The general success of Meatless Mondays around here has inspired more than a few changes in our day to day life recently.

For starters, the Everyman (entirely of his own accord) suggested to me last week that he would be fine with going meatless twice a week (who knew it could be so easy?)  I suppose that is a testament to the justice I’m trying to do to vegetarian fare and fresh produce in general for him to say so, but I was surprised nonetheless.  I’ve since decided that we will do a second night each week, but this one is not going to be a fixed evening and will just float in whenever it feels like it fits.

Another such change was our willingness to check out L.A.B (aka Live and Breathe) on Sunday, which is Toronto’s newest temple of molecular hijinx fused with a heavily vegetarian flair.  Of the 2 chefs at L.A.B, Howard Dubrovsky is reportedly a vegetarian, (as was our server for the evening) and you could tell they were both eager to share their enthusiasm with the dinner crowd.  I’d first heard about L.A.B several months ago via a preview party I’d read about and to be honest, at the time I wasn’t overly excited about it (other than being happy for one more non-Italian option in Little Italy).

Having read the reviews in The Star and The Globe though, I was intrigued enough to want to give it a whirl.  I’d intended to check it out on Victoria Day weekend, but as luck would have it, they were closed.  The Everyman suggested a visit this past weekend (I suspect partly so he could get out of an impending trip to Ikea) but I was inwardly concerned that he wouldn’t enjoy the brazenly molecular flair.  As it turns out, I needn’t have worried.

When we arrived at L.A.B the eye-poppingly graffitied space was sparsely populated (normal for a Sunday, I expect) with diners situated around the perimeter of the 28 seat room, and chef was working on a slightly elevated pedestal behind the bar, though truly it looked like a stage.  Once we settled ourselves in, we were offered a cocktail list from which I chose a faux-jito of muddled mint, blackberries, pomegranate and soda, and the Everyman selected a Kentucky cooler (I believe that’s what it was called anyway) which blended bourbon, red wine, apple and spices into a heady, deeply hued sipper.  On the merit of the drinks alone I was convinced that all signs pointed to deliciousness.

As the appetizers arrived, the real molecular trickery started to unfold.  The Everyman’s cream ale consommé at first appeared to be a single brussel sprout perched on the bottom of a large white bowl.  Chef descended from his pedestal to follow it to our table, all the while cradling a bottle of beer.  Once tableside, the vegetable and beer spiked liquid was gently poured over the sprout and as the Everyman began to spoon it to his mouth he found that hidden within the exterior 3 or 4 leaves was a velvety parsnip puree.  It says a lot that the Everyman willingly opted for a vegetarian starter with BRUSSEL SPROUTS and PARSNIP, but after I tasted it, I would gladly have it placed before me, too.  My dish of chilled bison two ways was also a hit, combining a small mound of shaved medium rare bison carpaccio on a plate bisected by tiny crostini meant for a scrumptious mustard flecked tartare.  Two sauces splayed across the plate smartly balanced the cold meats, one an orange scented affair and one I seem to recall as a sweet lemony jelly.  I’m not generally fond of tartare, but this version was smooth yet crunchy from the seeds and perfectly portioned as a small quenelle on the plate.

Once we got to the entrees, we both opted to order meat given that I was ravenous from gardening all day and I’d read such yummy things about the cigar smoked gnocchi with sous vide lamb in a juniper, brown butter, root beer and cacao nib sauce.  As Dubrovsky placed the plate in front of me, I caught the faintest whiff of smokiness, but upon lifting the gnocchi to my lips, the scent dissipated into the ether.  Not that I minded, since the crisply crusted gnocchi were fine just the way they were, and I greatly enjoyed using them to lap up the sauce.  For someone I’ve read is a staunch vegetarian, Dubrovsky can cook one mean piece of meat, coaxing my lamb slices into a meltingly tender and pitch perfect rare.  The Everyman’s dish of steak and cake was also well received, being a sous vide strip (no wonder doneness was not requested) atop creamy potato puree covered in mushrooms, with crunchy crouton-esque puffs of beet, carrot and onion.  While we worked through our respective dishes, our server brought over the dessert menu and advised that if we wished to order the apple tart it needed to be pre-ordered because it took 20 minutes to prepare.  I wish all places would do this so I could decide how much of my entrée I want to eat, or rather, how much room I have to leave in my appetite!

After mulling over the list for a few moments, the Everyman gamely went for the apple cheddar tart sided with a Malaysian curry ice cream, while I selected the chocolate pot de crème with pear puree, tonka bean foam ginger and dehydrated chocolate crumbles.  The curry ice cream was decadent and different, and the apple pastry was comforting and homey, but neither of us was convinced that the 2 formed a symbiotic pair.  My pot de crème was presented as a mammoth portion that even chocolate-loving me had trouble finishing due to the richness of it, but it was yummy and beautiful; daintily sprinkled with pale yellow flower petals, the smooth, crunchy, dense and foamy textures made a whimsical party in my mouth.

I’d gone to L.A.B expecting the same old gimmicky molecular sleights of hand, but the chefs there were completely subtle with their artistry.  On top of it all Dubrovsky was both soft spoken and humble, checking in on our table often and graciously accepting our praise with a genuine smile and heartfelt thanks.  Anyone who can convince either of us meat eaters that we’d willingly go veggie instead (particularly without beating us over the head with it) gets 2 thumbs up in my book.

Next time (and there will be a next time) I greatly look forward to the root vegetable “calamari” and no rhyme carrot, cabernet and silver leaf risotto to grace my side of the table.

Until next time…

As someone who developed a fairly serious allergy to most varieties of shellfish during the past few years (severe enough that I now carry an epi-pen) I don’t often consume much in the way of shellfish.

But last year, after eating smoked prawns at The Black Hoof, I fell head over heels in love with one of the few crustaceans I’m still capable of eating.  BC spot prawns are generally sold fresh (read: alive) and are only available for a few brief months each year, starting in May and usually stretching through to July or August.  I can’t quite explain it, but there is something so much more creamy, sweet and delicately briny about spot prawns than any other shellfish I’ve ever sampled before.  Being that they also don’t induce anaphylaxis in me doesn’t hurt either.

I’ve tried in vain to find them frozen on several occasions, only to come up empty handed.  A few weeks ago when I searched for them at the St Lawrence Market, 2 out of 3 fishmongers had no idea what I was even asking for and the third outright said they didn’t carry them.  Faced with being at a loss for a second season in a row, I half-heartedly reached out to the obsessives on Chowhound who were surprisingly adept at pinpointing several places in the GTA that could help a sister out (I’ve had mixed success with reaching out for help on Chowhound, so I honestly wasn’t expecting much).  Most of the suggestions were out of the way for this non-driver, in the burbs of Scarborough and such, but one happened to be right downtown.  The T&T Supermarket on Cherry St even had spot prawns advertised in their circular, so I emphatically coerced the Everyman into letting me take my practice drive for the day over to said grocery store.

Once we got there, we found a large tank at the back of the store teeming with the vibrant pink beauties.  The tank was overcrowded though, so the spot prawns didn’t seem as lively as I had expected them to be, though they were certainly still alive.  Asking for 2 pounds, the fishmonger deftly scooped them out of the tank with a net, which set the previously docile prawns to wildly thrashing about.  Once bagged and tagged, I didn’t waste much time before exiting the store and returning home.  Live stuff generally doesn’t stay alive for long when trapped in a small plastic bag.  As a last ditch effort at giving me the finger, the spikiness of the prawns managed to pierce a hole in their bag unbeknownst to me and leak seawater all over the floor mat of my car.  Note to future intrepid purchasers of live prawns – always place them into a cooler or some other hard bottomed storing device when travelling, so as not to suffer the same fate, unless you enjoy washing floor mats for fun.

At home, I had no concept of how to prepare live prawns, and after turning to the internet I was faced with the realization that I had to rip off their heads.  The picture above is what was left of the prawn heads once I accomplished that task; an experience I found more than a little chilling since they were still moving about.

Once I finished, I didn’t want to mess with the flavour of the prawns too much, so I grilled them briefly on the barbecue so as not to corrupt their fragile texture.  I have to say, for a first attempt at cooking them myself, I wasn’t overly impressed.  They didn’t taste much different than any other shrimp, which caused me to wonder how fresh they really could be and if they were even spot prawns at all (it wouldn’t be the first time a grocery store pulled a bait and switch).  Grant’s prawns were so amazing by comparison that I’m certain something must’ve been off.

I still have about a month and a half before the season is over, so perhaps before it concludes I will attempt to source some fresh spot prawns again – possibly even for smoking!

Until next time…

Though it’s not yet May, this year I’ve often worried that I might have missed the window for Ontario ramps and wild fiddleheads.

With a warmer than normal March and April, these edible delicacies have been popping up much earlier than usual, which leaves me without farmer’s markets to buy them from, since all of the markets in my area don’t start up until mid May or June.  Last year we found them at The Cheese Boutique several times, but given my tendency to grossly overspend every time I cross their threshold, I wasn’t keen on the idea of heading over there just to get a couple pounds of ramps.

