A Taste of the Caribbean

If there is anything I lament about the house I bought almost a year ago, it's that my neighborhood isn't a gourmet hotspot. In the past, I've had the privilege of living in apartments that were close to, or directly above a fantastic foodie shop or eatery. Now, there is little more than a reasonably stocked green grocer two blocks away and a decent Vietnamese restaurant around the corner. Good luck trying to find cheeses not made by Kraft, organic meats, or a fresh baguette.

The one roti/jerk chicken place I liked folded shortly after I moved in. It took several months for a replacement to fill the location, but now there is a small bakery there that offers cakes, cookies and other sweets from the West Indies. The store owners need to improve their shop layout and address the complete absence of a window display. But I truly hope that their business will thrive and expand my dietary repertoire.

Recently, I purchased some coconut turnovers (above) and a wedge of cassava cake (below).

The turnovers had a light and fluffy dough, stuffed with a spiced coconut mixture. There were a couple of days when that was all I had for lunch and it was incredibly filling as well as energizing.

The cassava cake was a bit of a leap for me. I've always seen cassava on grocery shelves ("it looks like a waxy sweet potato," was how I once described it) but never knew what to do with it. I hadn't realized that it is the third largest source of carbs in the world, or that cassava root flour is used to make tapioca. Recipes for it range from the West Indies, to South America, to East Asia , to Africa. Interestingly, Googling "cassava cake" brought up a bunch of Filipino recipes.

I liked how thick and moist the cake was. I'm sure the sweetness came from sugar or condensed milk rather than the cassava, but I can easily see its application in other recipes that call for a rich, heavy texture. Much to my chagrin, one of my cats ate half of it while I wasn't looking. Baaaaad cat.

The Anti-Restaurant

A friend recently informed me about a local underground phenomenon called Charlie's Burgers. You can go ahead and click the link, but the website reveals nothing. What little the public knows is unreliable and unverifiable.

In a nutshell, Charlie's Burgers is the name for Toronto's latest anti-restaurant -- a gourmet dining experience that eschews the rigidity and commercialism of a fixed format and venue. Dinners take place at secret locations. The one-off menus are eclectic and adventurous. Guests get to sit at the dining table by invitation only. And reportedly, the roster of chefs include the city's finest talent.

As novel as this sounds, the idea of the anti-restaurant has been around for some time. While I am sure there are examples of this globally, I am speaking specifically of the speakeasies or private kitchens of Hong Kong. The high cost of renting restaurant space and complying with regulatory requirements have driven modest cooks to set up shop, usually at home, serving food without a license.

I first became acquainted with HK's private kitchens upon seeing the "Hidden Hong Kong" episode of Gourmet magazine's Diary of a Foodie. It features Margaret Xu Yuan, a retired advertising executive turned amateur chef. This self-taught torch-bearer of authentic Hong Kong cuisine uses traditional, lo-tech cooking techniques such as manually grinding grains in a stone mill and pressing soy milk curds to make tofu from scratch. [Note: Yuan's recipe for Yellow Earth Chicken is available online. You can also see the Flickr photo album of her private kitchen, Cuisine X (since renamed Yin Yang, I believe).]

Back in Toronto, the mythical "Charlie" requires interested parties to fill out a survey. If the answers satisfy, you get a chance to be considered for a place at the next dinner table. Being a security professional, it's not in my nature to take leaps of faith like this without arming myself with information, but I answered the survey anyway. One question asked me to describe myself without stating the obvious ("I like food" or "I like to cook"). So I told "Charlie" about my cookbook (didn't mention the blog, though). Apparently, that was good enough because my response was accepted. And now we wait to see if I get the luck of the draw. I might not be allowed to talk about it if I do get chosen, but I think you'll be able to tell by watching this blog.

Gastronome Montréalais

I'm a confirmed Torontonian now, having settled into a house of my own last year. But I was, and forever will be, a Montrealer.

Most of the life experiences I draw from took place on that island. Admittedly, the novelty of the city had long worn off by the time I uprooted myself and migrated over to Toronto. When people ask me if I miss it, my answer is typically "no". I've grown tired/bored of rabid Quebec separatism, the stagnant local economy, ill-conceived city management, psychotic drivers, reliably unreliable public transit, a long-suffering and dwindling press, the World Film Fest which has been plagued with an inferiority complex in comparison to its more glamorous peers, and a downtown core that has lost its lustre for me.

