Peter Green
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Posts posted by Peter Green
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Oh, man, do I ever hate going transatlantic.
Jet lag is never kind.
I guess it's time to get back to work.
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Thanks, everyone!
The good thing about hours spent in airports is that it gives me time to write.
I did hit up DB Moderne today for lunch. Scud and I were going to do Moderne Burger again, but DB was open, and we were there......you know how I am.
It was their first lunch, after the dinner opening yesterday, but everything was working with a degree of precision. The man himself was there checking on things, and I must say that I was quite pleased with what I ate.
I'll put some thought into comparisons of this with some of the other places I've been recently (like Rhodes W1 Brasserie, which I also enjoyed).
It'll make a good penultimate piece for the trip.
(The ultimate, of course, will be sake, which I'm reviewing in a liquid manner at this point, as I wait for my brother to collect us for the airport run)
On the bright side, Vancouver is back to normal.......it's raining!
Bye for now (if KLM lets me on).
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Snow!
Trip to airport!
(I'll be catching up over the next week or so....you know what I'm like)
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That seems like an amazing amount of drink and I can't find the first food...other than at Bonita?
(Ah, this was later in the evening, post MB?) Thank you for the food trip - Vancouver is fun that way. Travel is really.
Yes, we did go into the fray girded with burgers and fries from Moderne Burger earlier in the evening.
Still, I'm pleased to be an amazing drinker.
We thought we were rather restrained.
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December 3 (part of it) – Into the Night
We had to drop by the Heather.
This place had come up on Aidan’s radar the moment it opened, the allure of black pudding striking a spark for his Newcastle-borne senses. The only thing that gets that quick a reaction out of him is a beer cap being popped.
The Irish Heather is different, though. It migrated across the street last summer, into cleaner, more fashionable digs.
Pity.
The old Heather had that beaten up, broken down feel that just made you comfortable (sort of like me, except for the “comfortable” part). The new place is glass doors and stylish Celtic designs. Polished wood and comfortable seating.
Like I said, “Pity”.
I shouldn’t be so hard. Really, it only fails in comparison to the old place. But most things do.
I had a Rail Ale, from the boys at Howe Sound, and Aidan went for the Phoenix Gold from Philips (ignore the Guinness brandings). I know Philips better for their IPA, what Aidan was having now was just a Canadian Lager, but it was a straightforward enough.
The food does look good. The Heather has taken up the “gastropub” banner, crying for good pub grub. Mind you, it was a fine place to eat before, sitting back in the greenhouse, it just didn’t need to say it.
We did our beer to about the halfway mark, and by then we were talking with the manager, who recognizes Aidan easily enough. We walked through the bar to the Salty Tongue side, and admired the long table.
It is, in effect, a long table.
And it works. It’s like a bunch of picnic tables on the green all put together. I can see how you’d get a great sociality about this, feeding upon sandwiches and the café food that they do here.
We had them walk our beers through back to Shebeen.
Now, if the Heather suffers from being cleaned up, Shebeen is in the trauma stage. The new place is very pleasant. It suffers immensely from pleasantness. It feels like you’re in someone’s rec-a-room. Low ceiling, well stocked bar, and low lighting. And clean.
But the old Shebeen felt like it should. It was a hard to find spot (and, fair enough, the new one is also not an easy find), and once there, you felt that you needed to keep an eye out behind yourself for the shiv that might be finding its way to your kidneys. As someone said “At the old Shebeen you felt naughty. At the new one you feel nice.”
A couple of nights ago, there was talk of how Vancouver lacked a Scottish bar. Plenty of faux-Irish, but nothing Scotts. I would’ve considered the old Shebeen a good example of a Glasgow drinking hole.
But that’s just me.
So, take what I’ve just told you and douse it in a liberal handful of Himalayan rock salt. Like the Heather, there’s not really anything wrong with the new Shebeen other than that it’s not the old Shebeen.
Excellent selection of malts. 117 is what we figured, setting aside the Canadians and the Irish (and the Japanese) as they don’t count in this. The Man and I set about doing the bar proper, and laid into the selection.
I had a Royal Lochnagar, Speyside but very well balanced– the whisky of old Vicky (hence the “Royal”), and Aidan went for a Glendronach, sherry rich on the mouth – which of course got us talking with the bartender on barrel management. I’d know from the Bangkok tasting that Glenmorangie was taking their woodwork very seriously, but I hadn’t realized that they, along with Highland Park, spent more together on wood than anyone else.
As we drank our whisky, we noticed that our beers had evaporated. It must be the alcohol in them that causes this phenomenon.
Aidan went for a Blue Truck, and I admired the Crooked Tooth Hallowe’en Ale from Phillips.
A tidbit that came up with the Blue Truck was the story of the Red Truck. Mark James had done a Red Truck, which was only on tap. Sleemans (whom, I’m sorry to admit, I used to own stock in) sued them over the name, as they also had a Red Truck. James renamed theres as Blue Buck, but then went on to put out Accusation Ale, which contained a long diatribe on the ill character of litigation. This may be one of the few cases of editorializing through malt.
By this point, as you can imagine, we were in the inquisitive phase of the evening (Spain spent years at this). We found an interesting bottle behind the counter – PC6. Aidan spotted it through dyslexia, thinking it was PCG, my initials. This was an overproof from Bruichladdich, an Islay. 61.6%, and known for bottling their own whisky. It was a hardhitting dram, but very interesting, with an excellent finish in contrast with the slap across the face of the opening.
“Assertive peat”, was the term that came up. Regarding the whisky, not myself.
As happens when alcohol is involved, we got to talking about cabbages and kings with the staff, it wasn’t crowded. They’re a good lot, and they know their whisky. They know enough to hide some of the bottles in the back so they can avail themselves. Aidan spends enough time in here that they recognize him, and that helps.
The lads pulled a very interesting bottle off the shelf from the right hand trans-Atlantic side. Not a Scotch, but a Canadian. The Centennial, from Alberta. We tried this, closing our eyes, and what we found was something as smooth as silk. This didn’t taste like a Canadian whisky at all. They surprised everyone at the last tastings, and, at $36 CDN – in comparison to what you’ll pay for a Scotch – this was excellent value.
Which reminds me, I should pick up a case.
Then we had a Brora, a “silent distillery”, which means that they’ve passed off this mortal coil, but their spirit remains.
I’d like to comment about the peat and the front and the tail, but by this time we were embroiled in a whisky lesson with two fellows who were new to the taste.
With Aidan, that’s like putting chum in the water – especially when they’d accused him of having a “fake English accent”. Well, it’s Newcastle. Can you blame them?
About an hour later, we were out of Shebeen. But the night was young. At least we thought it was young. Maybe middle-aged would be the better term. We couldn’t read our watches anymore, so that helped.
It was a long walk across the street, and I found a thirst upon me after that exertion. 6 Acres was doing a roaring trade, so we dropped in there for a pint.
It was doing such a roaring trade that we had to fight our way up to the balcony to get a seat. Once there we weren’t budging. We settled down to the bar and put in our order.
I went for a Belk’s Extra Special Bitter. A cute label, the Belk being a cross between a bear and an elk…which caused some disturbing imagery, but we’ll put that aside for now.
By this point, we were passing from inquisitive to maudlin. Now it was time to dwell upon what had passed.
Actually, what triggered this was just looking out across the cobblestones to the place that had once been a great live music venue – where we’d seen the B-Sides and others. But we couldn’t remember the name.
Around the corner I wondered about the Brickyard. It had become the Limerick Junction, with a stop on the way, and was now closed up.
Puccini’s was the Brick House before. And now it’s a good honest boozer.
I looked up at this. We’d been joined by the fellow who’d been sitting beside us, engrossed in a book. Our topic was dear to his heart, and he was a useful man, filling in those critical years in the 90s that I’d not been here.
