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Congee Wong

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JP and I come up with any excuse we can to go to Markham, Ontario. He needs his license renewed. I want to visit a friend in Toronto. It’s his birthday.

Markham has few virtues. Commercial parks are separated by huge stretches of empty sprawl and multi-lane roads and highways. There are few sidewalks and no pedestrians anywhere. The public transit is a confusing, expensive mess of overlapping regions and juristictions (are we in Toronto? York? Markham? Did we just pass from one into the other?). There is no shade in the brilliant smog heat of summer, no protection from the blinding white of winter. On our most recent trip we gave in and rented a car, joining the invisible population. Though we both hate driving, I got deathly car sick, and JP left his keys, cellphone, and watch in the car after we returned it, it was one of my better road trips.

Why do we go? JP has a few reasons, all of them edible, but mine is Congee Wong.

Markham is dominated by its Chinese community. One only sees other people in select places (“white malls” are the minority, and they tend to include a deserted or out-of-business restaurant). The first time we went, we were walking through a food court and I said, “Hey, look, another white guy!”
JP responded, “Oh…I know him!” And he did. I was still laughing about that months later.

If I could only go to one restaurant for the rest of my life (I would ponder suicide, but then) I’d choose Congee Wong. If I lived nearby, I would systematically conquer all 248 items on the menu (not including drinks). It is simply the best Chinese food I have ever had, and it is gutter cheap. Insane cheap. Feed two people who haven’t eaten all day for under $20 cheap. I would be a much happier woman if I could stop off there every morning for a large $3.95 bowl of congee.

They serve something they refer to as “garlic sauce” (I suggest on a big heap of young, dark, perfect Chinese broccoli/Gai-lan) that I have been trying furiously to recreate. I think it involves minced and dried garlic, red chilis, a touch of dried shrimp, cornstarch, soy sauce, and oil – and then the hand of god.

All the food feels like it’s done right, a feeling which is hard to further explain. You could not change it. You could not improve it. It could not be more harmonious. Nothing could be more right with the world.

On one occasion we were seated right by the kitchen and I wished we had ordered every dish that passed. I am big on shrimp dishes there, because the shrimp is always so meaty and tasty and fresh and never overcooked: the tiger shrimp congee, the shrimp rice noodle rolls, the shrimp and broccoli (I dream regularly about broccoli soaking in their garlic sauce). Restaurant congee is always better than congee made at home, as it is usually cooked for many hours for that creaminess that shines and lingers in the mouth. Congee Wong is a step further still. The flavour is the flavour I associate with congee – salty, subtle, and soothing – only more intense, more present. JP favours the fried rice noodles with beef in X.O. sauce, which has that magic level of heat such that it stings, yet you could eat the whole platter first thing in the morning – which we have done.

Scatter my ashes in the parking lot.


Written by skimfu

August 12, 2009 at 12:13 am

Posted in Restaurant Reviews


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I am sometimes hesitant to go back to a restaurant where the first visit was especially magical. A good meal is a complex formula: was it really the food, or the pleasant, understated waiter? Was it because you were hungry or you’d had just the right amount of alcohol? Was it the way your companion looked in the light, the way he held your hand, the jokes he made? Did the vigorous bike ride over give you an exercise high, making you salivate, triggering some evolutionary urge to dig your teeth into the meat? Were you just wowed by the idea that you could get a milkshake with breakfast, and not the breakfast itself?

The second trip to a restaurant can kill the memory of the first. But then the past is always like that: give me back that hour we were happy and not the years of insecurity; give me the constant reassurance of grades and not the sleepless monotony and I’ll go back to school.

The second trip to a restaurant can also be confirmation of your dreamy initial chemistry, like a good second date. Philinos, 4806 Avenue du Parc, just above Villeneuve, deserves a racy third date.

