why would I ever have an Italian meal without a final course of tiramisu and espresso? My anticipation of this denouement sends me into a blissful stratosphere. I've already decided that this will be good. At this point of the meal, they would have to work pretty hard to screw up this tiramisu.

Somewhere there is a break in our final course conversation of University Gastronomica, local fish stocks, and Foodism in general, and I find myself reveling in the whole of this dining experience. As a food-centric individual, I will often judge a restaurant rather harshly based solely on its food and drink service, pulling no punches and offering no quarter. But at this moment I realise, as if for the first time, that the experience of dining is often affected by things beyond the restaurant's control. It is up to the establishment to set the correct lighting, select music at appropriate volumes and tempos, and serve my wine in a clean glass, but can the restaurant control the music of happily chatting diners? A restaurant cannot control the good company I keep, nor the intensity and intelligence of conversation that comes to life over the table. These things are up to us, the diners, and our companions. So, as for my review of Quattro: impressively simple food, extensive local wine list, effortless service with few flaws. Quattro has done the job that it has been paid to do.

My dining companions, however, are those who have truly made my evening memorable. And I didn't even have to pay them to do so. Thanks.

Bar Trek: The Next Generation

2010-02-24T00:08:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-02-16T10:28:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-16T10:14:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-10T03:00:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-02-09T02:51:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-07T02:05:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-02-06T02:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-02T01:06:00.002-08:00

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.

The Beast Within

2010-01-27T01:02:00.000-08:00

I've just spent nearly 3 hours in a classroom being bombarded by stories of places I'll never see, magazines I'll never be published in, and examples of writing that I'll never live up to. My sinuses are clogged, my muscles ache, and I swear my forehead is being cleft by an invisible chisel. I'm not dressed for the frost that has grown on the asphalt or the sight of my breath as I shuffle my way to the 99 B-Line. The only proof of grace in this unholy night is the 24hr Pho place between the Cambie Street bus stop and the Canada Line back to the North Shore.

Kim Penh Xe Lua is probably my single favorite place in this sprawling metropolis. If I'm to follow Don Genova's guidelines on “good food and travel writing,” I should be acutely in tune with the sights, sounds, smells, and people I notice upon entering this little hole in the wall... but all I can think about is a large #16. That's the adventurer's bowl: with brisket, tripe, tendon, and fatty flank. That's the medicine. That's what a Cambodian grandmother would give me if I had the sniffles. That's a healing bowl of steaming restorative and spices, with a liberal helping of hearty offal.

This is not food for the faint of heart, the germophobe, or the Eurocentric elite. This is salt-of-the-earth food, stick to your ribs food, put hair on your chest food. Just what I need tonight. A good writer would be aware and expressive of the subtly scented and slightly sweet broth of beef and allspice. A good writer might waft the aroma and relish in its simple perfection, and take small aerated sips while losing himself in the experience of layers of flavor washing over his finely tuned palate. I'm lucky I remembered to pull out my phone to snap a quick shot before I inhaled this huge portion in one hurried gulp.

It seriously took me about 2 minutes to finish eating this massive bowl of soup. Everything was gone, the large pile of juicy bean sprouts, the fresh sprigs of Thai basil, the segments of lime (yes, I ate the pulp too), and the slices of jalapeno. For even more spice I squeezed a good tablespoon of sriracha sauce from the bottle on the table in there, too. As I slurped, I sweated. And sniffed. And snorted. I coughed up all kinds of gnarly phlegm. This $7 bowl of street food was exorcising my demons.
This bowl of soup is transcendent. Not a silver shrimp forks and folded napkins kind of sublime, I'm talking about a working all day in a rainy rice field and need to regain your constitution kind of fulfillment. It's a shame that, often, those who consider themselves gastronomes can become so bloody pretentious as to overlook these more visceral food experiences. Food isn't necessarily about immaculate service and ornate table settings. It doesn't have to always be about perfectly dressed salads and filament-thin chiffonades, does it? Are we not simply animals, after all?

