jamiemaw

Vegetables have feelings too. Just ask 80% of Vancouver City Council members.

If there is but one thing more distressing than sitting nextish to a slowlyish composting vegetarian at dinner, it was reading some of the 'reviews' on Ms. Alison Davidson's website. I shall take them to the culinary journalism class I help out with next week at UBC, as an example of unfettered crap. As opposed to crapish, that is.

Are you quite sure, Neil? Must be my dreadful memory acting up again. But did you know that--immediately following the intake of a largish steak--the enzymes in the caramelized beef trigger a craving in men for lemon pie? This is an absolutely true, scientifically corroborated fact, however it's important that the pie not be too sweet. Of course the intake of a largish steak induces another craving in men too--sleep.

Here are some of the better steaks in town: Canadian AAA/Certified Angus Beef 1. Hy's Encore (begin with martinis, Caesar salad and cheese toast; admire portraits of dead waiters on walls.) 2. Hamilton Street Grill (end with world famous, house signature lemon meringue pie) 3. Smoking Dog (order rib chop, on the bone, with sauce Bordelaise) 4. Earls. That's right. 5. Le Gavroche. Entrecote for two carved at the table. 6. Cioppino's. Steak Fiorentina. Ditto. Take money. US Prime 1. Gotham 2. Morton's There are other pretenders but this should give you a start. Full report please.

Well for starters, its delicious. Same holds true for main courses too. On the whole I prefer to take it with a superior Gentlemen's Relish. Slightly sweet flesh (this condiment cuts that), very lean. Even in Paris though, there are only about 30 'boutiques hippophagiques'--horse butchers--(boucheries chevaline) left; as I recall all must must display this name to differentiate themselves from conventional butchers. But consumption is growing in Germany due to BSE outbreaks in cattle (see below). The French appetite for horse meat reportedly dates from the Battle of Eylau in 1807, when the surgeon-in-chief of Napoleon’s Army, Baron Dominique-Jean Larry, advised the starving troops to eat the flesh of dead battlefield horses. The cavalry used breastplates as cooking pans. Of course Wellington eventually prevailed because of the curative powers of the aforementioned Gentlemen's Relish. Or maybe it's because he didn't trust guys named Larry. Horsemeat is protein-rich, finely textured, bright red, and firm, not unlike Mr. Keith Talent when negotiating a BC wine purchase. But, unlike Mr. Talent, horses are immune to BSE. Perhaps most interesting though, is that the older a horse is, the more tender its flesh becomes--exactly opposite to a beef steer. Optimal slaughter is at 10 to 15 years, minimum is about seven. Of course this is a great way to really get to know your dinner, and so explains why horse meat is a popular adjunct to the Slow Food movement. Wild American mustangs (free range, grass-fed et al), are especially prized by the French. Perhaps we should ask Neil to add some 'Trigger' patties to his repertoire and serve them at the next Burger Club. Diced yellow peppers for identifiers. And an encouraging sploosh of the Gentlemen's Relish, please. Giddy up. Jamie

Gosh, where do you put it all?

Keith, Points well taken, although I'm a little alarmed to hear about you and Stephen--have you advised the lesser Talents? But as this agency was the Canadian Tourism Commission, I believe that you will have better success promoting your new caribou meat leather products (especially the XXX-tra Spicy and prune and anis ones) than your snowblowers--simply not an image the CTC really likes to run with. After all, they've put a lot of stock in global warming, even promoting Saskatoon as sub-tropical in their new promotion, "You'll come for the surfing, but you'll stay for the Sasakatoonberry pie!" Catchy. On the other hand, they are expert at promoting many artisanal, indigenous things such as portion-packed prime rib, dry-aged McCain's pizza, traditional elk balls, hockey-stick shaped pemmican and even more avant garde products such as your own. Just make sure that your collateral marketing materials are up to snuff and that your fabulous Jerky Girls are attired in traditional down mini-skirts, muffs and mukluks for the product hand-outs in Picadilly Circus/Trafalgar Square/Covent Garden. Congratulations in advance, Jamie