But then, on the way home from the Green Living Show yesterday, the serendipitous happened.

As I was walking along Dundas West, huddled against the wind and the rain, I noticed a lone sandwich board announcing a grand opening.  It turns out that Provenance Regional Cuisine has rented out some space in the existing Palmerston Cafe and is now a mini pop-up style grocery store.  I walked in to investigate, but since the Everyman and I were about to hurry off to a Cowbell brunch, I only made the most cursory glance of the products on offer.  Promising the counter staff that I would return, several hours later the Everyman and I did.

And what a bounty we found.  Not only is the place gorgeously curated, but it finally offers a place to buy local, sustainable meat that’s only a 3 minute walk from our house, as opposed to the 20 minute jaunt it takes me to get to The Healthy Butcher.  After a few minutes I managed to procure a bundle of ramps, as well as some homemade crostini, dried cranberry beans, sweet potato flour and more.  With the ramps firmly in hand, all that was left was to devise how to use them.

I’ve been seeing papas arrugadas a lot online lately, so I decided I would boil a few and then coat the salt-wrinkled potatoes with a compound ramp butter.  The leaves of 10 ramps provided just enough vibrant pungency to enhance a quarter cup of softened butter.  Once it was evenly mashed together, I formed it into a chubby log and left it in the fridge to permeate for a few hours.

Later that night a slice of said butter made the perfect accompaniment to the saltwater potatoes and a slice of prime rib.  Though several hours rest made merely a subtle marriage of flavours, I can’t wait to see what’s going to develop after a few days.  In the meantime I’ll just have to dream up more uses for this butter and these glorious ramps.

Until next time…

Last month before my birthday, the Everyman admitted that he was at a loss for gift ideas for me.

Since I’m the type of person who will generally buy anything I need for myself as I happen to need it, at first I couldn’t think of anything to tell him.  Aside from that, I hate suggesting to people what to give me, because a) it ruins any semblance of surprise and b) if you want to buy me a present, you should know me well enough to pick something out on your own, otherwise you shouldn’t be giving me a present in the first place.

But, as the date continued to approach he didn’t seem any closer to coming up with an appropriate gift, so I threw out a couple of thoughts, one of which was to attend a butchery session at Cowbell.  I did want to go, but I wasn’t really expecting him to take me up on it because it would mean there wouldn’t be anything for me to open (which is what I find most fun about presents to begin with), but shockingly, he did.  He even opted to leave the gift open ended, so I could choose the butchery session that most appealed to me because they offer classes in just about every kind of animal the restaurant uses on a rotating basis.

For those who aren’t in the know, Cowbell is one of Toronto’s premiere local food bistros, who not only preach nose to tail, but practice it as well by buying whole animals and employing an in-house butcher to break them down in the restaurant’s basement.  Since they bring in a whole animal nearly every week, approximately once a month they offer a class where you can follow along as butcher Ryan does his thing.  There was a class being held on my birthday to break down a red deer (one I would have loved to attend) but we didn’t find out until it was too late (while we were there the day of for my birthday brunch).  Several weeks later we visited with the Everyman’s brother and wife for dinner, and when we enquired we were told that the next session was going to be a Tamworth pig.  It sounded interesting (and we love pork), so the Everyman signed the 2 of us up.

Fast forward to this past Sunday, when we (and the other participants) assembled in the dining room at 7:30, while the restaurant was offering Sunday roast dinner.  After being introduced to Ryan, we were led on a tour of the restaurant, making a quick stop at the kitchen to meet that nights’ staff, though unfortunately chef Mark was not in attendance.  After the brief hello, we descended to the basement to get started.

In the centre of the room was a giant butcher block table with half a pig splayed out across it in all of its glory.   There wasn’t anything particularly gory about the scene but I opted not to take any photos because I hate being “that guy,” figuratively speaking.  It was always one of the things I despised doing the most when I was writing for Taste T.O. because taking photos in the middle of a crowded setting (specifically a restaurant) makes me feel like a tool, not to mention I’m not confident enough in my photography skills to expect that I’ll have gotten it right after one or two shots anyway.  As such, there will be no graphic photos of the event, but if you want to see an account of a class, Well Preserved ran a relatively comprehensive one recently of a class they attended.

When it came down to brass tacks the session was extremely engaging and super informative.  Though standing in place for over 2 hours can occasionally be taxing on the feet (and I even wore flats!) it was well worth the mild discomfort.  Ryan spoke slowly and confidently, explaining each of the various sections on the pig and what cuts of meat came from them, as well as giving a bit of background into the lifestyle of that particular pig and the farm it came from.  Piece by piece he and his assistant broke the side down, and at the end they put all of the primal cuts back onto the table to illustrate how to “put Humpty Dumpty back together again”.  Clearly the guy has a sense of humour…

What amazed me most about the session was threefold.  Firstly, I was astounded by how much of the butchery Ryan was doing with just his bare hands and gravity.  Contrary to popular belief, good butchers don’t need to forcefully hack things to bits to get the job done.  There’s no doubt he was probably aware of us onlookers and thus more calculated in his approach, but it was clear that there was a high degree of artistry and skill in the movements he was making.  With little more than patience and a light hand he managed to flay most of the beast by gently feathering the muscle groups with the tip of a relatively small knife.  Once he had worked an incision open, he used the strength in his hands to open it up further, separating the flesh piece by piece, something that was truly mesmerizing to watch.

Secondly, I was flabbergasted by how antiseptic and bloodless the whole process happened to be, though it’s possible that was intentional to avoid squeamishness from the audience.  Certainly there were a few small blood spots and bruises evident, but there wasn’t anything disgusting or offensive about the butchering like I would have expected.  If anything, I found it strangely beautiful, especially that the pig still had its eyelashes intact, for some reason.  I know it might seem odd, but there was something about the fact that they were still there that made me feel like it must’ve been at peace.  Silly perhaps, but a prosaic thought to hold on to nonetheless.

Lastly, the thrift and care that was taken to ensure that nothing went to waste was nothing short of astonishing.  Of a 104 pound half pig that we watched Ryan butcher (the other half of which he’d already butchered earlier that week), his final waste bowl only contained 0.9 pounds of scrap at the end.  There was some contention about this number because truthfully it was around 1.5-1.6 pounds due to a dried out kidney that he opted not to use, but had it not been air dried he would have used it for something, hence the question of the deduction.  Either way, his total percentage waste hovered around the 1% mark, which by and large is quite the feat.  Bones would be used for stock, meats would be cooked sous vide for service, fat and trim would get ground down for charcuterie and even the skin would be extended into cotecchino.  For those who might object to meat eating I’m sure this offers but a tepid reassurance, but at least there is an absolutely minimal amount of the animal going unused.

At the end of the class, Ryan showed us around their curing cellar and walk in cooler, and I think I found myself endeared by him all the more when he revealed that he is also the baker (kindred spirits, us bakers).  Not only that, but he had several bread starters in their walk in, one of which was named Olga after his mother in law (charming!) which made me giggle because a long time ago I named mine boring, old Frankenstein!  The group then ascended the stairs and returned to the dining room, where we all gathered around the bar and had drinks with Ryan, while chowing down on platters of delicious housemade charcuterie.  At that point several of the other attendees engaged him in lengthy discussions on food and cooking (one of whom was opening his own butcher shop in Ottawa) so once we finished up, we slipped out into the dark, cool evening to make our way home.

Overall I would rate the evening as a truly worthwhile experience, one that I may sign up for again just for the chance of seeing a different type of animal.  Who knows, maybe next time he’ll reveal that he IS the candlestick maker, too!  Though, if you know your history you’re aware of the fact that candles used to be made of beef tallow, thus the butcher really could be the candlestick maker (/nerdalert).

Until next time…

As I’ve surely mentioned here many times before, I’m a huge fan of breakfast.

Unfortunately, the Everyman is not, and mostly prefers to eat his first meal of the day around noon-ish on the weekend, which typically leaves us at a frustratingly inedible impasse.  Due to our differing opinions on the matter we don’t go out for brunch all that often, either.  Our first few visits to The Hoof Cafe when it opened were a noticeable exception, but that was mainly because the Everyman trusts Grant and also knew he could get un-breakfasty items if it came down to it (and it often does).  After we went to Cowbell brunch for my birthday, the Everyman was visibly smitten with the Rusty and Jerome I ‘d ordered (pictured above in its combo plate of apple pear compote-topped waffle, meatloaf, beans and sausage, bacon, toast and eggy glory) and beermosas too, but the simple fact is no matter how good the food is (and it IS fan-freakin-tastic) some days you just don’t want to travel across town to eat.  We’ve returned for brunch several times since then, but I still occasionally get intolerable cravings for breakfast that won’t quit in the interim.

One such yen hit me with full force just the other day.  Being that it was the middle of the week, it was unlikely that I would have the chance to go out for brunch the following day, so I contemplated the next best option; breakfast for dinner!  Growing up, I had a friend whose dad would make breakfast for dinner one day a week, and whether it was pancakes, waffles or eggs I always loved eating dinner at their house on that day.  We never really did anything like that in my home, so dinnerfast felt a little bit foreign and strangely like luxury.