Just Desserts

2010-01-24T15:42:00.000-08:00

I know this is a really hokey title, but I only want to mention the sweeter things in life here. Very succinctly:

After I went to Suki with Markus yesterday, we stopped in on the SweetArt Cafe just up the hill from 1^st & Lonsdale. God damn! Is this place amazing. We shared a strawberry-rhubarb tart as well as one of the chef's favorites, the chocolate lemon tart. The first pastry was very nice, but it couldn't help but be overshadowed by the cafe's signature confection. The chef's pride is apparent in the word “Citron” gracefully scripted in chocolate on top of the bright, beautiful lemon curd... but it is even more apparent in the most easily overlooked detail: a thin layer of white chocolate between the tender pastry and the tart curd. This adds a very subtle depth to its flavor and keeps the pastry perfect, not at all soggied from the freshly set lemon curd. I repeat – god damn!
Later on that night, I had the pleasure of experiencing one of the North Shore's greatest dessert secrets: Ekmek from Pasparos Greek Taverna just west of 3^rd & Lonsdale. My girlfriend is a busser at this Lower Lonsdale fixture (the restaurant has been around for over 35 years), and loves sweets even more than I do. She is responsible for having introduced me to this divine delight – I'm pretty sure this dish sustains the Olympian gods themselves. A trinity of layers – Kataifi pastry (like vermicelli, at first I thought it was shredded wheat) soaked in honey syrup is its foundation, with a sweet custard middle, and a topping of smooth whipped cream. Sprinkled liberally with slivered almonds and cinnamon, this dish is as simple as it is perfect. I do not for a moment hesitate to include this in my pantheon of post-dinner perfection, along with crème brulee, chocolate mousse, and lemon tart. Thanks, D.... Thanks, Greeks.

Suki, Suki!

2010-01-23T15:23:00.000-08:00

I met up today with my dear old friend Mark, who recently bought a house out in Delta with his wife Teresa shortly after graduating from UBC (congratulations, buddy!). He doesn't spend much time on the North Shore (except to occasionaly buy cheese from a great little shop near Cap Mall – more words on that in the future!!), so I figured while he was out here I'd show him my favorite susheria, Suki on the Lonsdale Pier.
I was fiending for a refreshing midday beer, and the $5.50 pint of Okanagan Springs Honey Brown was just what the doctor ordered. I was so excited by its thick, chilled, and branded glass that I immediately dove into its perfect inch of luxurious froth. I wish I'd taken a picture first, but I was so enraptured by this perfect pint that I lost my own head. I don't ever expect a perfect pint of draft at sushi... thanks, Suki. I went for the usual apps – miso, agedashi tofu, goma-ae. Goma-ae was 86'd, but I'm pretty sure their sauce is handmade so I can't get too upset. It's fairly labor-intensive to make that sesame sauce from hand ground toasted seeds, so I understand if I'd arrived too late in the service to take advantage of it before other savvy lunchers had bought it out. I'm not much of a miso soup conniseur, and theirs was as good as one could expect, but Suki's agedashi tofu is an absolute triumph. Steam rises off the light, crispy batter, inciting the nori julien and bonito shavings to dance playfully while they await their careful consumption. This is one of the most beautiful dishes I've ever seen.
One of my first mentors in the restaurant kitchen was a grumpy but well-seasoned old Japanese chef, who had burnt out and wound up flipping burgers in the bowels of a pub kitchen to pay off the last years of his mortgage. Through my incessant inquiry on all things culinary, he taught me a few memorable things about Japanese cuisine, and one of which is how to make a good udon soup. Every Japanese restaurant that does tempura will have small pieces of batter depart from any item being fried in the oil. A conscientious chef will strain these bits from the vat before they burn, and use them to garnish the udon. This efficient use of all its resources by Suki gives it huge points in my books, and speaks volumes to the chef's attention to detail in all aspects of execution. This is like the Japanese version of crumbling crackers into soup. And I love it.