The first, oddly remarkable thing: the bread. I’ve never been moved to comment on bread before. In my experience, restaurants bring you hot white bread and butter, or something uncommon but banal like focaccia wedges or giant crackers – you can’t go too wrong. Except for Alto’s, where the waitress throws one of those disturbingly everlasting, indestructible POM buns at you, still in its plastic wrapper, but that’s a different story. I don’t know what kind of bread they serve at Philinos; it’s dark and flavourful as rye but not as dense, has a tang but isn’t sourdough, has a salty, chewy crust but a pliable, doughy center. Our most recent visit was right after I had flown over the handlebars of my bike, struck the back of a car with my body, and smashed my jaw on the asphalt below. I still worked my teeth through a full plateful of bread. Served with balsamic vinegar and olive oil (of course!), the bread is a good indication of things to come.

On this visit, we shared the “Pikilia” house hot appetizer platter: two spanakopitakia, two tyropitakia (mixed cheeses in filo pastry), calamari, and loukaniko (homemade pork sausage). The filo pies were fine, but the ample spread of calamari was the star: big, yielding rings and tentacles, in a batter that is light but satisifying and crunchy, alongside chunky tzatziki you could eat on its own. I eat a lot of fast-food style Greek food, and the warm, artisanal touches of this meal were unfamiliar (a suggestion: don’t eat the calamari at Nickels. The breading falls off and the fishy smell is overpowering). The homemade sausage was so good I would have fought for it, fork and nail.

For the main course, I had the “Paidakia – Garides”, two jumbo shrimp and two lamb chops, accompanied by baked potatoes and buttery vegetables. Everything is left in large, hearty, flavour-soaked pieces for you to cut away at. JP had the moussaka, which was also delicious if slightly over-rich – not that moussaka is supposed to be gentle. He thought it was perfect. It seemed like we ordered a ridiculous amount of food, but the waiter joked that the sight of our plates – clean down to the garnishes – would please the chef.

The reason I only write positive restaurant reviews – throwaway comments about Alto’s and Nickels notwithstanding – is because of the way I read reviews. I read them looking for somewhere to eat tonight, not hoping to be warned away from bad experiences or to revel in the spark and glee of criticism. Closed-down restaurants look so sad, the crumbling remains of someone’s belief they had the formula to survive an industry where the profit margins are razor-thin.

Written by skimfu

April 23, 2009 at 5:22 pm

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I worry a lot about time. A day passes by so quickly, and if you don’t pay attention, so does a week, and a month, and a year, and possibly your entire life, without ever doing anything you want. Things you plan to do someday will probably never materialize. The day when all your affairs are settled and you can afford to relax for a moment will never come. Will you ever be ahead of schedule? Will you ever have the money? Will you ever stop running through the domestic machinations of living?

So we went to Paris.

We did all the tourist things – silly pictures at the Eiffel Tower, blasphemous banter in Notre-Dame, reclining and staring meaningfully into fountains, strolling the Champs-Élysées, a day and a half in the Louvre with the crowd smushed against the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo, trespassing the kingdom of the dead in the catacombs, walking kilometers and kilometers, listening to buskers with accordions – but as you might imagine, for me, it was all about the food. All the photos are JP’s.

Le Relais de l’Entrecôte


In April of last year, I went to the celebrated L’entrecôte St-Jean in Montreal and was entirely underwhelmed. There is a single set meal: a salad with walnuts, steak frites, and chocolate profiteroles. Even then, a year before Paris, it struck me as a near-miss at best. The upscale old world decor looked worn down and the waitresses were excessively brisk, trying to hurry people in and out. A lifeless salad and a rubbery steak with diner-quality gravy. The profiteroles, at the time, were the best part, largely because I had never had profiteroles before: frozen cream puffs, covered in warm chocolate sauce and slivered almonds.

Le Relais de L’Entrecôte, a small chain in Paris, has the same set menu, in theory, but the similarity stops there. Le Relais is not one of those unusual, memorable gastronomic experiences that you must know just once; if I lived in Paris (and, I suppose, belonged to a higher pay bracket) I would go at least once a week. It is a staple, a neighbourhood favourite, something to crave. The walnut salad arrives in a light but stinging dijon dressing. The rib steak, even cooked to medium, melts perfectly in your mouth. The French, according to our waitress, do not believe in “half and half” – there is simply blue, rare, and medium (as a cook in Canada, I have received bills that said things like “on the medium side of medium-rare” or “medium-medium-rare” or “coolish, but not quite blue”) and I would assume that well-done is a sin.