We talked about El Cid, which was famous for being the first hotel in town with satellite porno feeds to the rooms. I’d just thought of it as an old folks place good for darts. They went on to the Spinning Wheel, and then the Churchill Arms.
The Grand Union is still there, bless them. A relatively accessible bar, just not with the clothing we were wearing.
Bosman’s Sidebar closed in 2006. We all did a moment of silence. We couldn’t muster a full minute, as we were quite thirsty.
And the best comment came up with regards to Shebeen’s “I used to feel naughty. Now I feel nice.”
On Powell there’s a karaoke place that’s a very good live music venue now.
And there’s the Rail. We were irate over a recent review that talked about the Railway Club as a “railroad themed pub”. This was the railwayman’s pub in the old days, part of the union. “Theme” my third eye!”
Sorry, I get worked up over these things.
And the Penthouse was recently renovated. If ever there was a “blast from the worst part of the 60s” the Penthouse had been it. Seedy carpets, dingy walls. It was a call back to the underworld of the time. And now they’ve cleaned it up.
And even the Marble Arch is getting a facelift.
The Blood & Guts is gone. If you’re not aware, the Royal Canadian Legions are (at least were) great places to drink. With a dwindling membership (this is before Afghanistan) they were welcoming to almost anyone who was polite and minded their language. We’d show up at these, have extremely cheap beers, play darts and pool on brand new tables, and enter the meat draws, listening to the stories the members had about WWII and Korea.
(Aside: talking with Mom, the Legions have fallen upon hard times. The city won’t consider them as a charity, and are taxing them out of existence. This is, truly, shameful.)
And then, as often happens, our ire fell upon the great enemy – the Liquor Board.
When you think back upon it, if it hadn’t been for Expo86 we might still be driving down to Point Roberts of a Sunday for our pints. There’s a scary thought. Yes, there has been some loosening of the Blue laws in terms of opening hours and such, but we’re still fairly restrictive in terms of what can be done, and where. And that tenacious control is killing the middle ground of innovative drinking.
Their firm hold on the licensing of pubs and retail outlets has made the matter of a license one of great value, and as the value increases, the desire to take risks decreases. Thus we see the big boys putting their money into the faux-British pubs about town, and the sports bars, following a formula that is tried, true, and growing intensely boring.
Much as I miss the old Heather and Shebeen, I do admire their efforts in staying different.
The restaurantizing (There’s a George W word for you) of pubs has allowed for a slightly different approach to drinking, although our public servants do undertake the occasional raid to ensure that food is on the tables somewhere at 10 p.m. I remember that this was a loophole we could exploit at places like the Cheddar Cheese and other such venues back in the university daze. It’s now become a business driver.
We glowered at our pints.
By this point, Famine had once again mounted his horse and was taking tilt upon us. Around the corner, another well-recommended restaurant was still open.
Bonita.
This name had been coming up a lot, and I wanted to see what they were like. We were here, the restaurant was here…..it was syncopatic.
We dumped our clothes upon the central feeding bar, and Aidan headed for the can as I settled into my beer. We were soon joined by a pleasant couple, archetypes of the new Gastown crowd. He was doing post production work, and being paid to watch Japanese cartoons, and she wouldn’t say what she did. They were relatively young, working in interesting areas (the unknown is always interesting) and obsessed with food and drink.
A fine set of qualifications for dinner company.
Things were getting a might blurry.
We all went in together, and ordered a bunch of food. This is just the thing to do at some time around midnight….or was it later?
First, some poutine (which is becoming widely available in the town). It was something I’ve heard of, but never come across before (I know, I know….I’m just ignorant). A mass of starch with gravy. Quite satisfying.
And there were scallops with sweetbreads. This lead to a discussion of what sweetbreads are, which drove off half the table (leaving more for me). The combination is very good, with those large, firm, meaty scallops being matched by the softness of the sweetbreads.
There was a duck, served along with a duck sausage, and creamed potatoes. The duck was well done, no complaints there, but the sausage was much more interesting, with a very pleasant taste, rich and fat, with a backdrop of blood.
Oh, and beets are very much the vegetable of the season, it would seem.
And we also had a carpaccio, but the photo of that was a dud. The carpaccio came out buried under a layer of greens, drizzled with mustard, and then covered with parmesan and a couple off eggs. I can’t say I was too pleased with this, as it just seemed a bit too “busy”. I think of a carpaccio as a straightforward dish of marinated beef, taken raw and tangy from Harry’s Bar.
Call me old-fashioned.
This turned out to be a very social meal, with a good discussion of post production, foo movies and drink.
It was good enough that we took the discussion across to Chill for another beer, but at that point they were just closing the house, so I can’t give much of a review. Big room, comfy chairs, cold beers. Nice ambience until they put the lights up.
Fed twice, and with enough beer in me to be content, it was a taxi home.
As I always say, it’s a successful night out when you wake up with your wallet and all of your teeth.
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I'm hoping to be back, too.
I hope that many of these places stand the test of time and are still here when I come through again. It's a trade-off this trip, not having much time, as to whether to cover a wide range, or concentrate on the ones that make me happy. There are a couple I've done a reprise on, but there are so many others that just look too good to miss.
I should eat more meals in a day.
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I really enjoyed my visits to Beer Club Popeye at Ryogoku. Mind you, you should have an interest in Japanese micro-brews if you're going to do this.
If you make it for their happy hour, which I think runs to 7 or so, they would toss in a free dish with each beer ordered. You can easily go through a dozen small plate items this way.
And around the corner, by the train station, there's a slew of great, inexpensive places to eat. We did yakitori, and even for me, that was a lot of food that evening. The link to the writeup is here.
Cheers,
Peter
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I understand that you are going to have some seriously spicy food this evening. Seriously Spicy.
How can it be so serious if we were all smiling?
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December 7 – An Aside
Well, it’s a week into my Vancouver time, and I’m already four days behind. Obviously I need to have a glass of wine and some good cheese, and reflect on things.
Otherwise I might be tempted to catch up.
The cheese was fantastic. Yes, I know that’s a superlative, but it was good. I walked up to the Meinhardt’s at Arbutus. They took over this space from a music store, and before that it was a Buy-Low, and before that it was an IGA.
Anyways, I told the woman behind the counter that I was looking for something that would smell like my socks and run away from just about anything.
That perked her up.
She recommended this – The Farm House’s La Florette, from Agassiz. As soon as I cut into it it just went soft and wet, spilling out onto the paper like bowels from a belly cut. Nice smell, good flavour. Not as aggressive as a strong Frenchman, but then, this is Western Canada, after all.
With that a bit of white, just to keep me honest.
Of course, the reason to have the cheese was just to get out of the house and admire the sky. It rained heavy this morning, and then cleared in time for the Santa Claus parade downtown.
There’s a light you get here, especially after a heavy rain, that’s hard to explain in print. All I know is that when I’d watch taped TV programs in Cairo back in the 80s, we could always tell the Vancouver-shot shows by the light.
And, once home, Mom’s making blueberry crumble.
There, now it’s time to get ready for dinner.
Next – back to our regular programming
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December 3 – Moderne Times
After walking by MB the other day, it was only appropriate that I’d soon be dining there. This was my evening out with Jackie and Aidan. Alongside their day jobs, also looks after Dipsophilia, which tries to keep up with the drinking events that pack out the calendar in this fine city.
It was Aidan and Jackie’s choice. With Wee Angus (well, he’s hardly “wee”) along, we were in mind for something close to home and child friendly.
Moderne always fits that bill.
Luckily, unlike Lumiere down the street (industry tasting Monday. How come I wasn’t invited? – sniff!) Moderne Burger was open. It seemed like every other time the family came by over the last few years, they’re closed for renovations.
But not this year (or at least since Yoonhi and Serena were here in the summer). It was open, bigger, and, well moderne looking.