After rummaging around in the fridge and finding the remnants of a carton of buttermilk, I began searching the internest for a decent buttermilk pancake recipe.  My gaze immediately gravitated towards this, but was also enticed by this, too.  Knowing the Everyman as well as I do, I was certain that if he chose the buttermilk pear option I’d have to find a suitable side dish to go with it to counter the sweetness, since he’s not a great lover of sweet breakfasts especially.  As I wracked my brain over possible complements, out of nowhere an idea came to me.  Why not make a salty hash with his favourite meat (prosciutto)?

Once I ran the options by him, he immediately began salivating over the potential of what we began referring to as who hash (a la The Grinch).  When we arrived home from work I mixed up the pear pancake batter so that it could rest, and began grating potatoes and onions and dicing prosciutto.  The whole meal came together quickly, and before I knew it I was serving up a beautiful puffy pancake that resembled an upside down cake with a side of crispy, crusty prosciutto speckled hash.

As the Everyman said, and I quote “Porsh, you’ve just made the Rusty and Jerome (which up until now was his favourite breakfast) obsolete”.  In fact, he liked it so much that I didn’t even get a chance to take a picture, because after helping himself to thirds, it was all gone.  Incidentally, the pear pancake was delicious too, and I would definitely make it again – particularly to pair with the hash.

The only problem I have now is if I’ve made the R&J obsolete, who is going to make me breakfast???  While I ponder that, I’ll leave you with a photo of what was left of the hash… precious little, indeed.

Foodie’s ‘Sciutto Hash

4 potatoes, grated and squeezed dry

2 onions, grated

4 oz butt end prosciutto, diced

butter

olive oil

Melt a tablespoon or so of butter in a large skillet.  Once foaming, add a pour of olive oil to the pan as well, and swirl around to coat the bottom and sides evenly (amount will vary based on size of pan).  Combine the potato and onion shreds in a bowl and mix well, seasoning with salt and pepper to taste.  Spread the mixture in a thin layer in the skillet, and cook on medium high until a crust begins to form on the bottom, 5-7 minutes.  Stir the hash around to brown the top and insides, adding in the diced prosciutto to crisp.  Continue flipping and stirring until you achieve your desired consistency (we like ours fairly dark, so it cooked for close to 25 minutes) and serve immediately.

Makes 4 side servings.

Until next time…

Aside from the simple act of breathing, there isn’t really any other consumptive requirement that equalizes society more (because we all have to do it or else we die).  So, it seems only logical to me that as a species we should be more than a little preoccupied with the W5H of our food.  If essentially (we’re talking extremely drilled down here) nourishment boils down to a matter of life or death (do I have food enough to eat or will I go hungry?) why wouldn’t you want to concern yourself with it to the nth degree?  If you were to ignore the question of food for long enough, it’s possible that your own survival would be at stake as your body began to starve.  Yet for some odd reason the people who do consider these things aren’t the norm, and instead are labelled foodies; an insipid little word which inspires disdain even amongst those who would fall into such a category.  As such, foodies have become culinary outliers, a fact easily proven by watching the eyes of non-foodies glaze over whenever someone who appreciates food discusses the intricacies of their favourite edible creation in their vicinity.

There’s an inordinate number of people in the world who would consider me to be something of a food snob based primarily on the fact that I am very selective about what foods I will allow into my body.  But I’m not a snob; far from it, actually.  It’s simple, really.  If it doesn’t taste good, it’s not coming in, that’s all there is to it. Why is it that having passion for any subject has become synonymous with snobbery? I’m not as big a hater of the word foodie as most people either (obviously), but I generally try not to frame myself through definitions of character or personality.  I grew up in a house, in a place, in a family that professionally and socially cooked and placed a high value on food and kitchen table camaraderie.  Subsequently, I was nurtured and engaged in food myself, and to this day not only do I love to cook but I relish eating, too (surprisingly, I don’t love to eat nearly as much as I love to cook, though).  To me that’s normal and not something I regard as smacking with even the slightest bit of pretension.  Rather, I think of food and cooking and eating as elemental, because it unites us with our forebears via its commonality.

While I may not eat some foods because I don’t think they taste good (the vast majority of processed foods would be a perfect example) I don’t believe that being discerning is sufficient grounds for being labelled snobbish.  My brand of food fascination is a blend of a quest for authenticity over watered down fare, tempered by occasional bouts of obsessive compulsive behaviour.  Case in point; I can be just as easily satiated by a $4.50 baby cow sandwich from Commisso Bros. as I have been with the $275 a head tasting menu at Eigensinn Farm – it really just depends on the situation.  The cost of food is irrelevant when you consider the rich tableau of atmosphere, companions and occasions that formidable memories are born of.  For instance, in Chicago I desperately wanted to visit Alinea, but it was something that time just wouldn’t allow.  It would have been a meal costing several hundreds of dollars I’m sure, but the cheap and dirty food from Fat Willy’s Rib Shack that formed our last taste before getting back on a plane was just as appreciated as Alinea would have been because it too was prepared with passion.  In that respect I’d say I’m closer to a culinary egalitarian, really.  Put simply, I enjoy good food.  Whether I cook it for myself, or I pay someone else to cook it for me, taste integrity is unanimously the mitigating factor in what I choose to eat.  Though realistically, as much as I’ve come to enjoy restaurant food, 99 times out of 100 I’d much rather cook something for myself because only I understand precisely how I want that something to taste.

In fact, I personally believe that people who choose not to cook are the true snobs, because paying someone else to do something you don’t want to do reeks of superiority.  At some point during the 1950′s, cooking went from being perceived as a nurturing part of a decent home life to being painted as an intolerable chore.  Cue the montage of ads about liberating women from the drudgery of their kitchens by replacing home cooked foods with frozen dinners and ready meals to make my point for me.  Or this quote from a recent article in The Toronto Star “For me in recent years, cooking has been a bit like dentistry: I hear there are people who still do it themselves but it just makes me shake my head sadly.” (I know it comes from an article about the Slap Chop, but I find such a sentiment disheartening still). I’m not going to disagree with the fact that cooking and preparing food from scratch is hard work.  You’re reading the website of a girl who cooks her own food, bakes her own bread, cures her own meat, preserves her own jams and churns her own butter, so believe me when I say I do understand.  But look instead at what’s been lost.  Society has become so far removed from the taste of real food that manufacturers can layer on salt and fat and sweet and chemicals just to make their food seem palatable because most people are unfamiliar with how delicious unadulterated food can be.

Paying someone else to prepare your food (either via restaurant or the shelves of the supermarket) is rife with undertones of servitude.  With the obvious exception of celebrity chefs, cooking is still considered one of the humblest professions out there, staffed mostly by uneducated masses.  And before you start to disagree with me, consider for a moment what other profession requires you to work 80 or more hours per week on your feet for such meagre and thankless pay?  Or think on the fact that many of the unsung heroes in a kitchen are immigrants who are just thankful to be gainfully employed, even without the benefit of sick days, vacations, etc.  Cheffing is hard, brutal work that many attempt but few prevail at, and it certainly is not an industry for the weak.  Yet, why don’t we acknowledge their legitimacy when we’re basically putting ourselves into their hands by outsourcing our food to them more and more each day?  Again, it sounds like snobbery to me.  The clincher for me is that more often than not, the people who cook mid to high end food do not make enough money to even patronize the places they work at themselves.  How’s that for irony?

At a time when The Food Network feels it needs to add a whole other channel to accommodate a demand for additional programming, it would seem that what we eat should be a more important topic than ever.  Instead, it’s been shown that more people love to watch food television than actually cook anymore, with the backlash of artisanally-minded people like me still somewhat in its infancy.  But it doesn’t have to be.  Taking food into your own hands is not an indicator of snobbery, it’s an opportunity to exert a modicum of control over what you want to eat instead of letting Big Food (or anyone, really) decide that for you.

I’m eager to hear what others have to say on the matter.  Do you think that belonging to the cult of food makes you a snob?

Until next time…

When I was younger, comfort food took on many forms.

Being half Trinidadian, if my mom was cooking it often meant some sort of roti and curry preparation to warm our hearts and bellies.  After my parents split and my dad took over the cooking for our household, it was a Sunday roast chicken redolent with paprika, garlic, onion and pepper with a side of fluffy stuffing.  Once I was considered old enough to cook on my own, my foods of choice were often plain, bland and white, including tall glasses of cold milk, hot buttered rice and large piles of creamy mashed potatoes – clearly my love of starchy white carbs was cultivated at a young age.

These days comfort food in our household usually means homemade macaroni and cheese (prepared with creme fraiche, parmagiano, manchego and chevre instead of nuclear cheese food), baked panko crusted sriracha nuggets or my aunt’s Christmas morning poached chicken salad that the Everyman fell in love with while we were there for the holidays.  While the spirit of the dishes remains the same, the ingredients and methods have certainly gone more upmarket to account for our more refined tastes and preferences than what we would have settled for as kids.