Mark had the gyoza to start (I didn't try them but they looked light and crispy) and the sake/tekka donburi as his entree. Crazy dish for the $10 price tag. Several pieces of both ahi and albacore tuna, and beautiful ruby colored salmon sashimi as well as magnificently marbled salmon belly (perhaps my favorite sashimi). There were also very interesting garnish – which I made out to consist of thinly sliced and soy/mirin marinated albacore, marinated shiitake mushrooms, and a few small pieces of imitation crab. Mark didn't eat the pink pollock – I don't think I would have, either. When all was said and done, the waitress brought us a couple of segmented orange slices with our bill. What a perfect way to end a light lunch. This restaurant remains my favorite sushi on the North Shore so far, with Kansai a close second (zaru soba on their patio in the summer is a great way to spend an afternoon). I've gotten tips on a couple more great places, and Honjin Sushi is right around the corner from my house, so I'll have to get back to you on that soon. Salud!

Re: Fishworks Goes Local

2010-01-23T01:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Editors of Metro News Vancouver,
For years now, I've wondered what kind of background a person needs to get published as a food and restaurant critic for a widely circulated periodical. After reading Anya Levyk's January 21st review of North Shore new kid on the block Fishworks, I'm starting to think it doesn't have anything to do with her knowledge of food and restaurants.
In the interest of full disclosure, you should know that I am a weekend bartender at the aforementioned Ocean-Wise bistro. But I do not write this on behalf of Fishworks – our dining room is full every night as a result of a small team of dedicated professionals living our passion, and Anya is fully entitled to her opinion of whether she likes what we do or not. I am writing this on behalf of food writing. As a restaurant industry professional, I am privy to information that Ms. Levyk is apparently unaware of. Most notably, the complete absence of raspberry vinaigrette, raspberry vinegar, or even raspberries in our kitchen (her review refers to a raspberry vinaigrette dressing twice in the article). Perhaps her last review was in the mid-90s when restaurants still used raspberry vinaigrette... or maybe she got the idea from watching an episode of Rachel Ray the night before.
Call me old fashioned, but I was always lead to believe that the opinion of a journalist should at least be informed. If she doesn't like our balsamic vinaigrette, fair enough, but printed ignorance can potentially mislead thousands of your trusting readers. Anya was also distressed by the speed at which her appetizer was prepared, deriding it as “pre-made.” An informed restaurant critic would know that cocktail prawns are always poached off and cooled before dinner service, and chefs add this dish to their menu because it is simply a matter of assembly during a busy dinner service. In the dozens of restaurants I've worked in my career (including Sequoia Grill, Feenie's, The Fish House, Watermark), prawns cocktail are prepared this way. I challenge you, Anya, to find a restaurant that poaches and subsequently chills your prawns to order. Would you rather wait 30 seconds or 30 minutes?
If you didn't like the table you were sat at, Anya, I'm sorry. And I can understand how having a less than perfect table can alter the enjoyment of a dining experience. It's reasonable if a diner makes up their mind to not enjoy their night because of substandard seating, but it is irresponsible for a supposed journalist to make up her mind to slag the food because her table made her grumpy. Many small restauranteurs pour their heart, and their life-savings, into opening a restaurant. To allow a gustatory neophyte, who can't tell the difference between the flavors of raspberry and balsamic vinegar, to tell the city of Vancouver that Fishworks doesn't prepare their food with care... is careless.
So in defense of good writing, I give you my critique of Anya's approach. Having the ability to send in a grammatically correct review before deadline simply isn't enough gastronomic experience for the food writer of such a widely circulated publication. If you want to read some real food writing, check out my blog.
Sincerely,
Shane Lobsinger
newgastronome@telus.net
http://newgastronome.blogger.com

Eat Local

2010-01-21T20:03:00.000-08:00

I hate... let me repeat, HATE it when customers stand at the door of the restaurant before we open. It's first thing in the morning (to me), I haven't had my double latte yet, and the 11:30am opening time is clearly posted on the door. If it's not 11:30 yet, go away. You're not a puppy dog waiting to be let in out of the rain.

