Peter Green
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Finals
I’d forgotten how quiet Calgary could be on a Sunday. I’d gone South of the tracks to take in a quiet hour or two of writing at Bottlescrew Bill’s, just behind our hotel.
Shut. Locked. Closed. Not open. Fermee.
So, the question then is “now what?”. Do I go back in the other direction, and end up back at the Joyce? I’d just left there not an hour or two ago. That wouldn’t do.
No, I struck further South. Surely there’d be something of interest down here.
I did find things of interest, I will say.
There was the Hop In Brew Pub, fit into an old house. It looked good. It looked pleasant. It looked closed. It was closed.
There was the Gravity Room Bikini Lounge. But the big padlock on the wooden door suggested they weren’t taking guests (pity).
And there was Soda, which looked like a good family place for a quiet afternoon (if you’re family consists of Goth crack dealers), but they weren’t open either.
But I had spotted a frozen crowd in front of the Drum & Monkey, and a frozen crowd generally means smokers, which generally means “they’re open”.
Sherlock Holmes, eat your heart out.
The Drum worked. WiFi available, and Guinness on tap. An interesting cross of East Coast pub and Goth hangout. Stuffed monkeys in boats, Flames paraphernalia, and a clientelle of skulls and crossed bones. I saw about ten taps behind the bar, and a sensible collection of bottles.
I chatted with the pleasant young lady that was holding the whole place down. She had very good things to say about the Hop In, and it pained me that they were closed. Discoveries always seem to come too late.
The smoking scrum came back in from the cold (they were on a 5 minute rotation, it seemed). Skulls, eyerings (or whatever you call them) and blonde hair dyed black.
A nice, homey, neighborhood pub. I’ll be back here.
Back at the hotel I finished packing and stopped in the lounge for a small bit of wine. Everything else was still shut. Having a little bit of common sense, I got a lamb chop into me to help carry me through.
It was dinner time, and, being a Sunday, most things were shut (Capo’s included). The Raw Bar at the Hotel Arts had been on my list, and it was open. It had received mixed reviews, but I’d dropped in there after a lunch at St. Germaine a couple of years ago, and I’d liked what I’d heard while speaking with the bartender. Recently, in town, a couple of people had talked about how the bartender would match cocktails to the courses, and that sounded like something I’d enjoy.
The room is a pretty thing. Very much a theme in red, with a nice cluster of balloon glasses over the bar catching the light.
Dining expands away from the bar in a couple of levels, and reaches a fair ways back. Seating is a little low, but not to the extent of being lounge seating than restaurant. The effect reminds me of Syn Bar at the Nai Lert in Bangkok (although it doesn’t have those funky swinging chairs, thank heavens).
I started by asking for a signature cocktail. A place like this that prides itself on its mixology should have something they pride themselves upon.
Maybe Sunday’s the wrong day to be here?
It was apparent that the main mixer (Franz) wasn’t here, so I looked down at the cocktails they’d listed.
It was a pretty good list.
I went with El Quinta. Raw Bar’s Franz Swinton and Graham Warner are representing Canada in the international competition going on this month in Cuba, and they’d worked this drink up as their entry. This used Havana Club Anos, 7 year old Dubonnet red, pressed red pepper juice, ginger, and lemon grass, and was garnished with two kaffir lime leafs in series.
(reading the press release just now, I’m intrigued about the idea of a warm bacon foam on a cocktail! This was their “Surf N Sour”, a basil and calvados sour with a seared scallop servedon a wedge of grapefruit, and topped with said foam)
They also had sake on the menu, which I’d missed out on this trip. I ordered the ginjo katana jyunmai as a side.
While I waited upon the drinks, I looked over their published rules. I was perplexed. Does a restaurant need to caution that “baseball caps be checked and not worn”? Are fisticuffs that common here? I’d eaten at St. Germain next door, and never had that feeling there.
I turn to the menu to consider something solid. I did ask about specials, but was told that there were no specials, what was on the menu was what was on the menu. The appetizer section is a little short, not quite what I was expecting, as I’d been thinking that, as a “bar”, they’d be working more to small plates.
Still, it’s my first time here and any assumptions are my own baggage to deal with. Likewise, nothing stops me from working over the appetizers, so I concentrate upon those. (I had grand notions at this time of continuing across a range of locales, doing small bits and bites as a meandered…..keep on reading).