I always like the look of this place. I wonder if the Smallville cast ever comes in here en masse? 1950s lines, deco windows, the works. The only place that evokes a similar feeling from me in Vancouver is the Ovaltine, and that’s a different clientele.
(Hey, is the Ovaltine still open?)
Dinner was a straightforward affair. Burgers, fries, and shakes.
With mine I went for old-fashioned steak with mushrooms and bacon, just to make it healthier. A solid burger, the appropriate size (I’m not a fan of burgers you can’t get your mouth around), and with a nice wetness to it.
Wear your food with pride, say I.
But, for me, the burger is an afterthought. What I really want are the fries and the shake.
For a shake, I went for a mocha, figuring that it would help me stay awake.
Well, it’s a theory.
As for the fries, I was happy. You see, they're not a Belgian frite, by any means, nor are they the uber-crisp of McDonald's old recipe (before the ridiculous backlash against meat fats).
I looked in on Lumiere. They were bustling about, but when I asked, it was apparent that I wouldn’t be here at the right time. I’d either be heading for the Island to get Scud, or else whiling the time away at Vancouver International.
And I admired the White Spot across the street. A chain, I know, but a survivor. Feenie worked for them for awhile, after the Lumiere meltdown. I heard from my nephew, Jason, that they’ve opened in Seoul now, playing on the returned home-stay crowd’s sense of nostalgia, drawing on that need for Triple-O sauce.
Some gochujang wouldn’t be bad, either.
(Here’s a question. Has anyone been in Dan, the Japanese bar next to Moderne Burger?)
Our plan was, with food out of the way, for the older boys to be cast free, while Jackie and Angus headed back for some quality time.
We’re both elderly, responsible adults, right?
Right?
Next: East Into The Morning
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The brewer is Echigo Beer.
The official website is
That beer, Koshihikari Echigo Beer, uses Koshihikari rice, and is brewed with the decoction technique.
I didn't recognize that beer at first, but I had the canned version of it several times before. If I remember it correctly, it was light and dry (wasn't it?).
Thanks, Hiroyuki!
We haven't tried it yet, we just admired the bottle. It was one of those evenings where we were toasted just enough to appreciate that we wouldn't taste it properly (as opposed to further baked, at which point you open things you shouldn't.....hmmmm, was I half-baked?)
Cheers,
Peter
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December 3 – To Market, To Market
It was a fair morning, pushing the afternoon, so I headed off to undertake one of my “missions” for the trip.
I wanted to visit the Artisan Sake Maker.
After the Japan trip and the visit to the Kitagawa honke last Spring, this had been high on my list of things I had to do. Aidan (at Dipsophilia) had been emailing me links to some of the articles in print, and I’d already emailed Masa Shiroki, looking for restaurants in advance that would be stocking his wares.
His response was a very reasonable “Why don’t you come down? We’ve got a tasting bar here and you can see what you like.”
This is like inviting a vampire into your home.
The brewery is on Railspur, an alley in the middle of the Island, a short walk away from the market itself. They’re blowing glass at the entry to the alley, and next door there’s a leather place, and a coffee shop nearby.
It’s Vancouver. How far can you ever be away from a coffee shop?
It’s a very tidy operation, a gleaming stainless, with the odd bit of wood, such as the beam of the funa – part of the pressing operation.
Up front, at the counter, a very charming young lady was quite happy to pour me a tasting set of the three sakes that they bottle. These come in both half and full-size (720 ml) bottles, whichever suits your needs.
For the three, they’re doing a junmai nama, a clear, clean tasting sake, with some citrus elements in there. She recommended this for fish.
In comparison, the junmai nama genshu, at 18%, packs a much fuller mouth, holding its own with most anything you might want to try.
And then there’s the nigori. Junmai nama nigori. After the Takara nigori I’d had in London the week before, my palate was crying for more. This came out fresh, the ferment still on the go and the white, animal husbandry like fluid was dancing on the surface.
It’s important to stress that all of these had a beautiful, lively tone to their bodies. They weren’t pasteurized, and were still alive in the mouth as you took them.
I know, I know. You’re going to ask about the stubby one in the middle with the Grolsch cap. That one is a seasonal, a “sparkling sake”. This I didn’t taste at the time, I just took a bottle. I remember Mr. Kitagawa talking about this method, and how some of the brewers were taking it up for the export market.
When you find an opportunity, say I, seize it by the neck. Then swig it.
She nicely asked if I would care to buy any of the product, and I immediately put my money down and took one of each. I really want to see how this works out with some different cuisines. All through the Gourmet Fest in September, I’d been thinking about this dish or that dish would work with good sake. Now was my chance.
They were also selling kasu, the lees of the sake from the pressing of the momori. Traditionally, this is used for marinating, for tenderizing meats and such. As was noted in _____’s post above, Oyama was using this for beef, and I was intrigued.
I intrigue easily.
We’ll talk more about the kasu when I come back to this later.
I had a lot of questions regarding the operation, but, unfortunately, Masa Shiroki wasn’t in the shop at the time. But I had his email, so I could formulate my material a little more cogently, and get back to him (I spent a wonderful afternoon with him over coffee later in the week, so I’ll get back to this later, and then we can talk more about kasu and sake)
I walked up the Island to the Market.
Have you noticed how the world is devolving into Capitalized Nouns of late?
The Market is what I always think of as the centerpiece of the Island. Going back to its redevelopment in the 1970s, this was what all of the original fuss was about. The Emily Carr University, the hotel, theatres, and the brewery (which actually moved out to the Okanogan, but they keep the old place here).
The market itself plays host to a number of permanent installations. Produce comes in from the Vallley, and is sold on again to locals and tourists.
In the summer it’s a lot more fun, with things spilling out onto the open areas fronting False Creek and the downtown core. Little ferries shutting back and forth across the water.
But, it still has a certain charm in the cold and wet, which is a good thing, otherwise they’d only do two weeks of business a year.
The official bird of Vancouver – aka “Rat with wings”
Inside the halls, there’s a world of stuff to leer at.
Truth be told, if I’m cooking I prefer shopping at T&T. With what seems like a half kilometer of live food tanks, that Asian market is my idea of heaven on Earth. But I won’t be in the kitchen this trip (I much prefer Sister’s place on the North Shore for working), I can eat with my eye here in touristville.
And it is fun. Consider this stand. Oysters, oysters, and oysters (maybe I could buy just six?), plus mussels and clams.
And fresh scallops. After Glen Ballis’ scallop dish, I can just picture how I would lightly sear these and set them off in a Thai backdrop.
And what a civilized world it is when you can pick up smoked pigs’ ears whenever you want to? (I think they were selling these for the dogs, though. Still, I don’t discriminate in such matters).
And, if you ask me what I’d want to have at hand to eat while writing, my answer would be berries. At this point I broke down and bought a tub of blueberries. I couldn’t help myself.
But my goal wasn’t breakfast snacks…..okay, it was. But of a meat nature.
John van der Leick’s operation has been the talk of the town for ages. He came to Canada some 20 years ago from Germany, and started up operations in the Okanogan (at the town of Oyama), then opened the shop up here later on. Once the word got out on his products, he quickly became one of the busiest shops on the Island.
It makes my eyes water to see a selection like this. Sausages, pates, hams, made from almost anything under the sun.
I bought a quarter kilo of the beef kazu to see how this has worked, and couldn’t resist picking up a Grelots noisette, and a saucisse d’Alsace. They’ll go well with blueberries for breakfast.
My work here was done. Now all that remained to me was to wend my way out of the Island and get back home to a knife and some crackers.
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Can anyone shed any light on this beer and its brewer? Aidan (Mr. Beer) found this in Hawaii. It was the only Japanese beer they had (as opposed to the others, which were all brewed elsewhere for export).
Art Series beers?
Thanks,
Peter
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Hi Peter!
As much as I always enjoy reading about your exotic travels and food, I have to say that I'm enjoying this most of all! I've never been to Vancouver, but it's still familiar to this Kansas girl.