The one comfort food genre that I’ve never really dabbled much in was Southern food.  I like cornbread, fried chicken, BBQ and all the other stereotypical fare as much as the next person, but I generally don’t make much of it at home.  But between this article about Hank’s new Southern dinner menu and the return of more wintry weather recently, I was suddenly craving something heartier and more rib-sticking than normal. Over the years I’ve enjoyed all of the components of the dish I made last night separately, but I never bothered to put them all together as one before.  It’s far from authentic Southern or Caribbean fare but dang, it does taste good.

To begin I soaked half a pound of red beans overnight, then simmered them in several inches of water until they were mostly tender.  In the meantime, I sautéed several links of a homemade spicy poblano sausage I had in the freezer with some chopped celery, onion, thyme, cumin and cayenne until the whole upper level of our house was nose-tinglingly fragrant.  Once the sausage and veggies were well browned, I added a handful of frozen stock cubes and scraped the bottom of the pan with a spoon.  At this point I put on water to boil for a pot of brown rice.  Draining the beans in a colander, I added them back to their pan with the remaining sausage/veggie/broth mixture as well as a few fresh bay leaves, then covered and simmered again.  In the interim I mixed up a cornbread batter and slid it into a preheated blackened frying pan.  Once the cornbread was mostly cooked through I grated a large dusting of peppered pecorino on top of it and returned it to the oven to brown.  When everything was ready I served the sausage and bean mixture atop a mountain of brown rice with a wedge of crispy cornbread on the side.

By no means is this comfort food a 30 minute meal (since some of it requires advance planning) but in a pinch you could prepare it with canned red beans and make the whole thing in one day (assuming you rinsed the beans well before starting).  Personally, I think it works better if you let it rest overnight, because then the flavours have more time to meld, and the liquid and pork fat meld into a more gelatinous gravy.  Yum!

Foodie’s Southern(ish) Comfort

1 c. brown rice, dry

0.5 lb red beans, dried

3-4 links of spicy sausage of choice, chopped into 1″ chunks

8 cloves garlic, minced

6 stalks celery, chopped

2 onions, chopped

2 c. stock

cumin

thyme

cayenne

2-3 bay leaves

1 c. cornmeal

0.5 c. flour

1 tsp salt

1tbsp baking powder

0.5 tsp baking soda

1 tsp sugar

4-6 tbsp lard, plus extra to grease the pan

1.5 c. buttermilk

1 egg

fresh cracked pepper

0.25 c. grated cheese (any pungent hard cheese will do)

Soak beans overnight in a bowl of cold water.  The next day rinse the beans and add them covered by several inches of water to a dutch oven and let simmer with the lid ajar for half an hour.  In a separate pot bring 3 cups of water to a boil with a few pinches of salt, then add brown rice and reduce to a simmer, cooking until fluffy and softened, then set aside.  Sauté sausage, garlic, celery and onion in a pan until well browned, then add spices to taste (I started with several teaspoons each of thyme and cumin and just under a teaspoon of cayenne).  Stir until you can smell the spices toasting, then add stock to deglaze the pan.  Drain the cooked beans and combine them with the sausage and broth mixture back into the dutch oven, plus bay leaves.  Let simmer covered for an additional 30 minutes while you prepare the cornbread.  Preheat oven to 450*, then combine cornmeal, flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, sugar and lard until smooth and incorporated.  Stir in buttermilk and egg until a lumpy batter forms.  Preheat a skillet on the stovetop until very hot, then add a small knob of lard and melt it to coat the entire pan.  Pour the batter into the skillet and cook on the stovetop for several minutes until you can smell the crust of the cornbread developing.  Crack a bit of fresh pepper on top, then remove to bake in the oven for 30-40 minutes.  During the last few minutes of cooking sprinkle the grated cheese on top (or you could mix it into the batter if you like). Serve warmed rice with a spoonful of beans and sausage in gravy, with a warm chunk of cornbread on the side.

Makes 6-8 servings.

Until next time…

Today I am leaving you with a picture of a recent vegetarian supper I concocted out of couscous, lentils and roasted root vegetables in a tarragon cream.

The reason for this is that I am currently coming down from a meat hangover after having been to Cowbell twice in the last 36 hours, and needed something lighter and plant-based to inspire me.

We visited for dinner on Saturday night and enjoyed a meal of all of the usual delicious suspects, including the charcuterie platter, a consomme, some red deer and variety pork dishes, and a pot of chocolate rillettes.  Chef was kind enough to serve our dinner himself, and at the end of the night he even brought out some wonderful ice wine and wished me a happy birthday.  It turns out his birthday is also this week, so I wished him many happy returns.

On Sunday morning we came back nearly 12 hours later to enjoy the mother of all brunches.  I ingested what they call the Rusty and Jerome, which is a TV tray laden with just about every item on their brunch menu, including a melange of bacon, toast, waffles with fruit, meatloaf and gravy, eggs and baked beans and sausages.  It was quite the impressive feast, and I enjoyed it all the more when they brought it to our table and assumed the Everyman had ordered it.  Instead he had a Belgian waffle with the aforementioned fruit, a side of home fries and a few links of chorizo.  After behaving like a pair of gluttonous beasts, we left Cowbell once again and continued on with my birthday, albeit in a food-addled stupor.

The third instance of the equation is actually part of my present.  The Everyman and I will be participating in one of their private butchery classes (I just have to pick which one) which basically means that I received the gift of 3 Cowbells for my birthday.

What a lucky girl I am!

Only a Furama cake (from my favourite Chinatown bakery) could have made the day better.

Until next time…

Tomorrow is my birthday.

So, it seems only fitting that as I prepare to spend another year in this skin, I should reflect on what it is I’m planning to do in the coming months, particularly in relation to gardening.

With the exception of the various forms of root stock I ordered (potatoes, sunchokes and asparagus) all of my seeds have arrived.  I spread them out on the kitchen table last night and simultaneously felt surges of fear and excitement.  There’s something rather exhilarating about the potential of this year’s garden with the many unknowns I’m introducing into the equation, but at the same time I can also see the immense amount of work all of the seed packs represent.

Of course, the few months between receiving the seeds and actually planting them into the ground is excruciatingly painful for someone as impatient as I am.  There is the distraction of starting the seeds in the basement, but that is just a temporary solution, which is why I invariably end up going back to the seed catalogues that keep showing up at my door and ordering more.  In fact, immediately after I placed the orders for all of the seed packets that you see above, another Richter’s magazine (ironically) showed up, attempting to entice me into purchasing again.  To date I haven’t caved, but only because I’m not sure whether I realistically have room for all of the things I’ve already bought.  Regardless of that concern, I’m sure before May rolls around there will be a few more seed orders arriving at my door.

As an added bonus, the company that sent me the seeds on the very left (Heritage Harvest) included a free package of tomato seeds with my order, and I’m very intrigued by them.  They’re called Henderson’s Wins All and apparently this heritage variety grows grotesquely massive 2-3 pound specimens.  While some of you may be aware of my fascination with all things tiny and squee, I’m also (surprisingly) amazed by those biggest vegetable ever contests that people hold every harvest season.  Between the Sicilian Saucer (another 3 pound beast) and this new Henderson’s I think I’m going to have giantesse all wrapped up this year.  I’m expecting it’ll be a very Alice In Wonderland-esque garden with all of the tiny cherry tomatoes being dwarfed by these 2 oversized plants.

All that’s left to do (for now) is take the handy dandy new Grow Great Grub by Gayla Trail (of You Grow Girl fame) that the Everyman bought me recently and plot out precisely when I have to start planting all of these piles of seeds.  That should keep me occupied for at least a few minutes during the next 60 or so days.

God, it’s going to be a long wait until springtime.  Thank goodness we get to go to Cowbell for dinner tonight to take my mind off of it and put it on my birthday instead.  Yum-lish!

Until next time…

While other kids got to have play dates and scheduled outings with their moms and dads, I enjoyed an absentee relationship with mine; 2 of 3 being terminally addicted to their kitchens.  In the years that my parents were together I barely saw my mom because she’d leave for work while I was still at pre-school and not return until 2 or 3 in the morning.  After my parents separated, my mom and stepdad were too busy chasing their restaurant dreams to worry about things like family all that much, so I lived with my dad and only saw them a couple times a year.

Despite many wonderful things I learned and was inspired by during my time in their restaurants, the one thing that continues to irk me to this day is the overly critical nature that they’ve imbued in me.  It was never more evident in them than on the rare occasions when we would go out to eat as a family.  Rather than enjoying the brief time we had together, they would categorically pick apart whatever we were eating, regardless of whether it was a cheap trattoria or a fancy French bistro.  They’d then move on to analyzing whether they could make a particular dish better, and consequently discuss how to do so.

It drove me nuts.  Had I been older it probably would have driven me to drink, but at that young age all I could muster was a withering roll of the eyes.  I didn’t see them often, so all I wanted was to make the most of our time, but they never let up.  For years I vowed I would never be like them, determined to be happy with whatever was set before me, instead.

But, over the last few years I’ve found their somewhat unsavoury trait rearing its ugly head more and more in my demeanour.