This morning at 10:30 sharp, such an expectant individual gazed through the glass of the front door as I was tucking my shirt in, and belting up. Not only am I obligated to go deal with this person while I'm still warming up to humanity, but she saw me stuffing my tattooed mitts in my pants. How rude. As I open the door, I immediately notice the generous basket of colorful produce in her arms. “I'm here for the business networking luncheon?” She was an hour early. “I'm with Green Earth Organics.” So she's not rude after all – just a little spaced out. Luckily, shes aware enough to get the hint that I'm far from ready to host her, so she walks off to enjoy the park for an hour. I bet she enjoyed that hour, too. Plenty of trees to hug.

The rest of the day is just like any other. Big business luncheon in one room, middle aged professionals and retirees in the other. Bitching about the Olympics with Allan from Spirit Lifters, and mimicking trumpet sounds with Robin from EcoLab while he fixed my glass washer (Chef KB took the broken chemical pump and smashed it against a rock to extract the solenoid, because she hoardes copper wire... only you, Chef). After the networking luncheon, Danielle of the Earth approaches me on her way out and offers me a pamphlet for her company. We end up talking about Slow Food, Carlo Petrino and community-supported agriculture (CSA). Her company is similar in concept, sourcing as many locally produced varieties as possible, but also offering imported organic products (from soy milk to sausages). They deliver parcels of organic produce to your door, once every week or two. Part of the idea is that you're getting this produce more directly from the source than if a large company like Safeway bought it from a large produce distributor like Sysco, who in turn bought it from a large farm conglomerate who in turn bought it from the farm, where it was mass produced. The profits from your purchase are traced more directly back to the farmers, not skimmed by a dozen distributors and middlemen along the way. This produce is much more easily traceable to farms that offers fair wages to producers – which is where we come in. That's why we purchase on a prescribed regular basis, to offer more consistency to the producers – they deserve job security just as much as we do.
Whether you believe that it is your responsibility as a consumer to invest in the dignity and security of local food growers, organic items are measurably healthier than their chemically-treated dopplegangers. And their taste – exists. It's funny how chemical engineers can make bacon aroma that's more one-dimensionally bacon-y than the real thing, and how artificial grape flavor taste way more grape-y than most grapes (except Okanagan coronation grapes... WOW). But the difference between a chemical-pumped tomato and its organic alternative is like the difference between Boston Pizza and Brick Oven Pizzeria. Between Joey's and il Jiardino. Cactus Club and le Crocodile. And if you can't tell the difference, then I don't know how you even found this blog. Buy local.

Tasty Day

2010-01-20T01:23:00.000-08:00

arI awoke slowly this morning, having slept well, in the arms of the most beautiful girl I know. Unfortunately, it was 11:20 and I had to be at the Fish House to open the bar 50 minutes ago. Shit. I'll be there in half an hour, Mark.

45 minutes later, the garden room was already full and Mark was pouring drinks and bussing tables to compensate for my absence. No playful ribbing, no stern talk, just the cold shoulder as he worked his ass off. I am definitely feeling like an ass myself, and there is nothing I can do to make it better but start working hard enough that he doesn't have to. I kick into high gear, running drinks and seating tables, and Mark runs upstairs with his lunch. When he comes back down an hour later, he pours me a glass of Sandhill Chardonnay and says, “write me detailed tasting notes on this.”

I love any boss who issues wine tastings as punishment. I can definitely enjoy this wine but I haven't yet memorized the precise criteria for the WSET tasting procedure. Clear, medium-intense/pale straw yellow in color, with a greenish hue.... strong bouquet of tropical fruit, orchardfruit, and butterscotch. Dry, with high acidity and high alcohol. Vanilla, green apples, apricot flavors. Well-structured, British Columbia Chardonnay (but at 14.5% alcohol and all that dried apricot and canned peaches flavor, I would normally guess Californian) with well-integrated of oak treatment. Will age well, is developing, but bloody great to drink now.