How is the seafood up there? What is in season now?
Oh, and for the cat hair I recommend only dressing in white attire
I'm debating dunking the felines in India ink.
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I'm really enjoying this Peter. Thank you for taking the time to document your time in Vancouver. Can't wait to see the rest!
Hey, I've gotta find something to do at 4 a.m. when my eyes slam open.
Thanks,
Peter
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Oct 22, 2008
The first setting
As I’d mentioned earlier, I had a couple of trips to London that needed doing. This first one took me overnight, and dumped me at Heathrow, sleepless and ruffled.
That’s the bad part. I really am growing to detest the air-travel experience. As Martin Amis described aircraft in Money, they’ve transformed themselves into tubes of the sky……and his character was traveling Concorde…..I suppose, in relation to that, I’m aboard a Tata bus. What ever became of that bright future in which we’d take champagne on the observation deck, resplendent in our bow ties and evening gowns?...
Sorry, I was rereading Gibson’s The Gernsback Continuum again.
But, enough of such whinging. There is a good part.
The good part was my friend, back home from his work in the Horn of Africa, had come to pick me up. This was a much more personable way to begin the day. It forces sociability upon me, and engages my sense of humour.
We drove to his home out past Ascot, and settled into a pleasant glass of morning champagne, while I admired the house and the riot of Autumn colour that stretched out below us in the valley. Overcast, and a bit wet, it was still a beautiful sight after time in the Middle East. I’ll take orange and crimson over brown and beige most any day.
The two of us go back a few years, and he and his wife had both come out to one of the World Gourmet Fests in Bangkok with me, so I had full confidence in their tastes and decisions. Well, more so hers, perhaps. They were taking care of things which suits a wastrel like me quite well. But Monday thwarted our plans. A day of rest, most of the places they’d been trying to book were closed.
But one came up, “in Reading, of all places”, that they’d heard good things about. And I’ve never been to Reading.
I’m a big city lad, I must admit, and as such, it’s almost impossible for me to escape the clutches of places like London or Bangkok. Once I’m there, I just sort of want to nestle in and not leave. The opportunity to be outside of London is something I should take advantage of.
Admittedly, this is all part of the London megalopolis (also pretty much known as the South of England nowadays, but there’s still enough crown land stretching about, faux Greek colunnades and all, that there’s the appearance of countryside.
And appearance is everything.
The drive settled me down a bit, as I’d found out I’d forgotten the camera and had been rather agitated. I had the cradle and charger, I was just missing that odd little part with the lens thingy and buttons. I blame my airline, as the limo they sent out for me had arrived some three hours early, which left me in rather panicked state of packing.
There, I’ve made excuses. I feel better about myself now. You might not, but I do.
Forbury’s is located by the courts, and thrives, I suspect, on the trade with the law offices that are all about. We saw one huge platter of French looking things skirl out of the doorway and into the offices nearby. A string of deliveries continued through the meal.
An English name, but a French feel. Champagne was one of the design elements, with bottles everywhere. There was also a fair bit of whicker basketry to induce a feeling of the autumn (if you hadn’t twigged to the foliage outside).
My friends had brought their camera, so, for this first meal, at least there’s some colour to help liven this up.
I had the crispy ox tongue, with sauce gribiche to start, fluffed up on the side by a mounded salad of some rocket and other greens. The tongue came resting upon some beetroot support, and things became nicely crimson in short order. The tongue was crispy, but some of the texture of it seemed to have suffered on the inside. Still, it wasn’t something I’d tried before, and I’m always open.
My friend had the Gruyere gougere, with wild mushroom fricassee, and a poached duck egg. This was fine, really a cheese sandwich of sorts, until the mushrooms, at which point there was definitely some grit. Still, it was just a couple of mushrooms, and not the whole dish.
The young lady in our midst (alright, my friend’s wife), had the “mosaic” of duck, chicken, and sweetbreads, with poilane bread as her starter. The terrine was well put together, with the full fat of the foie gras going against the chunkier bits in there.
For a main, I went for the slow cooked pigs trotters, with sage, apple, and truffle potato puree. These came with their jus, nicely reduced, and a sprinkling of beans and mushrooms. I didn’t have any issues with this in terms of grit, so I was content enough. The potatoes carred the truffle smell well, and the trotters were good, in a slightly sweet, slightly crystalline way.
My friend and his wife took the confit duck leg with boudin noir and endive salad; and the marsh fed Welsh lamb, cooked two ways, with carrot puree and sage gnocchi. They were both satisfied with the main body of these, but again the gritty mushrooms troubled him. I tried one from his plate, and they were gritty. It must just have been a batch not quite fully washed.
The wine was a pleasant thing; a 2006 Tigress from Tasmania, Bay of Fires, not an area I’ve tried before. It was a very smooth pinot noir, and went well with the lamb, although a little beaten up by the pigs trotters.
We passed on dessert. One of the items that had drawn our attention here was foie gras ice cream in their web posting. But it wasn’t available today.
We did go for a cheese plate to help us wrap up the wine on my part, and my friend took an Australian sticky to finish upon.
The cheese was good, but the order was slightly botched, and the young waiter couldn’t tell us which was which. Of course, I couldn’t either.
Once it was sorted out, we had Black and Blue (a stilton), then an Irish Gubeem, a soft Loire, and an epoisse. My favourite, of course, was the epoisse, with a pleasant, truly disgusting, rotting smell. That’s what I look for in a good cheese. The Irish was very surprising, too, with a beautiful buttery, nutty taste to it.
It was unfortunate about the mushrooms, I must say. The cheese plate was an honest mix-up, but grit in mushrooms is like grit in a clam, it sort of shuts things down upon you.
Still, my friend didn’t make a fuss, just let them know quietly as we were leaving. It’s probably just a one off thing.
A nice room, interesting items on the menu, and pleasant staff who work hard to please. I snagged some of their Christmas menus on the way out, and these did look very good, with a healthy amount of foie gras, truffles, and game in play.
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The train took me into London proper from their place, and I made my way to my hotel, the Trafalgar. I was rather surprised by it. It’s a Hilton, and I always associate the Hilton brand as rather one that aspired to be considered stodgy. But this place was very slick, very modern, with all the associated tricks of lighting, wood floors, and other odd bits (such as no check in desk) that you would instead associate with a boutique hotel. If it reminded me of anything, it reminded me of Jia in Hong Kong.
Things were looking up on the home front.
I met the other members of my team in a nearby bar. They were staying at the Waldorf, which better suited my opinion of a Hilton. They’d managed to find a place called the Porterhouse off of Maiden Lane, but had given me directions on how to get there from the Strand.
These directions involved me getting through two security gates, and then entering by the latchless back door through the kitchens.
I was feeling like DeNiro at the start of Ronin.
I wonder about my team at times.
The bar was alright, a huge thing, with about three levels and lots of chrome and polish. I tried their Porterhouse Red, but it didn’t do much for me. While clean and roomy, it was just, well, so slick that I couldn’t really get comfortable. And the beer selection was limited.
So, after a pint there, we went around the corner to the more traditional Wellington, part of Nicholsons’ empire of pubs. This worked out well, as the ale was good. I had a Hobgoblin in memory of the Japan trip, and the guest ale I went onto was Falling Leaves, an Autumn Ale by Bateman.
That, of course, just primed me for one of the worst jokes of the year.
“I’d like to try a Fuller’s London Pride, please”, one of the fellows said when I announced it my shout (yes, that does happen from time to time).
“Oh. You can’t have one.”
“Waddaya mean I can’t have one? It’s right there on tap?”
“Can’t have it. It’s not on.”
“How can that be?”
“Well, it’s Autumn, you see.”
“So?”
“Well, Pride goeth before the Fall.”
It’s amazing I’ve lived this long.