Sean, I don't doubt for a moment that your three main points, and especially the latter two . . . 1. That "Suppliers & staff are generally squeezed the most financially because the owner/s can, but how does this encourage further development?" 2. That "Diners should pay more for their food to help in the realisation that the general food industry is a false economy, but reward those that endeavour to produce the best quality products in a sustainable way." and 3. "When i see a waiter/ess shove a pile of cash in their pocket i don't necessarily believe that the greater good is being served(excuse the pun!)" . . . are at all mutually exclusive. Although you might argue that, in many cities, especially expensive ones such as London, the consumer would be loathe to pay a penny more. Perhaps, though, and to summarize, a gratuity-driven service culture is more sustainable, while the sourcing of sustainable ingredients is owed more than gratuitous lip service, both from agri-business and the consumer. Cheers, Jamie

I was amused by his laudatory review of Bibendum, where your own Mr. Lyons and I had a rather amusingly inept meal delivered by somnolent staff. Andy and I weigh in (heavily) about midway through here. ← Aren't you guilty of judging the restaurant on exactly the criteria you objected to upthread? I know that you are under no professional obligation when reporting on this site, but Nigel Slater's review of Bibendum carries no more or less weight in light of your experience there. He has probably been more than once (which you may well have been as well, I suppose). ← Precisely why I had your own Mr. Lyons carry the ball in 'reviewing' Bibendum, EA, even if my diary entry was chiefly for the bemusement of eGulletarians. Seriously though, had we been running a feature hard copy review, we would visited the restaurant several times, exactly for the reasons that I previously spoke to. You see, collectively Andy and I suspected that: a.) It must be better than our single-meal impression allowed for, even if Henry Harris has moved on to lustier pastures at Racine; b.) There may well be a different (and more attentive) chef on at dinner; and c.) Likewise the service staff, who might have been more oxygenated by the dinner hour. Call it benefit of the doubt if you will, but I definitely would have revisited to confirm or deny. Countless times I have had quite differing experiences from lunch to dinner, from server to server and from night to night, and sometimes most compellingly, from dish to dish. That's why I maintain that a single, snapshot visit is not necessarily the most balanced way to review someone else's business. And yes, I have been to Bibendum more than once, as I said, however it had been a while and on this visit it was rather smaller than I had remembered. Cheers, Jamie

I was amused by his laudatory review of Bibendum, where your own Mr. Lyons and I had a rather amusingly inept meal delivered by somnolent staff. Andy and I weigh in (heavily) about midway through here.

You can contact Jeff at lafrenz@shaw.ca to ask him if he knows of any restaurants that might still carry what you seek. Likely candidates might include CRU, Lumiere, Raincity or The Jericho Tennis Club.

Actually, Wine Spectator did cover the Okanagan Valley recently, although, as per usual, and much to the amusement of the locals, they sent in a writer from far away who managed to get several facts hilariously wrong. Their fact-checking, just as for an article on Vancouver several years ago, was lamentable. But you're right James, I doubt they'll carve much space to consistently review Okanagan products, other than ice wines perhaps. And again, Andy, plaudits to you, Ingo Grady of Mission Hill and others for doing the heavy lifting to get the word out of your own accord. The Canadian Tourism Commission, as I understand it, only provided the premises and glassware. Not unlike the recent demonstration that David Hawksworth gave at Divertimenti--done on a shoestring, but in front of a solid crowd and worthy as a result. Mr. Talent does make a good point of course, that Canada should continue to invest in the export promotion of reinforcing steel, industrial detergents, beaver-skin hats, dimension-cut lumber and stunning au pairs.

Chef's tongs. Spend too much and they'll be heavier and also incorporate a heavier spring that tires the hand. The $1.99 Chinatown versions are best and although they don't last forever, they ensure that your hands will.

How about Provence Marinaside for their pretty patio, and their excellent breakfasts and coffee? And, besides the view of both attractive marine architecture and that of the local citizenry, the next door store offers superior papers, and both open early.