My El Quinto came. Tall, proud, and a fairly clean cocktail to take the edge off of my incipient hunger (that lamb rib only goes so far). I couldn’t much make out the kaffir, though, as it hadn’t been torn, but left intact to preserve it’s good looks. Maybe this is the right move, as the kaffir aroma is pretty aggressive.
But I like aggressive, so I ripped the leaves and let them give up that smell. I can’t help it, I miss Thailand.
While Franz isn’t here tonight, there’s no problem with the cocktail. It’s been well executed, and I wouldn’t complain.
Next, while waiting on the first appetizer, I tried the Jao Ying – “Princess”. There’s a strong Thai element running through everything here. The drinks, the food, the red décor….okay, that’s a bit more Shanghai chic, with overtones of Rouge Bar or the Glamour Bar.
Anyways, where was I? Oh, yes, the Jao Ying – Bombay gin, melon liqueur, raspberries, and basil leaves. A good aroma, and a strong backdrop of gin, the Bombay giving a nice colour.
My first course was a maki, crab if I recall. A soy sesame sauce for salt, and an interesting marinade of what I thought was dried mango, but was actually squid (which goes to show how little I know) steamed with tamarind.
It’s a fair enough approach, but, as I eat like this every week at home, I wasn’t too excited. It was a little on the “ricey” side, not quite balanced against the ingredients.
What did get me excited was the fact that they’d forgotten my sake. However, once he realized the omission, my waiter was very good about getting it for me, and then comped it to make up for the delay.
I don’t mind people making mistakes if they learn from them.
The kitchen sent out another dish, with a lovely yellow foam, a lightly crusted seared bit of squid (I think….my notes are going astray here).
I’m in a pretty good mood at this point, and, when I order the Nova Scotia lobster and strawberry salad, with fingerling potatoes, I’m up at the bar kibitzing on the choice of a cocktail to go with this.
I’d been interested in seeing if something worked up with the Dandan Shyochyu potato shochu from the Ryukyus would work, given the potato commonality. But they (sensibly) didn’t think this would work. Instead we went with an Aviation which should have had Bombay Sapphire as the back stop, but I went with the Juniper Green Organic gin they had from Surrey (England, not B.C.). The gin was “lashed with maraschino liqueur and fresh lemon sauce”.
I love listening to cocktail talk. Especially after reading Amis.
My notes would indicate that I was somewhat captivated by the play of the oil from the lemon skin, the way it detaches from the rind and plays about the top of the martini.
As I listen in on the other table (it’s a habit) I catch the waitress there going through some detailed explanations of the cocktails. My opinion of the staff goes up a notch or two.
The salad is a good mix. Different. The potatoes give a good body and texture with the buttery lobster. And the strawberries are tart enough to twist things aglay.
I ordered some of the shochu to go alongside this.
As I was tucking into the salad, I overheard another conversation (now you know not to eat in the same room as I), this one between a fellow who had taken up a position at the bar and was inquiring about tequila.
Remind me to put that down on my self-appraisal. “Problem solver”. If someone’s got a problem, I’ll solve it…..whether they want me to or not. (At least once I get beyond the 20 or so drink limit).
An antipodean, he was complaining about the lack of good tequilas in Oz, and was inquiring which he should try.
As you can imagine (if you can’t, then just work with this) I was up there in a flash, and suggested that if he hadn’t had a lot of tequilas, then he might like to try an anejo, as they had two here.
He was kind enough to ask me to join him, but I begged off in order to finish my dinner. It always seems unkind to eat while someone else is not.
Salad done, I was back at the bar and enjoying an Herradura anejo with Tony. Tony was already a couple of sips ahead of me, but was enjoying the difference in savour of this over the typical Cuervos we grow up with.
Meeting Tony was fun. Tony Hooper, winemaker for Wyndham Estate, was in town as part of a long foreign jaunt promoting their wines through dinners and classes. Like me, he looks on business travel as an evil it’s best to pass on to others, but when you can’t escape it, you might as well do it well.
Tony and I got into the next stage, which was the Corralejo anejo. This was magnificently smooth.
From my vantage here at the bar, I took the opportunity to gawk at some of the plates going out. Occassionaly, as with the tuna tataki with shiitake mushrooms, I’d make them pose the plate.