The pleasant part of falling into the uber-touristy Wellington was that it put us on the Ale Trail. This is a promotion to get folks working through the older pubs of London, and to further promote real ales (something I firmly approve of).
Plus, if you drink enough, they’ll give you a shirt.
It’s amazing how a thing like that can give you a purpose in life, haunting pubs in the quest for a free t-shirt.
It’s good to have a purpose.
We ended up eating in the bar, which wasn’t the wisest of choices. And then we ordered the fish and chips, which again wasn’t the wisest of choices. Cheese wedges to go with everything, which end up as a congealed mass in relatively short order.
But at least the beer was good.
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The next day it was a matter of work, and we called in sandwiches as we took care of what needed taking care of. Fair enough fare, but nothing to write home about (which is why I won’t).
After that we repaired to the Coal Hole, another venue of character, taking a Black Sheep Bitter and a Sussex Best Bitter before finally deciding that we’d better eat something. Once I’d decided that, I had a Doom Bar for good measure before heading out with the group.
The next mistake was mine. We went to Rules. When you enjoyed something when you were young and foolish, it’s never a good idea to revisit it when you’re old and addled.
Rules is a lot older than I’ll ever be (dating back to 1798), and still packs out most evenings, so I won’t fault them too much. The formula works for them. I’ve long held them as the archetype for the modern American family restaurant that makes a point of leaving no square inch (or centimeter) of wall space free of stuff. Mind you, at Rules there actually is some history behind their collection, so they can get away with it.
They’ve recently redone the bar upstairs, and I had a very nice artisan cask Glenmorangie I hadn’t seen before. This was nowhere as aggressive as I’d found the other GlenM’s in the recent tasting in Bangkok.
I started with the potted Wiltshire Rabbit, with spiced apple toast and chutney. Shreddy, with flaky meat, the only real distraction to this being the odd bit of small bones that meant you had to eat with some trepidation
Next was a game soup, a particularly thick bisque which did carry a nice waterfowl scent to it, being based on a stock of partridge and duck. It was a bit too gooey, perhaps, and the croutons rather congealed the whole affair, but I still enjoyed it.
For a main I had the English Grey Leg Partridge, with chestnut and apricot stuffing. It read well on the menu, and made me feel a little better about the lack of pheasant, which is what I’d been looking forward to. But when the bird came out, it was on the dry side.
Pity.
Nearby a champagne bucket was spilled, making one of the customers rather irate.
Another waiter dropped a glass.
I shouldn’t sound too negative, as the food was still passable, but the trouble here was with the junior waitstaff. They were just….well….junior. And with limited English, they could only do so much with handling the tables’ requests.
Slow on orders, we spent more time in Rules than I’d planned.
It’s not so much that it was a bad meal. It wasn’t. But the service wasn’t in line with the history and tradition of the place, nor with the prices.
We left the restaurant, and split up for the evening. I stopped in at the Ship and Shovel, a pub I’d heard of before. It’s down under the tunnel by Charing Cross, and the pub sits on either side of the lane, with a shared basement. I had a Fursty Ferret, a pleasing thing, with no hard bits to it, and contemplated the light rain that was falling between the pubs.
The next evening I again fell prey to the evils of group dynamics.
I should just learn to say no.
We went to the Buddha Bar.
Over the top décor, with an extremely large statue of the Buddha being used both as décor and as a shield for the washrooms located behind.
Something wasn’t right about this.
The food itself wasn’t too far off. Dumbed down Thai dishes, and some Chinese stuff as well. The deep fried frog legs were really quite good, with a bit of bite to them. What really set my teeth (and wallet) on edge, however, were the prices. They were charging on the order of eight sterling for a plate of fried rice. Ten pounds for siumai. And sixty-nine pounds for a wagyu steak.
I hate to think about what I paid for a short bottle of namezake. For what they charged, I’d thought a 750 was forthcoming.
I mean, I was on expenses, but this seemed a little abusive, even for me.
Yes, the music is good. Yes, as the others had put the booking under my name I was made to feel like quite the visiting potentate. Yes, everybody about you is absolutely fabulous, and, yes, it didn’t actually taste bad, but taste is something not limited to the mouth.
I think I’ll just stick to buying the CDs.
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The last day, and I was back out to the country to see my friends again. We both had flights to catch from Heathrow at about the same time, so it just made sense for us to do lunch.
Lunch was one of their favourites, the New Mill.
This is located off of the A327, an old mill (“new”?) built on a small stream which goes by the name of the River Blackwater (“You call that a river?”); the water wheel and the mill workings still in working trim.
It’s one of those idyllic country retreats that makes it’s money on weddings and the neighborhood trade.
The Mill changed hands a couple of years ago, in 2006, and the new owners brought Steven Saunders on board to supervise the menus, working with the head chef – Colin Robson-Wright. As you’d expect with Saunders, the focus is on organically grown, and on local availability.
We’d missed him by just a night, but that’s the problem with working for a living. The New Mill runs events on a regular basis, bringing the celebrities out of the City. That galled me, slightly. When I’d been out at the Budha Bar the night before, I could’ve been here, having an excellent bit of British cuisine (and probably for less money).
As you’d expect, the parking lot we pulled into was the sort of open space in the British country where a couple of Jaguars, a Merc, and a Porsche just seem appropriate.
Inside the structure, it’s one of those nice old English buildings that cheerfully reminds you of an earlier age by staving your skull in with a low hung beam. I managed to get through to the bar without too much collateral damage to my frontal lobes, and we looked at menus while enjoying a wee drink.
We’d hoped to snag a Margaux from their bin ends, but they were out. Instead we went for a Pommard 1er Cru “Les Rugiens” Domaine Des Obiers, 1997 that looked promising.
We moved from the claustrophobia of the bar area (which does have great character, it’s just that not a one of us three is going to get an extra’s role as a munchkin in any remake of the Wizard of Oz). The dining room is back out past the millwheel proper, and in a large room looking out on the river. Big windows, reasonable ceiling, and no crowding of tables.
For starters we had asparagus with hot cured salmon. A tortellini with lobster and crayfish. And a terrine of pork belly, with some chutney to wake it up. Of these, the tortellini really stood out, with a rich bisque resplendent of crustacean. My pork belly was likewise pleasant, the meat pulling away in shreds. And the salmon was also acceptable, but I am a snob on such things, and look to BC salmon first. Still, the hot cook is a nice alternative to gravlox, giving a much different texture.
Outside, a brightly coloured kingfisher whipped along the water, and in the background a swan was coming up to take a look at the lunch crowd (of which it was pretty much just us).
If I had one thing to lament, it was that the Pommard was taking a long time to open up. But that’s hardly the restaurant’s fault. My friend admitted that a better plan for them in the past, when he had been in the UK and came here more regularly, was to choose the wine ahead by phone, and have them open it at a certain hour before they arrived.
Next were our mains. It was venison for myself. Two tenderloin cuts just on the red side, with a nice jus to set them off. Lamb for my friend, which was beautifully brought up with enough rosemary that you could just taste it. And, it pains me to admit, but I can’t recall what the lady had. This is part of why I always miss my camera at meals, as it helps me to remember what I’d forgotten to list in my notes.
The wine finally opened up, with dark cherries and chocolate. With the venison in particular I thought it was a good match, bringing out the light game in the meat (I’m used to wild caught venison – okay, I could just say “shot” - from Canada, and the meat here doesn’t suffer from being too strong).
We finished with cheese, again forsaking the sweets. The plate was Barkham Blue, from just up the road; a Ton Brulee – fresh ewe’s milk which was then set on fire for an ash coating; and a Liveroc from Normandy; and another epoisse, bringing us back full circle to our meal in Reading.
My last bit of food culture in England was also, perhaps, my happiest (although I did like the New Mill quite a lot). We went to Saynesbury’s.
First, out front, they had the same seeing-eye dog statue that was made famous in Son of Rambow (a very good film, I do recommend it).
