The Beast Within

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

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

1. 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!

2. 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!

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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.