Between working in their kitchens and stints at culinary school I’ve had plenty of time to develop an overly picky palate.  In a lot of ways it’s been for the best; I’ve gained a certain level of disdain for junk, fast and pre-packaged food-like substances in favour of slow (or what I like to call real) food.  On the flip side, it also makes friends and lovers (unnecessarily) nervous wrecks when feeding me, and coworkers assume I’m some sort of snob because I choose not to eat their hydrogenated oil filled crap or corn syrup laden goodies.  Even though I’m relatively quiet about my beliefs and standpoints on food (preferring to internalize rather than proselytize) most people assume I’m some sort of elitist crank or cow hugging moon maiden, anyhow.  That I don’t care what anyone thinks of me or my habits seems to stymie them all the more.

I often try to rationalize that I’ve only taken on the best parts of this annoying habit from my parents.  Instead of critiquing things for how bad they might be, I strive to only indulge in tastes of ridiculously good food because I think it satisfies your body, soul and cravings more.  Of course, that’s a mantra that’s easier said than done…

When you’re young, the theatre of a meal was more about the company than the actual meal, but as I’ve gotten older, that expectation has slightly equalized.  I still enjoy spending time with whomever I choose to break bread with, but it has become harder to enjoy something I didn’t cook myself because my standards have become prohibitively high.  In most cases it’s not that I think I could prepare the food any better, but that much of the time I find myself unsatisfied by it.  Our dinner at Tappo last weekend before the theatre was a prime example of such, with food that was too salty, too gloppy and too uninspired for me.  It didn’t help when a busboy dropped a dirty knife down the Everyman’s back on the way by and didn’t bother to apologize, either but that’s a story for another day.

In recent years I can recount only Eigensinn Farm as having completely exceeded my expectations.  That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy any of the other meals I had before or after it, just that none stand out as much as it did.  My frequent posts about The Black Hoof and Cowbell should also serve to illustrate how much I love what both of them are doing, but even then there are always small things to nitpick about.  Even our recent trip to Splendido, which has been considered one of the best restaurants in Toronto for quite some time was dampened by a general impression of “meh”, despite the stellar service and reputation.

One of my goals for this year is to try and shake this critical monkey off my back.  For Christmas the Everyman gave me a trip to Langdon Hall, and so help me jeebus, I want to enjoy it.  Let’s just hope it lives up to the visions I’ve built up in my mind.

Until next time…

Last weekend I visited Fiesta Farms to do a little shopping for that aforementioned rabbit, among other things.

While I wandered the aisles, one of the other treats I came across was a lovely 2 pound clamshell of those alluring Meyer lemons.  Surprising even myself, I resisted the urge to buy up the whole stand on sight.

You see, I’ve been enjoying the taste of Meyer lemons in restaurants for ages, but until now had never seen them at the grocery store.  Of course, since I use an organic delivery service I rarely go to a grocery store to begin with, so I should hardly be surprised.  I’ve been pondering where to find Meyers (as well as the more ornate Buddha’s hand) for quite some time, so when I spotted these I immediately had to snap some up.

Coincidentally, days later I happened on a fellow Torontonian’s entry in Tigress’ Can Jam who had managed to find Buddha’s hand lemons (Whole Foods apparently carries them – go figure!) in Toronto, so I imagine I will be visiting them soon, too.  I’m not entirely certain what I intend to do with a Buddha’s hand lemon yet, but I’ve been rolling a concept similar to limoncello around in my mind along with the possibility of infusing it into some rye.  But that is a different tale for another day.  Back to those Meyer lemons…

The intoxicatingly fragrant package sat on my shiny stainless counter taunting me for nearly 2 days before I was inspired enough to use one.  Fancy lemons call for better-than-ordinary ideas, after all.

At the not-quite-Christmas party for the Everyman’s workplace last weekend, his co-workers reminded me how we’d all been enamoured by the red velvet whoopie pies I made back in November.  And while they were not the striking red that typically signifies a red velvet, they tasted almost exactly like a gourmet Jos Louis (read: made with actual food).  From there it wasn’t much of a stretch to want to modify the original whoopie recipe from Epicurious again (it’s for plain chocolate pies) into a more lemony varietal.

Starting out, I added oomph to the soft cakes by including the Meyer zest in the batter too, not wanting to pass up the opportunity to layer its heavenly aroma on top of the juice’s zing.  Whilst mixing I noticed I’d run out of cow butter, but decided to substitute the goat butter that The Hoof Café had gotten us hooked on, figuring it wouldn’t make a huge deal to the end product.

Once the soft fluff was homogeneous, I spread small splotches on a few parchment covered sheets and baked them.

It wasn’t until after I’d finished that I remembered how I’d gotten them uniformly round the last time (piped out of a pastry bag) but I made fairly matched pairs of all the pies anyway.

In the meantime, I set to work searching for a suitable frosting to sandwich the pies with.  Because I wanted to showcase the Meyer lemon, I figured it had to be relatively plain with just a hint of vanilla, but I didn’t want something crusty like a buttercream.  Epicurious came to the rescue again with its 7 Minute Frosting, which is basically just cooked egg whites and sugar whipped to the texture of a marshmallow crème.  In less than 10 minutes I had a light as a cloud frosting that looked and tasted dreamy.

Once the pies had thoroughly cooled, I began gluing pairs together with a thin spackling of frosting.  Wrapped in a sheath of waxed paper to prevent the delicate cakes from sticking to each other, the Meyer lemon whoopie pies were as good as done.

That evening after dinner, the Everyman and I decided to split a whoopie pie to see how they turned out.  After a bite or two I knew something had gone a little sideways.  Tasting again, I realized it was the goat butter, because the crème tasted lovely plain.  I’d neglected to notice that when we ate it at The Hoof Café on grilled toast, the savouriness wasn’t nearly as pronounced.  I couldn’t shake the goatiness of it, and declined to nibble further.  Conversely, the Everyman thought they were just super and took the extras in to work with him all week.

I’ll likely try them again without the goat butter, but before I do that I intend to try my hand at something along the lines of a lemon chiffon cake with the rest of my Meyers.

Foodie’s Meyer Lemon Whoopie Pies

3 c. flour

1 tsp baking powder

0.5 tsp baking soda

0.5 tsp salt

12 tbsp butter

2 c. sugar

zest of 2 lemons

juice of 2 lemons

2 eggs

2 tsp vanilla

1 c. buttermilk

Preheat oven to 350*.  Combine dry ingredients in a bowl and set aside.  In a mixer, beat the butter, sugar and zest until smooth.  Add the eggs, lemon juice and vanilla and continue mixing until blended.  Turn the mixer to low and add half of the flour, mixing until incorporated.  Add the buttermilk, then the remaining flour and mix until smooth.

Spoon or pipe batter onto a parchment-lined baking sheet to form your desired size of whoopie pies (3 inches works well) and space generously (6 or so to a sheet).  Bake the cookies for 10-12 minutes, then cool completely.  Once cooled, peel the cookies from the parchment and spread the frosting of your choice onto the bottom of one cookie, then sandwich together with the bottom of a second cookie.

Makes 48 cookies, or 24 (3″) sandwiches

Until next time…

When I was growing up I wasn’t exposed to much in the way of game meat.  Aside from the occasional curried goat roti (a nod to my mother’s Caribbean heritage) or a festive Cornish rock hen (often my father’s answer to preparing holiday meals for 2) I didn’t really develop a taste for wilder fare until I was in my early 20’s.

Without a doubt, the one meat I’ve been an exceptionally slow adopter to is rabbit.  This is partly because the skinned carcass of a whole rabbit too closely resembles that of the small felines that share my home.  I make no bones about eating cute, fuzzy animals if they taste good, but the possibility of questionable provenance has held me back in the past.

It’s taken a few years, but I’ve gradually warmed to the idea of rabbit.  It may have started during a meal at Cowbell or perhaps tasting a terrine from The Black Hoof, I’m not quite sure.  While we were in Quebec City in the fall I enjoyed shredded rabbit confit linguine at Le Lapin Saute, and for our anniversary I consumed a similar dish at Splendido.  I’m still not a fan of rabbit rilettes, but I think I’ve made substantial leaps and bounds (har har!) towards getting over my mental distaste for it.

Recently, I even went so far as to buy a saddle of rabbit at Fiesta Farms, a place I know I can steadfastly trust not to sell me skinned kittens.  But for several days the packet of rabbit sat on the bottom shelf of the fridge, taunting me.

At first I’d considered using the Ratio app to make another batch of dough for tagliatelle, but pasta seemed an awful lot of work, and also not very far outside of my past 2 rabbit experiences.  I briefly toyed with confit as well, until I realized the duck fat was frozen.

Finally, I settled on a rustic preparation that I assumed would produce delectable results with minimal effort (always a bonus after a long day at work).  The saddle was split, seasoned with salt and pepper and browned lightly in a pan.

Next, my dutch oven was employed to sauté some garlic, leeks, celery and carrot until softened.

A fairly generous splash of white wine deglazed, a few spoon plops of a mustard the Everyman’s mother brought us back from France enriched and sprigs of thyme aromatized.