That is not to say that I don't yearn for certain things. Obviously, I miss my family and the close circle of friends who have blessedly remained close -- out of sight but not out of mind. And then there's the food. What Montreal lacks in cosmopolitanism, it makes up with gastronomic delights (especially French cuisine) in spades.

The last apartment I had in Montreal was located in an up-and-coming neighborhood, since renamed Monkland Village. I lived upstairs from an SAQ shop (the Quebec version of the Ontario LCBO), St. Viateur (maker of Montreal's best and IMO the world's best bagels), and a tiny but excellent fishmonger.

There were the obligatory Second Cup and Starbucks shops across the street, but far more alluring were the French bakery/cafes: Première Moisson, Au Pain Doré, La Pâtisserie de Nancy. Java U and Benedict's were also local staples as well as a perpetually revolving selection of restaurants that came and went over the years (including the legendary Fran's cafe bistro, which made the city's best cakes until it closed after the owner retired, or so I heard). In the years since I left town, it has further augmented its gustatory selection, including a dazzling kitchen supply store, an adorable cupcake shop, and a gourmet butcher shop.

On summer days, I could smell fresh batches of bagels baking in the wood-burning ovens of St. Viateur. I would use those olfactory cues to run downstairs to buy a dozen bagels that were still warm and at their peak of deliciousness. Weekend mornings had to begin with a visit to Pâtisserie de Nancy, which served the finest croissants I have ever had to date. They are light yet buttery, with a flaky golden exterior and a fluffy and chewy interior. Accompanied by a bowl of cafe au lait, it was the perfect breakfast.

All these provisions were a hop-skip-and-jump away from home. Toronto has amazing bakers, butchers, fishmongers, grocers, etc. but they are dispersed so very far apart that it requires some planning and significant travel time to access.

My most recent visit to Montreal fulfilled a long-standing wish: dinner at Au Pied de Cochon. My parents made this dream come true on the occasion of my birthday (Thanks Mom & Dad!). Au Pied is the brainchild of chef Martin Picard, known to many as the star of The Food Network's The Wild Chef.

I've sung the praises of nose-to-tail eating before. This was my opportunity to open my mind and palate to dishes that are truly unfamiliar or inaccessible to me, namely the use of offal like head cheese (which is not cheese at all, but meat from an animal's head), pig's trotters and ears, blood sausage and foie gras.

The first thing that struck me when we walked into the venue was the smell of roasting meat and maple syrup. I don't mean the stink of artificial maple flavoring -- lately, someone in the office has been bringing in a snack that overwhelms the recycled high rise oxygen with a sickening odor of synthetic maple. No, this was the soothing fragrance of a sugar shack in the woods that has begun the annual process of boiling maple tree sap. It made my appetite soar.

For my starter, I ordered the Head Cheese Fritters (pictured at the top). I was expecting the meat to be tough but it was tender and also flavorful like roasted ham. The shredded meat was shaped into cubes, battered and fried. Enhancing the taste was the exquisite sauce -- it had a wonderful mustard kick from capers, and benefited from fresh herbs and what I believe was a Hollandaise sauce.

I chose the Cured Foie Gras and Boudin Tart for my main. From what I understand, the foie gras was salt-cured. Boudin is a blood sausage. The tart crust was a flaky puff pastry. There was a layer of creamy sauce, topped with caramelized onions, thin slices of potato, along with beautifully cooked Boudin and the superbly delicate foie gras rounds.

The portions were massive -- big enough to feed two or possibly three people. I could barely eat half of my tart. It goes without saying that I asked the affable waiter to doggie bag my leftovers. Even the next day it was mind-blowingly good.

My only regret was that I couldn't sample more. Next time I visit, I plan to order an array of starters and appetizers in order to taste as many things as I possibly can.

I haven't had much of an appetite to eat or cook since coming back (hence the dearth of blog posts this month). One might say that my appetite is still in Montreal, where it wants to be.