And then in comes Bill Sanford, former sommelier of the Fish House, as well as the Cannery, and now wine agent for Grady Wines. “Be more specific. Be systematic. Color – hues and intensity, presence of any flaws. Nose – aromatics and intensity, flaws. Palate – sugar, acid, alcohol, flavors and intensity of each. When I say intensity, I mean, is it low, medium, or high? If it's low, is it low-plus or low-minus, or just low? There are 9 possible intensities.” Holy shit... 10 if I include you, Bill. Glad you're around.

Then comes in Jeff, representing Aha Toro tequila. He brings in 3 huge handmade glass bottles of tequila blanco, reposado, and anejo: white, rested, and aged, respectively. These terms refer to the amount of time each 100% blue agave tequila has spent in toasted oak barrels. Blanco is virgin, reposado has rested for 6-8 months, and anejo is aged 12-18 months. Blanco is clear and smells like lime and black pepper, reposado is golden, like Cuervo Gold, but with a much more impressive and subtle nose with a little bit of toasted or smoked black pepper, and maybe even some caramel. Anejo is like scotch, smells like pencil shavings at first from all the oak but then transitions into sweet vanilla, finishing with black pepper. Fish House Chef Karen Barnaby enjoyed a good sniffing with us, and experienced in the anejo the aromas of strawberry, leather, and even caramelized passionfruit - “it's the smell of letting passionfruit puree reduce for a minute too long.” Only you, Chef.

El Susheria

2010-01-20T00:44:00.000-08:00

I finally found a free night to get out and see Avatar!!! My friends couldn't make the 7:10 showing so I was forced to kill time downtown until the 10:30 screening... what to do??? I first thought I'd check out Guu, as I haven't been there for oh so long, but I should have known better than to expect to walk into that place unannounced at 8 o'clock. I definitely wasn't going to go to Le Crocodile by myself, so the nearest thing that tickled my fancy was Tsunami Sushi on Robson. I'd actually never been there before so I figured a solo mission was the best way to test the waters, in the event that I ever had to take a lady somewhere in the area. Naturally, I had a seat at the sushi bar, watching the ships roll in like the Otis Redding of Japanese cuisine. For those of you neophytes who haven't experienced this yet, here is the drill: you sit at the bar where little wooden boats pass in front of you, each one with a different plate of sushi and maybe some wasabi or ginger. There are four different plates, and each plate represents a different price point for that particular item. This is a very entertaining experience, and I imagine during a busy time when the boats are all full it would be so much more so. There are many nigiri sushi I haven't tried, and as I watched unidentified pieces of fish swim past me I pieced together which each one was. Without this system, I'd have to risk up to $4 a shot to even see what hamachi or unagi look like. If you don't want what's on the boats, there are waitresses patrolling the floor ready to take an order back to the kitchen.
I started off with a 650mL Kirin lager ($9) miso soup and an order of goma-ae. The presentation of the goma-ae showed a great attention to detail. Rather than being tossed in tahini and served in a roughshod ball, I was presented with lovingly stacked and pressed spinach doused in sweet sesame dressing. The goma-ae of Sakura Sushi at Lonsdale Quay is better, as you can see the hand-ground toasted sesame seeds in the sauce, but I did enjoy the caramelized sugar flavor in this one. It reminded me of the sesame snaps I used to have packed in my lunches as a child... I'm a fan of any dish that inspires nostalgia. After having savoured my goma-ae and speculated at great length about the floating delicacies at hand, I reached for a plate of inari (fried tofu pockets marinated in sweet sake lees and stuffed with sushi rice). I love this stuff. You can pick it up at TNT market, which is probably the same stuff Tsunami uses, and make these things yourself super easily. At $2.05, I'm happier than a pig in a turnip patch that they were so convenient to snatch. My bill is now pushing $20, so I've got to be judicious with my next choices. Halibut sushi with minced kimchi and green onion... why not? I've never had it this way. Unfortunately, its delicate flavor played second fiddle to the rockstar duo of wasabi-loaded soy and the colourful garnish. Not that I'm criticizing the dish construction or quality – I can't expect halibut to be at its best out of season and thawed from last year's catch. Let me note here, though, that I saw the same suspects in rotation on the sushiboat fleet for the entire 45 minutes I sat. I wasn't surprised that the rice stuck to the plates a little bit and that the fish had lost its “freshly cut” slickness, let alone the rainbow effect that can be observed on very freshly sliced tuna. But I'm sure if I had asked to be brought a more freshly made piece, they would have obliged me. But I'm foodie, not fussy.
And then – a prawn sushi. There were two different looking prawn sushis, on two different plates, indicating different prices ($3.05 and $4.25). Cross-reference the menu: ebi is cooked tiger prawn (WARNING! Farmed in India/Southeast Asia), and the more pricey ama-ebi is RAW BC SPOT PRAWN!! JACKPOT. These succulent prawns should be eaten raw, at their best, and thank god for Tsunami for carrying this product as part of its regular menu and for serving it in its most natural state, so very lovingly and minimally manicured. I will FOR SURE pay the extra 60 cents per prawn (there are 2 nigiri sushi in each order) to support local fishing, reject destructive and exploitative agroindustrial colonialism and redundant globalism... and, most importantly, enjoy top shelf produce.
This is a great example of why I love this town so much. You can sit down to any halfway decent sushi restaurant, and you will have wild local salmon, halibut, and maybe even prawns, as part of the regular rotation. Not as part of a trend or even socio-ethical imperative; it is simply because these local fruits der mer are the best on the planet, and Japanese food is such a minimalist affair that any decent susheria does not have room in its coolers for shitty produce. So here's a note to people who complain that BC spot prawns are too expensive, or you don't get enough of them, or their texture is different: steak tartare is smaller, more expensive, and mushier than a Big Mac. Exploitative wages, chemical enhancement, and unsustainable practices propel the Indean Ocean's aquacultured and super-pumped antibiotic pseudo-prawns to reach our tables at $8/lb. Perhaps it is in our best interest to get to know the smaller, more expensive, and “finer things” in life.
check this out... http://eatprawns.com/local-food/ama-ebi-spot-prawns-sushi-delicacy/
...only $2 each!!!!!!!!!