Second, British produce, which I have admired much longer than British cuisine, really is very good. The meats, the new packaging for the plentiful selection of game, and all the pates, cheeses, and fresh mushrooms left me salivating.
An important rule when shopping for souvenirs. Don’t use a trolley. If you limit yourself to what you can physically carry, you won’t have to worry about paying excess luggage.
I stocked up on duck breast and venison, and on fresh pates and sausage. There were some beautiful chanterels I couldn’t leave alone, and purple blooming broccoli (or something along that name) that I carted out, along with some parchment paper (it had become hard to find) and a black truffle or two.
Back at the house, the two of us set about seeing if we could force our suitcases closed. This isn’t really as big an issue as you’d expect, as I have plenty of practice with my clothes.
Then it was a farewell to the missus, and a taxi out to Heathrow.
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So, some good points for food, but a shocking lack of real exercise for the expense account. I did feel bad about that.
I’d have to see what could be accomplished in November.
Next: The Second Setting
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December 2, 2008 – Fuel for Thought
Walking down to 4th, after stopping in at the Spy Shop (“no, we can’t sell you that.”), I ambled (after a good lunch, I amble) up the avenue on the South side, admiring the sprawl of restaurants. Modern Italian, Indian, and sushi for the world. But then I came across one of the names I’d just added to my list.
Fuel.
They were between meals, closing out lunch and getting ready for dinner. This is, perhaps my second favourite part of a kitchen’s day (the first is when I have cutlery in my hands).
This place takes the idea of open kitchen even further, placing the cooking stations up at the front of the restaurant, prep going on windowside and all down the entry, which also supports a good bit of bar dining, full frontal to the kitchen.
There’s something just alluring about a good turnip.
Now, before you think I’m an even bigger glutton than you already do (hard, I know), I wasn’t even going to try and brave another meal just yet.
But I would get some reservations set up.
That done, I continued my stroll homeward, stopping by Kits High to admire it’s impressive child-centric design (I believe it was put together by the same fellow who did the old maximum security facility at Okalla. They have a lot in common.)
Once home, I hit the phones. Dinner called for company.
A little befoe 8 p.m. I returned. It was a Tuesday night, and the room was about half full, most of the tables already well into their meals. Lots of laughter. That’s another good thing in Vancouver, when I go into a restaurant, people are happy. That doesn’t seem like much, but I’ve been a lot of places where you get a much more dour reception (at least until late at night; Dionysius is a great equalizer).
While I waited, I ordered a martini. They had a gin I hadn’t heard of before – Quintessential – from the UK. This is a 5 pass distill, with lavender and lotus leaves in amongst the final florals. Very smooth, I must say, and not a difficult thing to drink. Perhaps a little too smooth, as I do like a bit of an edge on my alcohol. But the herbs and flowers did make for a good nose.
When R and W arrived, we settled into the business of gloating over the menus. We like to gloat. A lot of the ingredients were recognized immediately by Russ and Wendy – Polderside farms, Sloping Hills, Fraser Valley lamb – and the descriptions looked to boast a lot of technique in the kitchen.
I particularly liked the “suggestions” part of the menu, which culminated in a suckling pig stuffed with foie gras and truffles. I’d like to go out that way.
In the end, we left it to the chef. They’ll do four, five, or six course menus, with wine matchings if you wish. We settled on the four, as my appetitie was still recovering from the trans-Atlantic, and an evening like tonight, when the places isn’t jammed, seemed like a good time to let the kitchen have their way with us.
We were surprised. The menu had recommended that it would be best if the whole table took the chef’s menu. When the dishes came, we each had something different, so this was purely for the needs of staging, rather than efficiencies.
So, what did we have?
First, the amuse. The house made cotecchino sausage with apple butter.
We’ve all decided we like apple butter.
In front of me was a cauliflower soup with cured salmon, shaved cauliflower (which is something I have to try on the mandolin), and sliced scallions. The bowl was presented, and then the broth poured in, filling my space with that thickness of cauliflower that just cries out for caviar. There was a bit of ikura playing King of the Mountain, but my heart yearned for sevruga, I must admit.
Cauliflower is one of those ingredients that just makes me feel rich. There’s something about that warm, mouth filling sensation as it blossoms that I always look forward to. This didn’t disappoint (but just a little bit of sevruga…..)
R had a traditional brodo (broth) with cotecchino sausage (there it is again – it’s a cotecchino day) and dumplings, with a savoury infused oil and some bone marrow in there. A beautiful consommé. Being wanton gluttons, R and I swapped our dishes back and forth. The dumplings were as soft as they should be, and the marrow gave that rich, thickness to them that caused me to forget about the cotecchino that was there, so forget about me making any comparisons with lunch.
W had the carnoroli risotto with caramelized fennel and Dungeness crab. The picture was a dud, unfortunately, so consider a gleaming flat surface, cobblestoned with that particularly plump Italian rice, glistening with a sheen of fat. Littered on this, like the feathers of a crumpled dove, the light, shredded crab meat of the Dungeness huddles to the warmth of the dish. Again, this is something I should try at home (crab risotto, not huddling for warmth. I do enough of that here at night). The crab meat has that illusion of lightness about it that would set well with the risotto (crab I love, but there’s that wall lurking in there that just says you’re not going to eat any more of it at some sudden spot. Mind you, that wall is behind a lot of crab, so no worries here).
For wine, we’d been rooting through their substantial menu. W had taken an Herder Pinot Gris from B.C. to go with the crab, and R and I had found a Viognier from California, a Calera, which we cheerfully asked for as “cholera”. I’m growing very fond of Viognier this trip. It’s a nice Rhone grape, and the Californians and Australians are doing good things with it.
For the second course, R had the Albacore tuna, seared just rare with a tuna emulsion and pickled vegetables. This had been taking just the faintest step away from sashimi.
W was brought the Heirloom beetroot salad of crispy ricotta and lemon crème fraiche.
And I had the duck confit and foie gras terrine, with shaved pink lady apples, hazelnut skin, and sea salt.
I’m going to have to buy some of these hazelnuts. They’re from Agassiz, not a place I would have associated with hazelnuts in the past. That skinned effect, still holding a crunch, along with the shaved apple is a good match with the richness of the terrine and the crunch of the bread. Plus, there’s salt!
Oh, I should mention the bread on the table way back when we’d started. I’d been carried away. It was good, fine enough there, but what really took W, R, and my attention was the service with sea salt and unsalted butter. It’s a little thing to do, but clever, the tactility (is that a word?) of the act of sprinkling the coarse flaked salt on your bread just engaging you in a different way.
Our mains arrived next. As the mains arrived, my ability to take a photograph with any semblance of focus departed. So I’ll have to talk my way through these.
For me, I had the Polderside Farms’ Redbro chicken over creamed leeks, matsutake mushrooms, more leeks, and a netsutake terrine. The chicken had been stuffed and rolled, baked to a crisp, golden exterior skin, and then sliced in four pieces. Rich, and with that flavour you get in good chicken, very similar to the richness I’d found in Japanese free-range birds.
The terrine was very good, as well. My first reaction was that it was just a piece of zucchini, but biting into it revealed the truth.
Under the chicken was the green bed of leeks, pillowed with crisped matsutakes. Around the dish was some squeeze bottle action of glazed jus, and a fall of micro greens set off of the golds, greens, and browns in the dish.
R had the Fraser Valley lamb, with a sunchoke puree, caramelized yogurt, agnoletti, and crispy sunchokes. This came with the meat snaking out across the plate, cut in medallions, jus drizzled over the recumbent red. At one end, the crispy sunchokes fell in a snowdrift of bown shreds. Individual brussel sprout leaves dressed the dish.
“Sunchoke” I had to ask about. It’s the tuber of a sunflower, or a “Jerusalem artichoke”.