Adding a couple of my frozen chicken stock cakes to the pan, I tossed in a handful of quartered baby potatoes, replaced the lid and braised it for an hour and a half.

The finished dish was almost exactly what I wanted.  The broth was rich and savoury, the meat succulent, and the veg al dente tender.  Next time I’d perhaps reduce the amount of liquid in the braise a touch (I added a cup of water to bring the liquid level up), but overall the meal was a success.  The Everyman confirmed it hadn’t been a failure when he enquired the next day if there would be rabbit in his lunch.  A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Foodie’s Mustardy Braised Bunny

2 lb rabbit saddle, split

3 cloves garlic, chopped

3 small carrots, roughly chopped

2 stalks celery, roughly chopped

1 leek, roughly chopped, dark greens discarded

6 small potatoes, quartered

1 c. white wine

2 c. chicken stock

1 tbsp grainy mustard

large handful of thyme sprigs

olive oil

salt

pepper

Preheat oven to 350*.  Heat olive oil in a dutch oven until shimmering.  Season rabbit with salt and pepper and sear until both sides are browned; remove to a plate.  Sauté garlic, carrots, celery and leeks in a splash of olive oil until translucent and softened.  Add white wine to deglaze the pan, then stir in chicken stock, grainy mustard and thyme.  Add potatoes and stir to combine, then nestle rabbit into the broth.  Braise, covered for 1.5 hours.  Serve in a bowl with a large scoop of braised veg and broth.

Makes 4 servings.

Until next time…

There’s been quite the battle being waged for burger supremacy in Toronto lately.

Specifically, it seems like every time I turn around, there’s a new fancy burger joint (complete with a list of premium organic meats and toppings) opening up.

I’ve sampled most of the “gourmet” burgers in town, being an above-average fan of burgers in general, and also a lover of a man who absolutely adores all things bacon cheeseburger-esque.

During the last few weeks I’ve sampled 2 of the newer offerings, so I’ll be ranking them in the context of some of the other boutique burger shops I’ve tried thus far.

Shortly after it opened in early November, the Everyman and I hightailed it to Oh Boy Burger Market to see what all the fuss was about.  We’d been anticipating its opening for quite some time; likely ever since I first saw their papered over window during the summer, if memory serves.  While the service was a bit spotty, the room completely packed and several items were sold out on our visit (can you blame them when they had only just opened and had already been written up in The Star?) the burgers themselves were tasty and exhibited that lovely, lacy crust that I crave on the outside.  I opted to have the Oh Little Boy combo which came with 2 mini burgers, while the Everyman had a regular size.  Both were skillfully cooked, and it’s important to note that even with the size differential both were flavourful, juicy, and not the least bit dried out.  They also got bonus points for offering a really pungent blue cheese for topping the burgers; on top of the 2 minis it was like tiny bites of heaven.

Down the street from Oh Boy is the not so new Hero Certified Burgers, a place that I’ve never been nuts about.  I’ve only visited Hero a handful of times, but I can honestly say I don’t see myself returning any time soon.  Their list of toppings is fairly impressive, but the meat always reminds me more of ground beef hockey pucks (it’s much too compressed) or really bad Harvey’s than an actual attempt at a burger.  On top of that, it’s always charred beyond recognition, which is a serious no-no in my books.

Also not far from home is The Acme Burger Company.  Perhaps it’s the fact that it reminds me of The Bugs Bunny & Tweety Show, or maybe it’s their brain-numbingly thick milkshakes, but for a style of burger I don’t usually like (larger and overly “formed”) these burgers are actually respectable.  Acme serves perfectly tender steakfries, and the gravy falls into the category that I refer to as “brown and water,” but in a good way.  Typically the defacto choice when the Everyman is in the mood for a burger locally.

Surprisingly, one of our favourite burger spots in town is actually a quasi-chain; South Street Burger Co. We first stumbled upon South Street when we were living at Yonge and Eg close to 4 years ago, back when their Laird spot was only a pilot location.  For a company owned by New York Fries, they make a relatively pleasing burger.  And the toppings, oh the toppings!  They have enough “foodie” toppings to keep me endlessly occupied for years to come in my attempt to build the ultimate creation.  Their burger is also really juicy, faintly pink in the middle, and loosely packed enough that I can still decipher the texture of the grind.  As far as I know they haven’t opened a location in the downtown core yet, so I haven’t been able to enjoy them as often as I used to (which is probably for the best, anyway).

On the other hand, the folks at Craft Burger deliver a meaty wallop that I wish I could eat daily.  When I worked downtown with the Everyman, we used to go there for lunch often.  I’ve never had a bad version of the many burgers available at Craft (though to be honest I’ve only focused on their beef varieties), and they also make the most addictive cookies that I wish I knew how to replicate (thin, chewy, crisp around the edges, and tasting of chocolate chips and toffee).  One of the places I often lament losing after I started working in the ‘burbs.

Last weekend we finally made the rounds of W Burger Bar (after the Everyman got on board and read the review in The Star).  Before we arrived I’d thought, ‘what’s not to like about a place that serves boozy milkshakes?’ but sadly, we both found W to be a bit sub par.  I ordered the 5 pack of “sliders,” a red eye milkshake, and a small fries and was appalled at the amount of food that came out of the kitchen.  The sliders (pictured at top) are not done in the slider style, but are just mini hamburgers (truthfully I’ve agreed with Adam Kuban’s rant about the difference between the two for quite some time and get annoyed when I actually want a slider).  Strangely, though the tiny buns are square, the patties are cut into small triangles, which means the ratio of meat to bun is lacking.  The fries were bland as anything and a “small” was between 2 and 3 cups of spuds.  Conversely, the Everyman ordered the (one size only) onion rings and was presented with a massive bowl that held close to 4 cups.  For the price they’re charging, they could easily cut the portion size in half and still be considered fairly good value; we both had healthy appetites and neither of us could finish our meals.  In the end, a boozy milkshake wasn’t a win either, and unless I was in the area, I wouldn’t go out of my way for W again.

Aside from new school burgers, I have been known to enjoy the occasional Apache Burger, which is a place that holds strong (and fond) associations with my teenage years.  The Everyman prefers Burger Shack, which I’ve eaten with him close to half a dozen times and always hits me like a ton of bricks; I still don’t get the appeal unless it’s the greasiness of a “window to weight gain” (a la Simpsons).  We can both agree on the deliciousness of Allen’s, and managed to stop in for a beautiful medium rare patty 2 weeks ago after seeing The Toxic Avenger next door.  We don’t visit any of these very often since they’re all out of the way of our everyday life, but it’s nice to reminisce sometimes.

Finally, last month my boss was telling me about a place that opened up near our office in Mississauga called Original Gangster Burger.  According to him it fits the profile of a tiny hole in the wall with ridiculously good food.  Have any of you been and was it good?  I’ve put this place on my list of burgers to try next but would love some more feedback about the kind of burgers they serve.

Really, I’d love to hear about any of your favourite burgers that I might have missed, so have at it!

Until next time…

It’s early still, but I’m thinking of dubbing this the year of the olive (for me, anyway).  Although truth be told, I think the Everyman has unofficially gone ahead and done it for me already.

My hunt for those elusive Cerignolas last week led me to The Spice Trader, but only after I’d already picked up an overpriced jar of Lucques olives (that barely resembled them) while I was out procuring supplies for New Years Eve dinner at the Leslieville Cheese Market; this was prior to Carlo Catallo contacting me with their name.

Once I arrived home and received his reply, I began a) kicking myself for not using my iPhone as nature intended (to check email while away and thus circumventing this problem) and b) wracking my brain for possible sellers of the Cerignola olive that would be open on the day before New Years Eve.  Terroni and The Olive Pit (sister store of The Spice Trader) immediately sprang to mind, both of which auspiciously happened to be in my neighbourhood…

Heading back out into the cold, I wandered down the street to The Spice Trader, half convincing myself that in my sickly state I should just turn around and go back the next morning, but for whatever inane reason I pressed on.  It was a good thing I did, too, because once I got there I found a holiday hours sign pasted to the door advising me that the 30th was the last day they were open until the new year.  Fortuitously, they also happened to be having a 25% off sale.

Of course, once I got inside I couldn’t help browsing  to see what was new and interesting in herbs and spices.  In the basement of The Olive Pit, I found my precious Cerignolas, plus an intriguing bottle of pear vinegar that I decided to bring home.

Returning to the main floor, I began stocking up on tins of the various Christmassy spices I’d used up over the holidays, like cinnamon and ginger, but also grabbed 6 new tins to play with.  First I snapped up a bottle of Pacific smoked sea salt that I’d been meaning to buy for some time (even though I know I can make it myself, I just wasn’t up to it in the dead of winter).  It gave off a lovely aroma that reminded me of my childhood love affair with Hickory Sticks, those slightly abhorrent potato chip products that are doused with a mesquite-y flavour and shredded into matchsticks.  I tried finishing some roasted potatoes with it a few days later to amazing effect.