Flavor First!

2010-01-17T15:26:00.000-08:00

Serving tables can be a very satisfying line of work. It all depends on one's attitude and knowledge. Every time I go into work dreading dealing with chronically unsatisfied people, or those who waste my precious dinner rush minutes giving me their “feedback” on how they would design the room better, I inevitably dwell on these unpleasantries and it can really ruin the job for me. But the more I consider myself a gastronomic ambassador, the more I'm likely to spend time with those who are interested in being educated about what is on their plate and in their glass, and to simply dismiss the ignorant blowhard with a smile and a wave as the door hits them on the way out. I had a four-top last night, people who were young professionals, there to have a good time but clearly appreciated good food and wine. This is the bread and butter of the new gastronome: people who put pleasure first, have the resources to pay for it, but are still socially conscious and also aware of the dining market.

Right off the bat, they ordered a bottle of Excelsior Cab-Sauv – my current pet bottle. Rather than be the server that reads you the tasting notes straight off the wine list, I like to have something unique and intelligent to say about what we're serving, so I make a point of trying a bottle of anything I can find on our list, and make it my pet for the weekend. And I really liked this wine: at $15 retail, it's a lush glass of plum and vanilla, with mocha finish and some very smooth tannins. And what's more, I looked into the owners of the winery, South Africa's deWet family (who have been cultivating their vines on the cape since the late 17^th century), and it turns out that they are one of the more socially progressive landowners in a region that remains tainted with injustice. Their estate employs over 100 families, and provides them with access to education and healthcare – they've actually built a school for their workers' children on their property. So when my friends ordered this bottle, I told them not only about their good choice from the perspective of the wine's great drinkability (flavor first!), but made a point to let them know that their decision is in support of some of the more conscious operators in the industry. Unsurprisingly, they were very pleased to have gained this knowledge from me. This is the kind of knowledge that makes your dining experience a deep-down pleasurable one. This knowledge takes your glass of wine beyond its superficial charms – this awareness buttresses the delight of flavor with the sound structure of good and fair production. This is now food for the soul.