The gravy is vinegar and oil based, with lots and lots of the outer squishy bits and tallow of beef to flavor it. It’s somehow enjoyable to watch French businessmen in full suits cramming down the perfect, thin fries in bunches between mouthfuls of red wine. The meat and fries are served to you in two servings, and even when you know this ahead of time it still has a pleasing psychological effect. When she arrives to load the other half of your steak and fries onto your plate, a childish voice inside my head cheers, “Hooray! There’s more!”

For full comparison, I ordered the chocolate profiteroles for dessert and they continued to blow L’entrecôte St-Jean out of the water. Rather than being wholly frozen, the outer pastry part was soft and warm, while the inside was still ice cream: a dream. We also shared their creme brulee, which had been freshly caramelized and the taste of burnt sugar permeated through the custard. There was nothing I didn’t like.

We went three times. I am more than a little bit ashamed of that fact.

Chez Marly

Our guidebook mislead us on this one. It said something to the effect of, “Before an afternoon at the Louvre, carb-load on Chez Marly’s pastas.” When we arrived, I said, “Who on earth would apply the phrase ‘carb-load’ to this place?” There was only one pasta dish on the menu.

The outside portion of Chez Marly is situated within the grand courtyard surrounding the Louvre. The grand architecture leaves you open to the air; clear bicarbonate plates between pillars separate you from the birds. After taking one look at us, the host gestured at some battered armchairs near the entrance and said, “Sit there,” hardly able to supress his disgust. It was lovely anyway. Both our seats faces outward, and behind the glass, it seemed as though we were watching tourists in an enormous display at the zoo. Sipping wine, watching the midday light scatter on the glass pyramid of the Louvre, mocking the tourists in berets and toques with “Paris” stitched into them as they strike cheesy poses by the fountains – this is what I imagine real Parisians do.


We shared their one pasta dish, a bland penne in basil tomato sauce with cherry tomatoes (but really, how exciting could it have been?), as well as the risotto with grilled prawns. The risotto, with a thin layer of really intense shaved Parmesan on top and prawn-flesh perfectly flayed with flame, made me wish we had ordered two. The kind of dish you hold in your mouth for a while, bite by bite, letting the creaminess wash over you.


It was so cold that we had to keep our jackets on and hold hands, but in spite of the guidebook’s vulgarity, it was the way to start an afternoon at the Louvre.


The Lonely Planet guidebook only recommended one patisserie, which we thought was odd. Once we arrived, though, it was obvious that no one needs a guidebook for pastries in Paris; there is a good patisserie on every block. The sample being hardly representative, as our criteria for a patisserie was (a) on our route, (b) when we were hungry, (c) there was enough space between the door and the counter for us to gawk at the display case for a while without being in anyone’s way, the best one was this one:


I still don’t know what the name is. We had a croque monsieur, an apple tart, and a coffee éclair, all spectacular. To be fair, all the pastries we had in Paris were knee-quiveringly good, this place was just the best one we encountered.

The croque monsieur, in particular, I find perplexing. Here in Montreal, a croque monsieur is a split baguettine, covered in ham and cheese and then put in the oven. Perhaps there is tomatoes, or egg, or dijon; I have made many of these while working at pseudo-French cafes. A baguettine in the oven is just toast. A croque monsieur in Paris is crusty with cheese on the outside and creamy (!) on the inside, like bread pudding. The ham, cheese, egg, and bread form some kind of singular unit, rather than just layers on toast. After my first bite, I passed it to JP and then he wouldn’t give it back.