Next there was a tin of dulse flakes, and although these aren’t new to me, I wanted to see what sort of bizarre uses I could come up with.  As of this writing I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but every time I pop open the lid, they remind me of the flakes I used to feed my neon tetras when I was just a kidlet.  Not exactly an appetizing thought, but I’m working on it!

I got a little anal retentive once I got to the pepper shelf by selecting 3 new kinds of pepper (cubeb, long and urfa) but they are certainly quite distinct.  I’ve already found a fun use for the long peppers (the subject of a future post) and the urfa is reminiscent of the aleppo that I love so much (note to self: must make more aleppo chicken ASAP!)  I haven’t used the cubeb yet, but it has a subtly astringent scent that I find invigorating, so I’m sure it won’t be long for that either.

Lastly, I bought some curry leaves.  Mostly because I recalled a recipe I’d earmarked recently that called for them, but also partly because I’ve always loved the romance of the title of that book Mangoes And Curry Leaves.  Silly, I know.  I never said I was 100% rational all the time.

Anyhow, after my little spice jaunt I’m feeling in fairly good stead to start kicking around the kitchen once again (it’s been almost 4 weeks since I’ve done any real cooking).

Now I just have to find some inspiration to cook and share with all of you!

Until next time…

To commemorate 4 years spent not killing each other, the Everyman and I visited Splendido for our anniversary on Monday night.

It was a blustery night, full of fierce winds and drifting snow, but once we entered the dining room the outside world was forgotten, until the table next to us (a mother and son) began kvetching about all manner of nonsense at a fairly audible level.  We were lucky that they left before we were halfway through dinner, because they certainly made quite the racket and distraction to our romantic intentions.

To keep things interesting, shortly after we arrived Conviction chef Marc Thuet and his wife sat down at the table behind us, ushered in on a cloud of stale cigarette smoke and dour French arrogance.  They seemed to enjoy the food but every time I glanced over, they certainly looked miserable.  Such is the life of a minor celebrity, I guess…

At our table, the lovely meal began with a proffering of bread, grissini and hummus, as well as a finger bowl of olives.  The Everyman enthusiastically consumed the hummus, while I tentatively nibbled an olive.

Now normally I don’t care for olives at all, but I always make a point of trying them when they are presented to me because as I’ve learned many times before, you just never know when your tastes are bound to change.  As it happens, my aversion to olives took a flying leap that evening as I greedily sucked on the briny, meaty flesh.  Even the small black olives that accompanied the massive egg-shaped green ones were appealing to me and before I knew it, the tiny teaser plate of house-cured beauties was gone.

Before I had a chance to get too wistful about their disappearance, our appetizers materialized.  On my end of the table a charcuterie board was laden with treats, including sliced bread, the “legendary” fois gras and liver mousse, crispy pig’s ear ribbons with gribiche, an airy, whipped pig fat, grissini wrapped in prosciutto, slivers of guanciale, chorizo coins, and clove-scented sausage.  If the plate had any shortcomings, it would be the paucity of bread compared to the # of items that required a vehicle to be spread on.  The 3 small slices did not make it very far, and by the time I got to the whipped fat I was reduced to sampling it with the end of my finger, rather than a crisp piece of toast as I’m sure they’d intended.  Regardless, it was a complexly calculated plate, made all the more delicious by the inclusion of the pig’s ear, whipped fat and mousse.

Over on the Everyman’s side, a smooth and creamy bowl of potato soup was enriched by shreds of duck confit and little whorls of truffle foam.  He really quite enjoyed the dish, but the spoonful that I sampled did not agree with me, as there was a crisp component (if memory serves correctly I believe it was apple or celery brunoise) that I didn’t particularly care for.  But I wasn’t the one eating it, and he finished it quickly enough, so it must have been relatively delicious to disappear so hastily.

For my main I’d opted for a rabbit and chanterelle-topped pappardelle that the annoying table beside us had been eating when we sat down.  I hadn’t needed to know the contents of the dish or the size, (appetizer or main) I’d just discreetly gestured to our server that I wanted exactly what she was having in the same portion size.  It didn’t disappoint, and included a generous helping of perfectly cooked rabbit and mushrooms atop the unctuous, housemade ribbons.  As exquisite as the flavours were, about half way through the meal I began wishing that it was just a little bit bigger, though it’s entirely possible that it could have been, since even the waiter was unsure whether the plate that madame at the next table consumed was an appetizer or full serving when I’d enquired.

The Everyman’s main was a silky roasted lamb shoulder on a bed of pomme puree and rosemary lamb jus.  The lamb was meltingly tender and the puree tasted like it had been prepared in the classic French method (50% fat plus 50% potato) and we both quite liked it, but after a few bites the Everyman lamented that it was a rather one note dish.  Once it was on the table, it occurred to me that it might be one of the “safe” dishes on the menu; the type that the kitchen will keep for those who don’t like strange or new or spicy things, but is still pleasant enough.  I thought it would have been improved by the addition of another texture, like a crunchy or crispy element somewhere, but who am I to suggest such things?  Overall it was technically beautiful, and had we ordered a side “for the table” I imagine that might have solved the textural dilemma.

As the night drew to a close and the snow swirled amongst the glow of the streetlights, I was disappointed to find the dessert list completely unappealing to me.  I’d purposely gone for a pasta dish rather than a heavier, meat-centric main because I always always always have dessert on our anniversary but this year it was not meant to be.  As the swiftness of the cab whisked us back home, I reflected on the quality and enjoyment of our meal.  Splendido is certainly a destination restaurant, though perhaps less so now than it was when David Lee was at the helm.  All of the food was fairly tasty, but not what I would call memorable.  Every dish seemed to be missing just one thing to elevate it to the next level, though in some cases even I wasn’t sure what that one thing would be.  Though I can assure you that we would have enjoyed ourselves no matter where we’d been, I had a slight sense of uneasiness at the end of the night, like perhaps it hadn’t quite lived up to the hype.

It should be said that the service at Splendido is exquisite, and very much in keeping with its old, formal style.  Several days after we visited I emailed the restaurant to enquire about the particular variety of olive that had burned into my taste memory, and co-owner Carlo Catallo was only too happy to point me in the right direction of the Cerignola olive from Puglia, which I just happened to find at The Spice Trader.  It was a small touch, but one that I will remember long after the memories of this meal fade away.

Until next time…

Gratefully lucky to have the last week of the year off, I spent the morning running around town exchanging other peoples’ presents for them.

A gift for the Everyman was exchanged for several others in a more suitable size, while a duplicate Avedon book for his brother in-law was returned until something better arises.

After braving the calmer-than-expected Eaton Centre, I intended to head over to the AGO to wander around a few exhibits and then have lunch at Frank, but the blisteringly cold weather had other plans for me.  Losing the feeling in my fingertips, I opted to hop a streetcar and head to The Hoof Cafe for lunch instead.

Once I arrived, I noticed that one of Toronto’s favourite food writers (Corey Mintz) was having lunch in the window, and as much as I might’ve wanted to introduce myself, I’m no groupie, so I kept to myself and hunkered down at the bar.

A short while later with a glass of wine in hand, I had a veritable smörgåsbord spread out in front of me.

The solution for such cold and gloomy weather was a bowl of richly flavoured brodo, a beef broth full of shaved turnips and greens, topped by a crunchy cornmeal crisp.  Once I’d slurped a few spoonfuls, I vowed to learn how to make it myself, because it was absolutely exquisite, and the perfect way to take the edge off such harsh and blustery weather.

Woman cannot live on soup alone though, so I supplemented with a side of toast and jam, and some sabodet sausages with lentils.  The sausage and lentils left me with that creamy porky mouth feel that is so helpful for signalling satiety, and also happened to be delish too!

The best part of all is that I still have 2 more days to enjoy the meaty decadence before I go back to work.  I love staycations!

Until next time…

The Everyman and I had this past Friday off, and we both kind of decided that there was nowhere we’d rather be on such a cold, blustery day than The Hoof Cafe.

In fact, we have this coming Friday off too, and after a visit to the AGO, that’s probably where we’ll end up again.  Lucky me, I have Fridays off until the end of the year, plus the last week of December off too (due to an abundance of leftover vacation days I had to use up).  I’m sure you can imagine what I’ll be doing for lunch on most of those days…

One week in, the staff is still wowing us.

Visiting on a Friday afternoon is a much different experience than visiting for brunch.  For one, it’s quieter, (which I like) and there’s more one on one interaction (which is entertaining because they have amazing floor staff).  When we arrived there was only one other pair eating, and by the time we left, there were an additional 2 tables chowing down.

Having been only 5 days prior, the menu had not had a chance to change yet, but we didn’t mind.  The chef was testing a few specials, so we opted to sample what he had to offer, in addition to the Everyman’s standard ploughman’s lunch.  A new addition since our last visit was the giant leg of ham screwed down to the bar, just waiting to be sliced.

I didn’t bother with a picture of his charcuterie board (even though it was beautiful) because I generally find it distracting and tool-ish to take photos in restaurants, and I also don’t like to prevent other people from eating.  In a word, I hate doing it.  Which coincidentally is why I was happy we ended up leaving when we did, because the table behind us pulled out their massive DSLR and started snapping away at everything in sight.  The board was draped with a variety of cured salamis and prosciutto, as well as pickled chanterelles and cornichons, a lovely Riopelle cheese and some lightly grilled crusty bread.