Here in the Republic of Cascadia, there is absolutely no chauvinism when it comes to wine--just currency and import duty issues. For decades we have felt a much stronger commonality--especially in matters of food and wine--on a north-south axis rather than with our eastern Canadian cousins. This fact has only become more eveident during the Hockey Strike. We share with our culinary neighbours in Washington and Oregon similar growing seasons and products--from wine to the 82 species of seafood that hug our collective coast. Cheers, Jamie PS: See the subtle spelling variation on the word Okanagan (Cdn) versus Okanogon (U.S.).

On first blush it seems that your editor, Ms. Reichl, may have pulled rank and installed "Dark Roast" in lieu of "D is for Drinking", however there is an unattributed piece called "Just Drinks" that mentions Match EC1, Match Bar, The Cork and Bottle Wine Bar and Cross Bar. And Nigel Slater offers "The Tables Have Turned", an article on . . . wait for it . . . British restaurant critics.

THe March issue of Saveur has a piece on the differences between US and UK restaurant critics by, er, me. It goes into all this stuff. ← Congratulations to Jay Rayner for his article in Saveur entitled "Diatribes for Dinner" which does indeed explain why British critics feel a compunction to dish spleen or merely offal. There is an interesting historical slant to the piece as well, although it doesn't mention Craig Brown, whom I had thought was in the vanguard of eatertainment reviewers. My only real complaint with the piece was that--at less than 40 column inches--it was even shorter, if only slightly, than Michael Winner. By the way, Gourmet magazine this month scours London.

Congratulations Andy on your dogged determination to make good on your promises to the various Okanagan winemakers whom you met last summer. And what a delightful line-up of wines--you chose well. Terrific card of assistants that you had in your enterprise as well; Ingo Grady is both curator and ambassador for the entire Okanagan Valley. A century ago, Okanagan Valley tree fruits won blue ribbons at the Covent Garden competition. A decade ago, a Mission Hill (where Mr. Grady is Director of Sales--the actual winery is amongst the most beautiful in North America) chardonnay won the Avery Trophy in London for best chardonnay in the world. As I recall, the French judges demanded a re-tasting as they couldn't pronounce the name of the region. It won again. Perhaps ironically, at the exact time of your tasting I was standing in the garden of our cottage in Kelowna (in the centre of the British Columbia wine country), enjoying the warm sunshine of a perfect early spring day. It looks like a year for a good early set for the fruit. In London you mentioned that it was snowing--but perhaps there's a future for Kentish ice wine. If this is global warming, bring it on. Jamie

Hear, hear. A true culinary crossroads and resource for visiting and local chefs and civilians with a burning interest in food. And I would add to that Les Amis du Fromage for educating our palates, both directly from the store and via restaurants who carry their well-managed local and long distance products.

Okay Jamie. This is driving me nuts. For the life of me, I can't remember where Papillotte was located. My Mom and I used to dine there quite regularly. ← As I recall it was on West Broadway near Cambie.

Welcome, Sonja. In an earlier generation, I was one of those nasty boys in short gray flannel pants (from the school around the corner) that came for milkshakes, but at the adjacent Ann's Cafe.

Sharp eyes, vandan--Adega still goes on. As to that amazing beverage alternative to Trader Vic's at The Bayshore Inn, I remember it as "officially" being called the Bayside Room. But believe me, there was a lot of self-induced amnesia that emanated from there. And here's one that will test memories: Scott's Cafe on Granville Street. You'd plan to meet an object of desire "under the Birk's clock" (when it was still at Granville and Georgia) and then retire for some kitchen food (chicken pot pie?) at Scott's. I believe that its predecessor (or possibly another restaurant entirely) was Love's Cafe. I also remember with affection--from the same era--the original Seymour Buffet on the sixth floor of The Bay. J.

Well, there were quite a few low morels there, occasionally lurking in ladies dresses too. Thankfully.