For whatever reason, JP developed a fear of ordering in French about a third of the way through the trip. In pastry shops, he would hover behind me and murmur in my ear what he wanted. He put forth an interesting theory as to why the Japanese appear to be obsessed with French culture: their languages are similarly musical (as opposed to guttural Quebec French). And it certainly was true – in the mouths of young women, both French and Japanese take on a melodic lilt that is almost unbearably adorable.

Le Roi du Pot au Feu

In my (in air quotes, in the loosest sense possible) “classical French” culinary training, I have been no stranger to veal stock. It is the base of everything. Many restaurants have a veal stock factory going on an at all times in the back: veal bones, carrots, and onions roasting, deglazing, and stewing away. I had never, though, heard of “traditional French hot pot”.


At Le Roi du Pot au Feu (34, rue Vignon), their signature dish is two courses. The first is veal broth, and the second is everything used to make it: root vegetables (cabbage, carrots, potatoes, winter melon), big falling-apart-tender hunks of veal shank, and the center bone. Our waiter helpfully explained (by miming) that we were supposed to dig out the marrow with our knives, spread it on slices of toasted baguette, and sprinkle fleur de sel on top. The marrow is a sickly yellow and the texture of fat; it made me think of human internal organs. On the bread, with the salt, it melted like butter and tasted similar, but better. To most of the world this is no surprise: bone marrow tastes like superior, richer buttered toast. I would never have guessed. Other people in the restaurant were ordering just plates of the bone cross-sections.


After five days of heavy food and conveniently located made-to-order crepe windows, the meat, vegetables, and broth felt deeply soothing, well-matched with the light house wine. We finished with their pear sorbet, which was better, in my opinion, than the legendary Berthillon ice cream on Ile Saint-Louis that I had been anticipating the whole trip. While it was impressive to have sherbet saturated with pureed fruit, Berthillon ice cream was nothing to travel halfway across the world for.

Les Deux Magots

Les Deux Magots is supposedly where Satre and Hemingway intersected. We went before seven o’clock, when no one in Paris could conceivably be eating dinner; they were still playing soccer with their children in the streets and drinking espresso. The ability to walk in anywhere – even an upscale bistro – and order just espresso, and then sit for hours and have it not be considered strange may be the most compelling reason to live in Paris. Along with the 35-hour workweek and people making out in public and jogging nonchalantly through astonishing gardens and architecture and I’m going to stop.

Because we were too early for the dinner menu, we ordered from the bar and had beef carpaccio with Parmesan and a millefeuille of chevre, tomatoes, and basil. Tiny, rich, delicious, insubstantial, necessary to eat in small, slow bites so that your heart doesn’t give out halfway through – pretty much what we imagined French food would be, and the chandeliers, bow-tied waiters, gold bars, and mirrors only added to the picture.



On our final night, in his one suit and my one formal dress, we ventured under a golden snail to a place with a ninety-Euro per person menu gourmand that is confident enough to only be open for three hours a day. The head waiter was disappointed with us from the moment he opened the door, whispering disdainfully to the other waiters, “Americains.” Wrong, sir! We are bashful and polite and deferential. Canadiens!

I liked to think of us at the good tourists, though: we spoke softly, demanded little, and spent a lot of money. The Italian family seated beside us was so stunned by the prices that they only ordered appetizers, and the children loudly demanded Coca Cola and asked if the truffles could be taken out of the risotto (the answer, unsurprisingly, was no). When the parents explained to the children that the namesake dishes were, yes, snails, the head waiter laughed so hard he snorted and then ran into the kitchen.

Two types of appetizers were complimentary. First, lightly battered and deep fried snails, served with toothpicks. Secondly, snails in a green fluid that tasted like lemons and fish, and then topped with cream – I did not enjoy this, and could not even venture a guess as to what it was.

We had an additional escargot platter each, with snails in curry, snails in garlic butter, and snails in Roquefort cheese sauce. These were served in shell, and was my first opportunity to use a pair of decorative scissored tongs and a small shellfish fork – tools designed just for eating snails. If they were not prohibitively expensive, these would be a great way to introduce someone to eating snails, as the meatiness and familiar flavours overpowered the sense that of eating fancy slugs.