My lunch consisted of a (special) blood sausage crepe with maple syrup drizzle and quince.  It was supposed to be served with a sprinkling of walnuts, but since the Everyman is allergic, I asked them to be left out. I also added a bone because when the option is there, I just can’t resist a taste of marrow.  This time it was served with a side of goat butter and jam, which I found kind of odd and in the case of the goat butter, superfluous.  The wondrous thing about The Black Hoof and now The Hoof Cafe is that I’ve built up such a rapport having traded notes with Grant, as well as a level of trust that I will order things I don’t normally like just because I know they’ll be amazing.  The blood sausage crepe was one such example.  I typically find blood sausage repellent, but the combination of the smooth, pate-like sausage with the sweet syrup and firm grilled fruit was fantastic.  The only downside was the difficulty in eating it (since blood sausage is so soft it’s challenging to cut into bites without it oozing everywhere) but I really hope it makes it to the menu one day.

Once I’d had my fill of the crepe and marrow (which the Everyman also tried and loved) and he’d dispatched with his ploughman’s plate, we ordered the second special of the day; marrow cherry donuts.  Like tiny Timbits, only better, these donuts were a delectable concept, but I couldn’t eat more than 1 or 2, and I certainly couldn’t have finished the whole order of 6 by myself.  When we’d finished with those, the Everyman was still a bit peckish, so he ordered the toast and jam with goat butter and sliced house ham to conclude the meal.  This was tasty, but I found myself put off when I combined a slice of ham with the goat butter and jam only to find the underside of the ham frosted with mustard.  Blech!

With no room left in our bellies or reason to remain at the restaurant, we bundled ourselves up and headed for home.  What a glorious way to spend a Friday afternoon.  I really must do this more often!

Until next time…

First off, a disclaimer of sorts.

This is not a review.  No, no, nothing of the sort.  As Sheryl pointed out to me long ago, I am much too familiar and vested in the goings’ on at The Black Hoof to be objective about anything they might be doing on any given day.

No, this is more like a retelling of what I had for brunch yesterday in a ‘na na na na na, look what I had that you didn’t‘ kind of way.

Obnoxious?  Perhaps.  But who would’ve thought that reverting to 5 year old-like boasting would be so wickedly delicious?

We entered the former Chelsea Room space shortly before noon on Sunday.  Tipped off to the opening by Corey Mintz’ Porkosity, after I mentioned it to the Everyman on Saturday night, he suggested that we visit immediately upon waking Sunday morning.

Once you cross over the threshold, it’s hard to believe that this space used to be a nightclub/lounge/bar type place, because it is literally postage stamp sized.  But, a beautiful tin ceiling and antique looking cabinets chockful of Jen’s mixology creations make the 30 (18 table/12 bar) seat room undoubtedly Hoof-like.  When we arrive all the tables are full, so we opt to eat at the bar rather than waiting for one to clear up.

Before I know it, my gluttony’s gotten the better of me and I’ve ordered not only a suckling pig benny (benedict), but also added a bone (marrow), while the Everyman has opted for the ploughman’s lunch.  My benny is succulent, and comes with a lovely little salad topped with some achingly crispy pig skin puffs.  One can never go wrong with a helping of bone marrow, and at 12 in the afternoon it’s like gilding the lily as I wash it down with fruity glasses of red wine.

The ploughman’s platter is a mini charcuterie board covered in terrine, cheese (if I’m not mistaken it was Thornloe’s Evanturel or something similar), goat butter, several sliced meats, pickled celery, chantrelles and cornichons and a few splotches of mustard.  It’s been a good 3 months or so since the last time we visited The Hoof I think; it was still patio weather at the very least, but the real revelation for both of us yesterday was the goat butter.  It was creamy, sweet and so pale white that when they originally set the plate down I thought it was a tiny cube of lardo.  The rate at which the Everyman made the platter disappear should be all the compliment necessary to reassure the chef of his supreme meatawesomeness.

And as if that wasn’t enough gorging, once we’d both cleaned our plates, we decided to order 2 sides to finish off.  A plate of house ham and another of toast, jam, and goat butter combined into a wonderfully ironic “dessert” of sorts once we layered the toast with butter, then a slathering of grape jelly, followed by a slice of the salty, fatty ham.  Divine. Surprisingly, despite all of the food we consumed, I felt much less bloated than when we go there for dinner.

Stumbling towards the exit, 2 things occurred to me as I surveyed the now-packed room.

1) I was much drunker than usual for 2 o’clock in the afternoon

2) It might be a long time before I’d ever be in that room again, because once word gets out that The Hoof Cafe is open, I’ll never be able to get in there, either.

I’m considering stopping in for lunch on Friday (when it will likely be quieter) to explore a little more of the deliciousness before I get shut out.

In the meantime, all I have to say on the matter is nom.

Until next time…

The hiatus that I’ve taken from consuming them since I wrote that piece was abruptly brought to an end last week, after I pointed out one of the latest in the crop of wing joints to open in Toronto (The Wing Company) to the Everyman.  You see, the Everyman is also quite a fan of the chicken wing, and once he took a gander at the menu, his eyes glazed over with that barely concealed lust that he reserves for daydreaming about his junk food of choice.

Inevitably, it wasn’t long before he was trying to cajole me into ordering delivery, but as fate would have it, The Wing Company (thankfully) only delivers 3 days a week (Thursday through Saturday).  Which meant that he had to wait until Thursday to take them for a test drive, dovetailing nicely (for him) into our weekly “survive the Everyman’s cooking” night of the week, when he is supposed to provide (read: cook) our dinner.

Without having tried them, it seemed that the main appeal of a place like The Wing Company is the customization aspect.  Wings are their metier, thus their focus is on little other than the coatings of said wings and the sides that’ll go with them.  As of this writing, the count of sauces/coatings tops out at 40, which is impressive to say the least.  On the first occasion, I ordered the hot buffalo blue flavour, whilst the Everyman selected the smoked lime tequila sauce, with a side of poutine.  The buffalo blue was tangy and slurpable, but hardly what I would consider hot (probably for the best) and the Everyman’s smoked lime tequila had a well balanced spiciness, but gave off the faintest whiff of curry (another flavour option) leaving me to wonder whether the toss bowls were properly cleansed between uses.  Overall though, the wings themselves were crispy, fat and juicy, and not at all the disappointing nubbins that hardly have any meat to them at all.  The poutine was remarkable for something that arrived by delivery, and while the Everyman adored it, I found the gravy a touch too salty.

On Sunday afternoon, the Everyman had a hankering for poutine in the worst way and wanted to order from The Wing Company again, but a call placed to them shortly after opening confirmed that they do not deliver on Sundays.  Recalling that another wings-only company had opened in the area recently, I set about finding a menu for Wing Shop 366, which is available through Grub Canada.  They sported a remarkably similar concept t0 the one at The Wing Company, though they also dabble in burgers and salads, with a sauce/coating count sitting at a respectable 52 options.  Noting the numerous overlaps between the two, the Everyman was game and hoped for the best.  His wings of choice were a half pound of jalapeno pepper sauced with the balance of the pound done in traditional BBQ, while I opted for a half order of dry parmesan and a mini 2 ounce burger.  To be fair, the burger was well charred and probably would have been more palatable if I’d enjoyed it piping hot, but I found it reminiscent of the way McDonald’s used to taste when I was a wee foodie whose parents threw her 3rd, 4th and 5th birthdays in their party room (i.e. made of something resembling real food, but still mediocre).  The wings were exceptionally crispy but repellent, tasting only of the aged oily sludge they were probably fried in.  The parmesan tasted of funky sawdust that likely came from a green cardboard can, while both of the Everyman’s selections were so unappetizing that he didn’t finish either of them.  Their version of poutine was a soggy hodgepodge; the experience on a whole guaranteeing that we’d never order from them again.

As if those weren’t enough wings for one week, last night the Everyman and I ordered in from The Wing Company again, this time opting for traditional BBQ for him, BBQ blue for me, and a sampler of the dry salt and malt vinegar.  Both BBQ’s walked the fine line between sweet, savoury and heat, with the blue cheese adding the appropriate amount of zest, but the salt and malt vinegar stymied us both.  The salt flakes were visible, but no aroma or zing could be detected.  No matter.  After consuming that many wings in the past 7 days, it didn’t hurt either of us to stop well before finishing the combined 3 pound order.  The one curiosity I’ve noticed about The Wing Company is their propensity to send only celery sticks with their meals, which leads me to believe that they must not like carrots.  Not that the tiny bags of veg in any way balance out the excess that is a typical wing dinner, but it’s funny to wonder why, nonetheless.

To close, The Wing Company makes an acceptably tasty wing, but Wing Shop 366 most certainly does not.  The next time a yearning for those little jointed winglets takes hold, I certainly know who we’ll be calling.  But I can tell you right now, it won’t be any time soon, because I am again all winged out.

Until next time…