I began in the business as a busboy at The Attic in West Vancouver. It was just after the Crimean War, I believe. I was paid $1.25 per hour plus a share of tips from two waitresses--anywhere from $2 to $5 per night each, depending on many variables and their time of the month. My favourites were Teresa, who would eventually marry Jean-Claude Ramond, and Katie, who looked particularly endearing in her Klondike dress. I wore black pants and a green and gold lamé vest that was kind to stains. For those of you who never visited The Attic, it pretty much looked like its name. It was decorated in a rather eclectic manner, to be polite, with fake Tiffany lamps, unmatched furniture and a male statue in the lady’s room that, when a fig leaf masking the male organ was touched, would pee a jet of cold water onto the curious babe. I got to mop it up. The managers, Charles (downstairs in the events and weekend brunch room called The Capilano Gardens) and Ian, were harsh invigilators, but Frank Baker was as cool with us as he was chatting up the ladies or blowing his trumpet. The night before he had his remaining teeth removed (the new ones would be installed a month later), he gave a last baleful toot. His sound would never be the same. But he was always the same, with a lot of kind words and a big drink in his hand, often entertaining celebs like Mitzi Gaynor after a show at The Cave. He wore white tie and tails every night for the floor show, with white shoes. But it was a cut above the regular Full Nanaimo. Hy Aisenstat, Jack Wasserman, Jack Webster and Denny Boyd were regulars, because the drinks were strong, severely discounted for pals and because it was just a short toboggan ride up Taylor Way to their homes. Downstairs, at the entrance, the silver James Bond Aston Martin sat polished under plexiglass. Quite a draw. But nothing like Lance Harrison and his Dixieland Band, who drank vodka with a splash of OJ on the back stoop between sets. To this day, I go out of my way to avoid banjo music. In time I was allowed access to the inner sanctum where Mr. Baker would entertain those pals and fabulous babes, bouffants like cotton candy, clasping whiskey sours over vertiginous bosoms. This was, I suppose, how I came to enjoy spectating the human condition. And at The Attic, the conditions were pretty good. The food was, well, interesting, the way you'd tell your Mum that the girl you took to the dance was “interesting”, I suppose. Soup, iceberg salads, steaks, ribs, chicken—pretty much proforma. The rubber tire tour bus crowd would roll in first on their way to the ferry—around 5 o’clock. They were served the “Staff Meal” which was invariably soup, griddled ham steak with a ring of Dole pineapple, and rice pilaf, which we didn’t exactly pronounce that way. One smart aleck caught me with my thumb in his soup when I not so carefully placed it down. “I hope you didn’t burn your thumb,” he said. “Well, no sir, it’s actually lukewarm.” And while I wasn’t actually fired for that remark, I did have to pearl dive for a couple of nights before going back on the floor. But hell, people weren’t there for the food. They were there for a night out, for some stiff drinks, a few jokes and some music, and maybe even a chance to spot a star. Eventually I cooked steaks, a great many steaks, in the little glass grill-room that protruded into the dining rooms. I loved it. We stuck little plastic cows of various colours—red, pink, beige and brown—into the steaks to indicate doneness. I’m sure the customers found it reassuring. I think my record was around 200 steaks in one evening. It must have been a payday Friday. West Vancouver was a dining desert then, with Peppi’s and a Chinese restaurant with an occidental name and just a few other places augmenting The White Spot. The real action was downtown at Hy’s at the Sands, The William Tell, The Cavalier Grill and The Roof. Frank Baker eventually lost The Attic, probably for a bunch of reasons, but mainly because he never changed the concept. The Aston Martin was famously auctioned off by the receiver. I guess people had moved on—to The Keg and elsewhere. His big time days over, Frank Baker made a comeback on Cambie Street, but it always seemed a bit half-hearted. His horn went finally quiet in 1989, his white suits packed away. The word flamboyant always seemed a bit small for him. In the summers Mr. Baker took us out for a staff party on his houseboat, the not-so-curiously named El Citta. The food was plentiful if familiar. We would push up Indian Arm at trolling speed, eating and drinking, into the summer shadows, and then suddenly, they were gone too.

This is absolutely true, but equally unfortunate.