I’m insufferable at the best of times. On a wound up binge like this, well……
Leaning over and beyond the plate, I checked out what the Raw Bar had for working material.
Sort of like a Korean kim bap sip, a collection of handy items to quickly work with.
For what I’d had, I was content. The cocktails had been handled properly. The bartender, although he wasn’t Franz, knew what he was doing and how to do it. The dishes came from the kitchen properly plated and with nothing out of place, and the room (although fairly empty) had a nice ambience, but one more directed to lounging than to eating.
Perhaps that’s more what I’d been hoping for. A space that just worked the small, tapas-sushi-snacks type angle, and had fund with the cocktails to go with it. I can’t comment on the mains, but the venue and the spirit of the place seemed to go counter to sitting down to a heavy set of courses.
Still, I was happy, and I was full.
Unfortunately, this meant that my dreams of hitting a number of places on this, my last night, went out the window. I needed to be sensible, and limit myself to goals that were within the dignity of my elder years.
So I went to A Bar Named Sue.
They’d been talking about this at the Joyce when I met my friend there a couple of nights back. Acoustic guitar, chicken wire, and good enough beer. How could I pass?
I strolled the dozen or so frozen blocks, and sure enough, there it was.
I know, I know, this is all more dipsophilia stuff, but it’s best to end the night on a note more in keeping with my milieu (whatever that means).
I have emailed them to find out what the beer was that I was drinking. The head on this was fantastic, tall, firm, and frothing like Cujo.
I should know what it was, but the tap they’d pulled it from was only identified by a stuffed beaver.
And the big draw was the music. Acoustic, as promised, but playing covers of punk rock classics.
I know I’m in for a good night when the band asks “Does anyone know the Cramps?”
And I can sing along to Eat the Rich!
Yee haw!
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I'd also love some recipes in which garlic is the star attraction, perhaps more than just a flavoring or seasoning ingredient. Any ideas?
shel
If you like Mexican flavors, try shrimp (fish, zucchini, etc.) with garlic and lime - see camarones al mojo de ajo. If you like Thai food, there are tons of garlic-laden dishes such as stir-fried chicken with holy basil - see gai pad grapao. If Korean food appeals to you, perhaps Doddie or Peter Green could chime in with some ultra-garlicky recommendations.
We routinely go through two or three garlic cloves when cooking a Mexican or Asian dinner.
On the Korean side, I'm happy with just having a handful (or two) of fresh garlic cloves tossed onto the grill.
One we really liked recently was a recipe for potatoes from Salt & Pepper by Sandra Cook.
Boil halved lemons (she says slices, but I change this), garlic cloves, and potatoes in water until not quite soft.
Transfer the potatoes to a roasting pan, take the lemons and stuff the lemon halves with the garlic cloves. Drizzle everything with good olive oil and hit it with some salt.
Stuffing the garlic into the olives is something we tried. This way, you get that beautiful creamy garlic, but with a nice citrus twist. I can't say the potatoes pick up much of the garlic, but boiling them in lemon water does help a lot!
Or, if you're less partial, just go ahead and forget the potatoes and pack olives for baking with garlic!
Another easy item to do is to crisp fry garlic flakes for use with tenderloin.
And, like Bruce says, there's a whole world of Thai recipes that'll do great things with garlic. One of my earliest memories of Chiang Mai is walking into a wall of garlic just coming off of a hot walk in one of the back sois.
And don't forget, you can always pickle it.
then transe
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It is indeed a great article! And timely, too.
Columbia was a fantastic place for potatoes, a variety and quality I'd not seen before, in the hundreds. And Peru is further up the chain, with, as they mention, almost 3,000 varieties. There's a link here with me blathering about the local spuds on sale in Bogota.
There's a worry, though, in South America, that the free trade agreements will have the big boys moving in and shoving aside the more expensive local varieties (lower yields, longer time to harvest) with things like Clone A that is better suited for cutting to french fries. Likewise, there's always the push to get something that will grow bigger, faster, cheaper. It just won't taste as good.
Of course, if you're worried about the cost of a loaf of bread to feed your children (as with the maid from Lima quoted in the article), this may not be an overriding concern.
But wouldn't it be a shame to lose the diversity of the original potato before we'd ever really had a chance to know it? To be able to eat potatoes instead of bar nuts is one of the great joys.