W’s dish was the Sloping Hills pork with a crown bacon terrine, “fonne” puree, brussel sprouts, and roasting juices. Don’t ask me how, but I could almost focus on this.
This was very good pork, with proper fat levels to keep me smiling and content. My notes actually state “the pork is fantastic”, a common cry from the three of us. I can see that Belcham deserves his reputation for working well with pig. And the bacon terrine, with the sea salt they’re using, is the sort of thing of beauty that just stops your heart (sorry, I couldn’t resist that).
For wine, W had moved to the cholera, which she also approved of. R had decided on a Wynn Shiraz from Coonawara for the lamb, and I’d gone with a cabernet, Blackwood Lane from B.C. The Wynn was definitely the right choice for the lamb. I’d gone with the cab as I wanted the versatility to match up with both the lamb and chicken, as it was my intention to steal R’s plate part way through, and to lift some of W’s pork when I had the chance.
It’s good to eat with old friends. They’re used to my larcenous attitudes.
Dessert was next. W’s arrived first, with a Manjeri chocolate terrine, a thing of thickness and, well, chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
There was also a coconut sorbet that gave you thoughts of Thailand and crisp beaches; and a salted, caramel stuffed banana, with banana tuiles and peanut butter crumbs lurking under there in the shade of the tuile.
I had the Gravenstein apple cake, with German heirloom apples, with caramel and Ceylon cinnamon ice cream.
This brought the question up of the Sri Lankan cinnamon. It’s a gentler bark than we usually work with, lacking the burn that you can get with other cinnamons. I’ve found when I’ve used this for ice cream, I can almost get a gingery taste, but with this it was much smoother, and more laid back.
Like I say, I’m not much of a dessert guy. For me, it was just a cake. Nothing wrong with it, but it takes a lot to get me interested in desserts. A lot of chocolate can help, and so can coconut, so I would probably have been better with W’s plate.
R’s was really neat. A carnaroli rice pudding, with pistachio sorbet and chocolate, to give a bowl that was rich in colour, and a thick, pleasing feel. The pistachio green just gave the bowl such a nice look that it’s hard not to be happy.
And, each of us having taken a different route through dinner (although I tend not to stay in my lane), we were brought back together with the petite fours at the end.
Nougat; a crisp chocolate; some truffles, and beautiful little jellies with the smell and hint of apple about them.
Good meal. I’m wrapping my head (still) around the idea of West Coast cuisine, and this is beginning to gel. Solid technique, good quality local ingredients, and an easy ambience.
If I have the time, I’d love to come back here and sit at the bar and try the chef’s 9 course grand meal.
If I have the time….so many meals, so little time…..
Next: For the Sake of Granville Island
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Would they consider some offal dishes, or would that be too "out there"?
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If you're coming to north van to visit a butcher, go to jolly foods instead. (Don't judge a shop by its name.) Unless you want the english butchers sausages.
I like the pie I just had from the British Butcher, and their pepperoni are quite good (more on this later).
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Give me time, I'm new in town. Plus, I've got the first part of London written, I'm just waiting on my friend to email the photos. When I get to part two we can go all George A Romero.Mmmmmmm....pork roast with crackling. No pictures of innards? Was it just a little pink?I'm enjoying this topic for three reasons:
1. I haven't lived in Vancouver since 1993.
2. I want to give my musical brother-in-law, now working in North Van, a cool foodie gift certificate for xmas.
3. Before I die, I need to be an extra in a Zombie movie, so the mere mention of Romero gets me worked up.
1. Even an hiatus of 2.5 years is turning up all sorts of things (although I haven't really lived here since 1983)
2. Push comes to shove, if I was to receive a foodie present, a gift certificate for Oyama would be really cool (but I'll check out the English Butcher on the North Shore, and Rick over on Main and 25th, too). Another option would be the sake guy on G. Island (where I was today).
3. "before I die"? Doesn't that defeat the point of zombie-ism?
I'm going to play some Iggy Pop now.
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How'd you get my cat to your parents' house?
Not only did I get it to my parents' house, but I cloned it into over four versions (one in negative). I'm finding it quite fun avoiding this furry deathtraps at 3 in the morning as they loiter cheerfully on the staircases.
Plus.....white cats + black clothes is not a good thing.
I'll have you know that she never eats things she shouldn't, and she never jumps on counters or tables!Did I tell you the story about the roast beef?
Mmmmmmm....pork roast with crackling. No pictures of innards? Was it just a little pink?Give me time, I'm new in town. Plus, I've got the first part of London written, I'm just waiting on my friend to email the photos. When I get to part two we can go all George A Romero.
You drinking Avalon with the cream on top?Nope. Just good old Dairyland (but I'll have to go buy some Avalon tomorrow).
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Waking up is hard to do.
That’s why I do it several times a night….in order to build character.
By five a.m., sleep was a forlorn thing of the past. I set down to catching up on mail, and, when it was looking vaguely light outside, I went for a walk to take in the morning air.
It was pretty. Clouds with character worked the sky, coasting low with bright swathes of blue between them. A steady stream of cars was pouring up 16th towards UBC, and some brave souls were shuffling about the bus stops.
I stopped in at Choices, and grabbed a few things to make a breakfast out of.
A Comox brie (a little thick, and not as creamy as I might have liked); some cranberry pepperoni; and some pork pate. All of this with stoned wheat thins I admire so much.
And yes, you can tell from the glass that I’m still drinking heavy.
I caught up on the news. Here I’d been lamenting that I was missing out on the fun and games in Thailand, and all I needed was to spend half an hour with the newspaper to see that I was firmly in the midst of the same politics.
Maybe they should start handing out yellow and red shirts here?
After breakfast I wandered the neighborhood.
On 16th there was a place called Japanese Zest that looked interesting. They’re doing a kaiseki menu which does get my attention, but I’d prefer to hear more about this place before committing a meal.
I stopped off down by Broadway, and saw that Moderne Burger was open. You never know when they’re going to shut down for another year’s renovations. I’m good with their burgers, but it’s really their fries and milkshakes I lust for.
Close by, I took a look at db Bistro Moderne and Lumiere. I’ve a call out for a reservation there if they open in time (Yes, I guess I’m one of the “look at me” crowd), but the sign on Bistro Moderne says they’re not opening until the 12th, which puts it past my time frame.
The other one I’d be interested in would be Market, whenever it gets up and running. Current estimates put that in early 2009, though.
Further up the street, I saw that Wild Garlic was gone from Broadway and Arbutus, replaced by Transylvania Flavour. Are these the same folks, I wonder? It does seem coincidental that garlic would give way to the home of Dracula.
The Side Door is gone, replaced by Lola’s. And a number of other small places are boarded up already in that stretch.
At Granville, having done some idle shopping for books and electronics already (Jacques Pepin’s biography is on sale for 4.95 at Chapters, is that worth reading?), I headed South, peering in the window at West, admiring the coffee crowds working out their caffeine addictions (“I can quit it myself anytime”, say I), and ambling in and out of the cookware stores that cluster around here (Cookery, Ming Wo, Wm Sonoma) and then stumbled across Chow.
A number of you had recommended this, as had others outside of egullet. So who am I to argue? I would rather be here for dinner, but when I find myself in a place, at a time, with opportunity, I feel it should be firmly grasped and devoured.
It’s a comfortable room. Maybe that’s just the mood I was in, but when you step inside, you just feel right. Greys and browns, rough worked grey painted floor. Brown tables. Ambient music and good staff. In some ways it made me think of Arbutus in Soho, or Hereford Road in W2.
Comfortable.
I didn’t have a large meal. I took a glass of the Kettle Valley Viognier and admired the menu.
Mind you, I admired the dinner menu more.
A side of frites with harrisa mayonnaise sounded good, but my eyes can be bigger than my stomach at this time of day, and I’d been getting by on one meal a day on average for the last week.