Street Gourmand

The people of LA -- you are lucky, lucky bastards. For a long time now I've been reading about Kogi, the fusion cuisine on wheels that has taken the city by storm. Its founder Mark Manguera and chef Roy Choi have blended the best of Mexican and Korean food (I dare you to go look at their Korean Short Rib Tacos or Kogi Kabezza without drooling) and serve it up as street eats. That alone is a tasty idea, but in a stroke of marketing brilliance, they chose to use online technology (Twitter) to let people know where their two trucks -- Roja and Verde -- are parked on a given night. The "Where's Waldo" elusiveness combined with exceptional cooking and social networking has made Kogi a local phenomenon.



Chef Roy is open to experimentation, it seems, much to the delight of Angelenos. Take a look at his Specials. His Pork Belly with Lychee makes me crazy with hunger and yearning. The Venice Beach Vegan Black Sesame Seed Jelly Special was Roy's response to a vegan challenge -- it uses fermented soybeans which many of you know I adore. And as if to taunt my love for good molé sauce, Kogi served up the Spicy Korean Chicken Molé Special last winter. Fuels the imagination, doesn't it?

I would love to do something like this in Toronto if I had the resources or capability. Perchance to dream...

When the Student Becomes the Teacher

Every December, my department welcomes the holidays with a celebratory team dinner. This year, we chose The Chef's House: it is a fully operational restaurant staffed by the talented students from George Brown College and the Centre for Hospitality and Culinary Arts. None of us had been to the restaurant before, but I could attest to the quality of their education, having taken two courses and a workshop at the school.

We were not disappointed.

The venue had very clean, modern decor, comparable to some of the trendiest restaurants in the downtown core. The open-concept kitchen is the focal point, with cameras capturing all the activity for customers who can watch on flat-screen TVs installed throughout the dining area.

Diners have a choice of a 3-course meal ($39) or a 4-course meal ($45), i.e. you could choose any 3 or 4 dishes from the menu. I opted for the 3-course dinner. We were first served an amuse bouche palate cleanser: a tiny mix of tomato, pine nuts, greens plated with a streak of balsamic vinegar reduction.

For my starter, I picked the soup of the day: cream of mushroom soup. Having enjoyed Lynn's soulful soup last week made me crave more of this good thing. The trouble with cream of mushroom soup -- when it doesn't come from a can -- is its unappealing color. It reminds me of the shade of sludge that pools by the side of a curb when winter's frost starts to melt in March. However, the student chefs presented it beautifully, garnished with a dollop of what I believe was crème fraîche and emerald green herbed oils drizzled for color. The wide-rimmed bowl provided a broad, clean canvas for all these elements.

For my main, I ordered a gnudi dish without really knowing what it was, other than it sounded a lot like gnocchi. Turns out, I wasn't far from the mark: gnudi means "nude" in Italian, a reference to the fact that it is essentially the filling for stuffed pasta such as ravioli but without the pasta. It is similar to gnocchi except the potato is replaced by ricotta.

My gnudi was mixed with spinach, served on a bed of arugula and wild mushrooms. The mushrooms had been cooked or marinated in a salty/savory sauce. When eaten with the creamy gnudi and the grated parmesan, the taste sensation made me exclaim, "OMG this is good" (and I'm an atheist). I'm usually a salt hog, but this was so perfectly seasoned that I didn't touch the salt shaker even once.

Choosing the dessert was a no-brainer: maple pecan tart. I am fond of any combination of ice cream, maple syrup and nuts. They were made for each other. The tart arrived before me still warm, with the freshly made ice cream gently oozing from the heat of the pastry. To be honest, my memory of eating the dessert is very hazy because it went by so fast. I was mocked for stopping to take a photo in mid-bite, but I needed a record of the experience before inhaling it.

I can't imagine a better training ground for tomorrow's star chefs. The Chef's House emphasizes locally grown produce, which teaches socially responsible practices while supporting the local economy. The students gain invaluable experience that can't be simulated in a classroom. For the public, dining in a place like that brings them closer to the process of food preparation. I think this heightens one's appreciation for what we eat and the talent of those who serve it to us. These young cooks merit our full support.