Next, we shared the two-person roasted duck. The entire duck was brought out and presented, and then carved in front of us. Beautiful to watch, although I have to wonder how much you have to pay a waiter who can carve a duck so well. First we were served the breasts, sliced, perfectly tender, with crispy skin and a sauce that permeated through all the meat. I will say this about the French: they know how to make fat palatable. The side dish was…interesting. If someone said to me, “Hey, let’s layer cabbage, Bearnaise sauce, oranges, and Parmesan,” I would have replied, “What? Why would we want to do that?”

The second course of the duck was just the legs, with more of the cabbage, satisfying in a purely fatty-crisp way.

For dessert, we both had the coffee and chocolate cake, which had – to our mutual discomfort and amusement – gold leaf in the center. In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, “Is that not the biggest fuck-you to poor people?” It’s not like you can taste it. The lightness and thinness and fudginess of the cake was to my liking, as I tend to find chocolate cake oppressive after a while.

As a nice touch, the espresso at the end of the meal was the best one we had had in Paris (and we had a lot of espresso in Paris). It was served with complimentary meringues and something like a potato chip made of dried fruit. They came out on a tiny, lacquered black tray; we weren’t sure if they were even food. JP put the dried fruit matrix in his mouth and I said, “So? What is it?”

“I can’t tell, I’m too nervous,” he whispered, and I burst out laughing.

I overheard another woman pick up the same dried fruit piece and say to her companion, who had one in his mouth, “C’est quoi, ça?” and he just shrugged in an “I don’t know” way – so we weren’t the only ones with this problem.

La Grande Epicerie de Paris

A big grocery store is a big grocery store anywhere you go. On our first day, we visited one that was described breathlessly in our guidebook like a cathedral, a temple to food; it was just a big grocery store. We bought a cheese platter and a baguette and had an exhausted, jetlagged picnic on our hotel bed. JP took a picture, but my worn-out expression and slumped posture and uncharacteristically pink summer dress and the fact that I’m on a bed makes me look like I’m trying to be sexy (in reality, I was trying to stay awake); the end effect is something like a weird, cheese-themed pin-up. Oh yes, come and have some cheese with me, baby.

The half-eaten strong cheese made our minifridge smell unbearable for the entire week – like rotten broccoli.


The Häagen-Dazs Fondue that Got Away

In Paris, and I assume many places where I not have been, there are dedicated Häagen-Dazs stores. Lots of them. The first time I saw one I grabbed JP’s arm and gasped. They have a dish that was advertised hugely over the door of the one on the Champs-Élysées: a boat of tiny balls of different flavours of ice cream and a center dish of chocolate fondue to dip them in.

Me, on our last day, passing by: “If we ever come to Paris again, we have to have that.”
JP: “It’ll have to be with lots of friends, then. Or else we’ll always be those two Canadians that ate the whole thing by themselves.”
Me: “So?!”

At the bottom of the advertisement is a warning to exercise regularly.

We brought back from Paris a jar of microwavable chocolate fondue from Cacao et Chocolat, as well as a bag of truffles such that whenever I eat one I say, “We have to go back.”


In light of our failure to have the Häagen-Dazs fondue, last night I bought Neapolitan ice cream and rolled little balls of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream with spoons (it would have been easier with a melon baller, but then I’d own a melon baller I’d never use again) and refroze them for a few hours under plastic wrap. They were then hard enough to be dipped in warm chocolate fondue without melting, and staying cold enough to harden the chocolate.


We sat on the floor on JP’s apartment with the fondue and watched Ratatouille, squealing like the stupidly cheeseball tourists we are, trying to evade our hectic real lives for one more night.

JP planned everything with an arsenal of Google maps, and ensured our days were full while still letting us wander into anything that caught our eye and sleep until noon; he stayed nice during a seven-hour layover in Philadelphia when our choices of food were Sbarro, Chick-Fil-A, and the slightly-offensively-named Asian Chao (in what part of Asia do they eat bourbon chicken?). It’s easy to love everyone in Paris. If you can love someone through the voyage home, then he’s truly a keeper.