I stuck instead to one main; the house-made cotecchino sausage, dupuy lentils, vegetable soffrito, and winter greens.
I had to ask about harissa. It’s a red chile paste, North African in origin. I was really thinking about those fries.
Next to me, the waitress asked the table how they’d liked the lunch.
“It was really good, but tell them ‘it didn’t suck’. Otherwise it’ll go to their heads.”
I do like being back in Vancouver.
The bread was pully, just the way I like it, with a crust that would exercise my teeth. Some proper butter, that perfectly serviceable Kettle Valley, and I was happy.
The dish arrived, a glistening slab of textured meat atop a pile of lentils, with greens mixed in amongst the brown of the beans. I’m a big fan of French lentils, and you’ll never hear me say bad things about sausages, so this was a perfectly good lunch for me.
It’s one of those pleasant moments, when you can idly stare out the window at the passing traffic, admiring the facial ornamenation on the large bearded fellow in a suit, smoking in a passenger seat. You can ponder things like “how does he get through a metal detector with all that stuff on his face?”
The chef, J.C. Poirier, has a pedigree including C, Lumiere, and Montreal’s Toque, and he’s created a very nice place. They recommended I come back for dinner, which I think is a great idea. I wonder how this would work with sake?
I talked a bit more, and started adding more restaurants to my list.
It’s getting to be a long list.
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Our story so far….
It’s probably a good thing that I’m waking up before the dawn, as that seems to be my only opportunity for getting some time to write.
That and I need to put the dogs and cats out.
Our story to date.
My first meal, appropriately enough, was with the family.
I do have some sense of decorum. I just don’t dust it off very often.
And Mom kept me true to my word with Immigration.
Pork roast. Soft and white and juicy inside, with a bit of crackling atop. How can you
not be happy with a pork roast.
Gravy. As they say in the Bud commercial, “and if there’s gravy, well then, everything’s going to be okay.”
Gravy calls for potatoes, which in turn calls for salt. Salt calls for vegetables, and there were three gurgling pots on the stovetop. One for spuds, one for turnips, and one for brussel sprouts. Call it “small pot blanching”, if you will, but it tasted fine to me.
And, of course, with hot you have to have cold. Home made apple sauce (the chunky way), and cole slaw for a salad, loaded with chunks of crispy, sweet apple.
This is about as traditional a Canadian meal as I can imagine. A large hunk of meat roasted in the oven, a salad that just cries out “white”, and everything else either the end product of a canning process, or else having been boiled on the stove top.
We took everything plated downstairs, and watched the news.
Safety note in our home: everything that isn’t plated needs to be either closed up, or put back in the oven.
Never trust a cat.
Back to the food.......
After that week in London this made a perfect contrast. Straightforward, no fussing, and if you complain you get whacked.
Oh, and regarding the second part of my statement to Immigration, I did drink heavy.
Full fat milk, pasteurized.
I’d forgotten what good milk could taste like.
Next: Chow Time
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I'm fighting jet lag....well, general sleeplessness more than jet lag...but I must say it's good to be back in the rain forest.
From the soft whipped peaks of cloud we scudded over once past the trench, to the constant drizzle that had the wipers going, there's a good comfortable feeling to being home.
The customs lad asked me my purpose in coming here: "Why...drink heavily and eat pork! What else would anyone do?"
That earned me a smile.
Tomorrow I'll try and post pictures of mom's home cooking, and then I'll hit the phones and try and get some reservations.
Cheers,
peter
Home (Vancouver)
in Western Canada: Dining
Posted
December 4 wasn’t much of a day.
That was a good thing.
I drove to the North Shore with dual purposes.
One of my goals in life was to stop by and visit with Yoonhi’s side of the family.
My other goal was to buy pepperoni.
Yes, I do get somewhat obsessive.
I worry about that.
A lot.
My visit with the in-laws was pleasant, as always. I would have stopped for lunch with them, but I had a later appointment in the afternoon, and couldn’t cut the time. And they were busy, too.
Yoonhi’s middle sister was tied up with things when I first dropped in, so I cruised down Lonsdale for a look-see.
It’s an odd strip, and one that I’m always of two minds about.
It’s busy. Busy is good. But the population density and profile never quite pushes it over onto the fine dining side.
There’re plenty of Thai places, but nothing that really catches my eye. And there’s more than a few sushi places. Some Korean, which can be good; Kokoro I think is Japanese – and is now doing lunch; and a whole slew of Chinese run places (some of whom have, as I see in the Province today, some interesting software packages).
The Greeks are still up here. I remember when I was a kid that Broadway was where we’d go for souvlaki, and domates, and retsina (and pool tables), but now the North Shore seems to be better hunting.
And, across the span of Asia Minor, the Persian places, and the Iranian delis, are well represented.
Yup, it’s a bit of everything. But nothing really caught my eye and held it. Instead, I dropped in at Jack L onsdale’s to look over what wines were on.
The locals are doing well, and doing proud, I must say. It costs more for domestic wine (at a glance) than for the imports.
It all made me quite thirsty.
A wander back up, and I checked in with the family. As I said, I needed to run, as I had an appointment.
But, first, I had orders.
There’s a debate over butchers in the Lower Mainland in eGullet. Heck, there's a debate over everything, if you just look. There are actually quite a few interesting butchers around, and amongst those are quite a few good ones. I’ve been happy with the fellow in the Lynn Valley mall in the past, who’d order in foie gras for me from Quebec; you've already suffered at me salivating over Oyama; my friend Russ swears by Windsor Meats, and Rick, the guy who takes care of things there ("A dozen partridges for Christmas"); and when I’d looked at the steaks in Granville Island….well, I won’t put my feelings in print.
But, that’s beside the point. I won’t get into whos meat is bigger, but I wasn’t here for steaks. I wasn’t here for free range chickens. I wasn’t even here for lactating sows…..
Hmmm….that sounds interesting.
Come to think of it, is Sav-On Meats still in business down on Hastings? With their big neon sign of the flying pig?
It's an interesting time to be in the meat market. On the one side, the economic issues may force people to go for the cheapest, but countering that is the recent listeriosis outbreak at the big meat packers out East (mind you, I grew up referring to everything beyond Granville as "Back East").
Mom sent me to the British Butcher for meat pies, and Yoonhi wanted pepperoni. It’s an out of the way place, but I was over here anyways, so they’d put in an order.
I must say, I quite liked the pepperoni that Yoonhi brought back for me: both pieces.
Between the Girl and the Boy, there’s not much left for dad.
I muscled up to the counter (with some blood pudding already firmly in my sweaty little palms), and asked for some sausage.
“Twenty hot, twenty regular.”
pause
“You certainly do like pepperoni a lot, don’t you?”
I mentioned the sad demise of the last batch and she surprised me.
“Oh! That was your wife. I remember her!”
I’m just not used to people remembering their customers. It’s kinda nice.
I stocked up here, with the pepperoni, some blood pudding, a steak and Guiness, a steak and kidney, and a large steak and mushroom for Mom.
With my sister living in Lynn Valley, they’ve grown somewhat addicted to the steak and mushroom. They sell them both pre-cooked, and ready to bake. I went for the pre-cooked.
They’re a very nice pie. But I’ve decided I don’t like the steak and Guiness match very much. I’ve done this before in London, and it tasted just like this.
I just don’t like this very much.
I did try a bite of mom and dad’s steak and mushroom. That was much more to my taste, with big mushrooms and chunks of steak wallowing about in the gravy like hippos after a good work out.
Oh, my appointment. That didn’t work out. But that was okay. I owe my parents a meal at home from time to time. Pile the plates up in the kitchen, and then congregate downstairs and watch the news.
Unless there’s a hockey game, of course.
And I had that retsina to finish. For some reason, when I think of a British-style vacation, I think of meat pies and cold retsina.
Next /b] – okay, I’m going to have to get settled back in.