Good Things Come in Small Packages

Apologies for the long absence of new posts. I've been back from Barcelona for nearly two weeks already, but my time at work has been monopolized by the inevitable game of catch-up and overtime. And right now, my cats are not making this any easier by parading between me and my laptop and licking my face and fingers.

Another deterrent was the fact that I had ambitious plans for this first post upon my return -- ambitions that weren't matched by my energy level or mental capacity. Winter has descended upon us and this season has a way of sucking the life out of me.

But I digress. The trip to Barcelona assured me that the architectural splendor of the city has remained intact over the past decade and bold plans are already underway to further transform the landscape. Its coastline and natural charms are as beautiful as ever -- what Canuck wouldn't get deliriously giddy at the sight of palm trees in a busy, metropolitan centre? We were given ample opportunity to wine and dine until ready to burst. The conference hotel rooms were equipped with bathroom scales which the women promptly utilized to depress or reassure themselves about their rate of consumption. My scale was conveniently broken and lied to me about my weight, which suited me just fine.

Regrettably, some foul first-hand experiences with crime as well as second-hand reports of incidents from colleagues left a bitter aftertaste. It threatened to spoil the entire experience for me and now I'm not so sure I would want to go back there a third time.

Which would be a real shame given that the sins of the few shouldn't damn everybody or everything.

Spanish tapas is something that I already miss a great deal. Tapas isn't so much a style of cuisine as it is an approach to eating that differs from the regimented meal schedule that North Americans are programmed to follow. For one thing, Spaniards eat later in the day, having lunch between 1:00-4:00pm and dinner between 9:00pm-12:00am. The lateness of the last meal encourages a reduction in portion size -- going to bed with a full belly is as uncomfortable as it is unhealthy. This is in stark contrast to the massive production that is usually "dinner" in North America.

The word "tapas" originates from "tapar", which means "to cover" in Spanish. (Spanish-speakers, please correct me immediately if I'm talking out of my ass.) The consumption of tapas is inextricably linked to the imbibing of alcohol. In my research, I've consistently come across two stories about the origin of tapas: (1) the practice was decreed in the 13th century by King Alfonso X of Castile (aka Alfonso the Wise) who credited his recovery from an illness to a diet of small portions and wine; consequently, wine could no longer be served anywhere in the land without a bite of food, and (2) it became customary to cover a glass of wine with a slice of bread or cheese, either to keep out offending contaminants like sand or bugs, or to hold in the funky smell of bad wine. While I like anyone who advocates drinking wine, I think I prefer the second explanation. El mundo de las Tapas has a much more detailed history of tapas (and recipes!) for anyone interested in reading further.

Catalan food is typified by marvelous variations of Iberian pork -- cooked, cured, dried -- and delicious seafood. Oddly enough, guidebooks state that the seafood sold in Barcelona is mostly imported despite local fisheries along the Catalan coast. I couldn't tell, judging from the superb hake, cod, squid and anchovies I sampled. Paella, of course, was a dietary requirement for me while I was there. It was always moist, flavorful and crammed with monstrously huge prawns, chorizo, saffron and other goodies.

Spaniards don't have a patent on the idea of serving several small dishes instead of one heavy meal. The Chinese have dim sum (I'm planning to take a dim sum cooking course next year!). Greeks, Cypriots, Turks, Lebanese, Albanians, Serbians and Bulgarians have meze or mezze. Filipinos have pica-pica and coincidentally, even a cured beef dish called tapa. Japanese kaiseki cuisine has a tapas-like structure, consisting of an array of small dishes; Japanese pottery is resplendent with gorgeous, tiny plates designed specifically for this.

And why shouldn't this be a global phenomenon? Eating lots of small dishes throughout the day is accepted by many as a healthier alternative to overloading on food three times a day. I think smaller portions also force you to stop and taste what you're putting in your mouth. You can't just scarf it down. Like a Fabergé egg, there's something precious and charming about a small thing that still requires as much effort and skill to prepare as something bigger.

My friend Ireen has taken beautiful photographs of the food we had in Barcelona. She's a far more skilled photographer than I am, so hopefully she'll either post them publicly or let me post a few here for your enjoyment. I'll keep you posted.