A waiter can be so much more than an order-taker and bottle-opener. A waiter with good knowledge can not only encourage people to make more sustainable choices by championing programs such as Ocean-Wise (but never through guilt!!! the dining experience must always be a fulfilling one, and we must always be aware that our ethics are relative), but can actually add an priceless value to the diner's experience by providing knowledge about not only how his product tastes, but how it is cooked, how and from where it is produced, and who produces it. This awareness doesn't mean that we all have to become holier-than-thou vegans and foresake our right to pleasure, making every meal a mission to save the world. It just means that if our waiters can be gastronomic ambassadors, helping us feel good about making better choices and helping to educate us about the choices we have, we can become more conscious human beings with every bite we eat. Eating is about so much more than what goes into your mouth. It is about what goes into your soul.

My Grandpa's Garlic

2010-01-17T15:10:00.000-08:00

Saturday January 9, 2010

This is a story about garlic. But not just any garlic. This garlic, like many of my friends, has been cultivated into something exceptional, though it is of humble origin. This garlic, also like many of my friends, is first generation Chinese-Canadian. His father, and his father before him, grew up in the sun-baked fields of southern China, just another bulb buried under the strain of years of agro-industrial colonialism. Then, when he was one day finally ready to leave the fields in search of a better life, he was crammed into a shipping container and spent weeks suffocating with his myriad countrymen, praying that he would make the arduous journey to Canada alive. Finally having arrived, all heads were counted, the dead ones discarded and written off, and our indentured traveler found not the freedom he was promised. Rather, doomed to spend the rest of his shelf-life imprisoned in a mesh bag, he finds only the tyrannical oversight of the supermarket. If he were any other Joe Clove, he would have grown too old to be deemed useful and sentenced to compost, or been garishly minced and likely burnt in some yuppie housewife's miserable recreation of an Emeril Lagasse recipe.

Enter: Robert Lacasse, Sr. This man is my grandfather. Retired rural logger turned worldwide web blogger, it has somehow become this man's impassioned mission to research and develop the most efficient and productive methods of boutique garlic cultivation. This is no garden-variety green thumb; I will tell you with familial certainty that this man produces the most perfect purple garlic north of Nanaimo. And our aforementioned protagonist has the great fortune to find himself at the bottom of my grandpa's shopping bag. If garlic could smile, this bulb's beam would clear the clouds from all the coast. To his great surprise, he was not cruelly hacked apart by a dull ten dollar kitchen knife, or crushed by the most unforgiving of unnecessary kitchen contraptions, the garlic press. He was instead lovingly laid to rest beneath the moist, loamy topsoil of suburban Campbell River. Peacefully, and with the loving care that only such a salt-of-the-earth old man can provide, he blossomed forth with a new progeny... a small field of plump cloves in the backyard of my grandparents' mobile home.

And so it came to be that, as the most effortless but most bountiful gift from an effortlessly bountiful man (who raised a brood of 7 young'uns), I received a 5lb mandarin orange box stuffed with clumps of dirt hiding the sweet, white jewels of the earth. I knew immediately that I would be roasting a lot of this garlic, with it's ridiculous sugar content and smooth, robust aroma. And so it came to be that I acquired 3L of nectar from the most valiant of olives, those chosen to be pressed for their essence and sent across the world to us not fortunate enough to dwell in the shadows of their branches. These likely bedfellows are now under my care... and I will ensure their union. After a generation of struggle, these all-too-different personalities from either end of my earth will discover for the first time how famously they get on. I am playing matchmaker with two souls I know so very well.