Written by skimfu

March 1, 2009 at 1:29 am

Saltshaker in the Pocket: L’Avenue, Ramen-Ya

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This morning I went to L’Avenue (922 Mont-Royal E) for the first time, ostensibly a Montreal breakfast staple, a notion upheld by the long line for the door in the rain.

Usually when I go out for breakfast, I want breakfast: a bottomless mug of mediocre brewed coffee, a dependable diner combination in salt and grease that cures hangovers and gathers friends. L’Avenue could not do that. The bright, high-architectural decor and club-thumping-stripped-vocals-remix music would only aggravate hangovers and school exhaustion, and my companion and I could hardly hear each other. The waitresses wore short schoolgirl skirts and our waiter wore a bowtie, suspenders, and a kilt, similar to the mannequin in the glass entranceway; a motorcycle was mounted to the wall; the bathroom was essentially a piece of concept art, complete with dim red lighting, murals of naked girls, walls of mirrors, a metal rectangular column sink in the centre, and arbitrary pieces of chain-link fence; food is served on white, angled plates, on spears, in miniature crock pots, in gigantic cocktail glasses – in short, the place was forcefully po-mo trendy. I was thrown: the best breakfasts, I thought, are found in sweet, grungy, dirt-cheap diners.

The food was amazing. Again, I would never come when I felt like a classic breakfast, when I want eggs and toast and peace. I would come again if I felt like having a substantial, chaotic meal before noon.

I had the dejeneur fruite, with two eggs, bacon, toast, fruit, and pain doré with maple syrup. The elements are the same, but everything is heavily and complexly flavoured and dressed up. There were chives and an appropriate amount of air and softness in my scrambled eggs, wonderfully fluffy, thick, and cinnamon-drenched pain doré, five (count ‘em, five) strips of unusually intense bacon, vaguely sweet curried potatoes, and a pile of mostly out-of-season fruits. Only the potatoes lost me; the flavour was too strong to be part of this team. They would have made a better sidedish for a sauceless piece of meat, or in a salad. I had a bagel for the toast, and it was good Montreal sesame bagel. When all this was laid out in front of me I remember thinking of a sushi boat or a wedding cake, some perversely large and ornate amount of food. There was hardly room on the table for our coffees (the cafe au lait is lovely and well-frothed; the mocha is cloyingly, sadly made from Nesquik syrup).

My companion, enviably, had the Idaho omelette, so massive it resembled a small piece of furniture. Four eggs stuffed with reggiano, a unique and smooth potatoes frissée, bacon, red onions, and sour cream, and creamily puffed-up as a radial tire, it was, again, no longer really an omelette, but something else that merely bore the idea. After eating the entire thing my boy nearly died right there at the table, but he would have gone out smiling.

The night before we went to Ramen-Ya, a fairly new addition to the Main (4274 St. Laurent). Before last night, my staple Japanese place was Osaka (2137 Bleury). Four out of the last five times I went, though, they were full or reserved to capacity and the waitress suggested we come back in a few hours. Ramen-Ya might be taking its place in the roster. My boy, a travel snob with an SD card full of pictures of Japan, said both the food and the experience was impressively authentic. Me, a compulsive eater and a lapsed Asian, can only say that it was delicious.

We sat at the bar and shared some pork gyoza and spider rolls (deep-fried soft shell crab in maki), and they lived up to the Vancouver standard that seems like a pipe dream here on the East Coast. We both had donkatsu (breaded pork cutlet) ramen; I had it in shoyu broth, and he had it in spicy miso broth. I suppose it’s a matter of taste, but I always prefer when the something in a something-and-soup combination (tempura, cheese croutons, etc.) is served on the side rather than in the soup, so that I can put it in piece by piece at my leisure rather than deal with a frantic soggy emergency (the pork, pleasantly light on the breading, arrived on a separate plate). The noodles retained their bite and shoyu broth was tasty and mild.

I keep trying to explain this to people, but it’s hard: see, you can buy contentment. On any given street, there are more places that sell it than anything else.

It worries me that food tastes better when you have someone to hold hands with between courses. If he leaves, I’ll have to carry a saltshaker in my pocket all the time.

Written by skimfu

November 16, 2008 at 3:50 am

Posted in Restaurant Reviews

Pork Tenderloin and Spinach Pastry; La Paryse

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A memory of making spanakopita: my then-boyfriend was playing a video game in our then-one-room apartment. I was rambling, talking to myself loudly, uncertain of everything I was doing. Maybe I should do it like this, or this? That seems like too much…well, maybe just too much of that…do you think there’s too much? How do I…this shape…sealing it here…oh, this one won’t work…crap, I don’t have one of those, what do you think I should use instead?

Occasionally he’d answer, but mostly he sat in silence. This is what I remember: standing still, for a moment, with a neon pink plastic bowl filled with spinach and feta in my arms, looking at his broad, unresponsive back. Did he find my frenetic yammering annoying, I wondered, or was he able to tune it out?

On Saturday afternoon, quietly rolling pork tenderloin in puff pastry, stainless steel bowl of dry rub on hand, I was suddenly glad to be alone in my large, ramshackle kitchen. A new place of only good memories.

Photo by John-Paul Lobos.

I went to a pot luck on Saturday. I intended to slow roast a pork shoulder, bake some white bread, and smother it all in something sweet and sticky, but I ran out of time (letting yeast sit, letting pork fall to pieces in a cooler oven). Instead, I bought two pork tenderloin, which was not nearly as expensive as I had been led to believe. I trimmed the fat minimally; in retrospect, I don’t think it was necessary.

Dried oregano, cayenne, paprika, cumin, and salt was mixed in a bowl, and then rubbed dry onto each piece of meat. The meat was seared on all sides, in hardly any oil, on medium-high heat. I chopped up some fresh spinach and shallots and wilted them together, and pureed some chipotle peppers with brown sugar and tomato paste (if it isn’t obvious, I was trying to use up some leftover ingredients). Puff pastry was rolled out in two large rectangles to a 1/2 inch layer (next time, and ho boy will there ever be a next time, I would use less and roll thinner) and spread with the chipotle mixture, as a pizza with tomato sauce. One tenderloin and half the spinach mixture were laid together on each piece, and then rolled up together, closing the pastry along one edge. Brushed with egg wash (raw egg beaten) and then diagonal slits with a steak knife to let steam out.

After fifteen minutes at 425 degrees F, and then another twenty at 375, the pork was so tender you could split it easily with a plastic spoon. As the potluck was hosted by a lazy dishwasher, that is actually what I was using. The finished product felt somewhat experimental to me; there are a lot of things I intend to change next time, not least of which are aesthetic.

On Friday night, I was taken to La Paryse, a self-proclaimed “snack bar” at 302 Ontario E. We arrived at five and were seated right away, and then a line promptly formed behind us that went out the door and around the corner.

Best. Hamburger. Ever.

And I don’t say that in my usual, contemplative way. I did not chew slowly with my head tilted to one side, saying, “Hmm, this is good, what’s in it?” I have no idea what was in it, and I don’t remember the individual flavours and textures. I was not comparing it to all other hamburgers I’ve eaten – all other hamburgers were obliterated, as though they had never happened. I had no thoughts beyond “best hamburger ever”. Completely blindsided by pleasure.

The milkshakes, too, were a dreamily perfect thickness, and they give you just slightly more than you would want (which is how much milkshake you should always get). The poutine was less impressive, using a mixture of curled and shredded mozzarella instead of curds, and quickly limp fries not ideal for gravy sopping, but by then I didn’t care. My companion laughed at my eyes-to-the-heavens visceral reaction and at how he had to lug my happily comatose body along the street afterward, but hell, that is living.

Written by skimfu

October 27, 2008 at 3:55 pm