I've gotta get back to Bogota soon.
Peter
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I've never had Dim Sum before. *sigh* The joys of living in Kansas
I stared at the tripe for a good five minutes just now....drooling....
I stared at the tripe for a good five minutes of drooling, too.
The waitresses were getting scared to go by my table.
On a bright note, the chip with the missing photos will be back tonight!
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How come I didn't find out about this before I left Texas?
Darn.
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A pantry, by definition (mine) should be messy. Yours is one to be proud of.
Give us some details on what's in the bags, bottles, and boxes!
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Caution
When you return from a trip, and your stupid cell phone has to go in for repairs because the stupid navigation knob has broken off for the second time (Nokia N73), remember to remove the SD memory card before sending it in for repairs.
I went to download the last 20 pictures, and the card seems to have "been removed" during repairs, and not returned.
I'll finish this up without pictures of the last meal. I'll add those later if my card reappears. I don't mind the card being gone (well, okay, I do) but I needed those shots.
Grrrrrr.
edited for typos...and then more typos......double grrrrr
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Sunday, bloody Sunday
It was another one of those mornings.
Exept, this time I didn’t need to work! After days on the go, I could relax, rest, and recuperate.
I lept out of bed (well, rather a controlled spring involving a certain momentum of body mass – probably most of which is my liver), did a quick wash, grabbed the camera, and headed into the great outdoors.
I had to eat dim sum early enough so that it wouldn’t interfere with my dinner.
I like to plan things out.
As an aside on the issue of “embracing your hangover”, Tim Hayward wrote a highly edifying piece New Year’s Eve last regarding the ravages of our life styles and how to cope. I recommend it to one and all. Myself, I never seem to suffer too much in the mornings, and can generally shake off most physical damage in a reasonable amount of time.
As I’ve said, I have the physique of a god. Unfortunately for my wife, that god is Bacchus.
The weather had, as I’d feared, flipped back to brutal, and it was a long, cold walk down to Chinatown. I shot as I went, and luckily I could manage the auto controls through gloves. Keeping the camera next to me for heat, I hope I didn’t damage any of the electronics. I’ve done stupider things.
I had a choice to make for dim sum this fine Sunday morning. I could either go to Silver Dragon, or Regency Palace. Both had their fans. When I pushed on the topic, it sounded like Silver Dragon had the fancier room. That sort of sealed the question, and I went for Regency Palace. Plus, it was up on a third floor, whereas Silver Dragon was street entrance. If a place does well with a walk-up, then it’s got to be worth getting to.
Regency Palace looks about right. Cavernous and packed with tables. It’s not busy yet, so I’ve got my pick of spots. As a single, I go to the small tables by the window, which suits me fine.
As soon as the tea comes my way, I round my hands to hold the cup and try to take the warmth in while I await the carts.
And, lacking common sense, I also ask for an ice cold Kokanee.
Regency Palace does the traditional carts, but I can see this is on the cusp of disappearing. The more effective manner now is to offer the steamers in a buffet of sorts, where you take your chit up, choose the baskets you want, and bring them yourself back to the table. One of the waitresses suggests I do this, but to me, that defeats the idea of dim sum.
Dim sum should be taken slowly and at rest, in my opinion. The food should sail by on its gas heated cart, for you, like a pirate, to inspect and plunder in its passing.
This ensures that you never know for certain what is coming next, and that you have an appropriate amount of time between dishes to digest your food, savour the tea, and eat at a regulated pace.
Plus, you don’t have to worry about crashing into the tables crammed together like a blush of jellyfish.
No, I would hold my positition here, just like the elderly lady with the birdcage at the table next to me.
My first dish is squid. Soft as you can imagine. Not a fancy dish, and with very little flavour, but I can take flavour from the “red sauce”. The squid is about that juicy soft flavour.
Next, lovely brown honeycomb tripe that’s been red cooked and is now so soft it almost melts in your mouth. The cart lady is happy I’m having this. It’s good comfort food for a horrid morning.
The place is pretty much full by this point with a good mix of people from all categories, although the Cantonese speakers are in the ascendancy (I do hear a few Beijinger ‘rrrrrr’s, though).
The staff are in standard formation, servers pushing the trays; busboys clearing as fast as they can; seaters with radios and headsets keeping track of the available seating, and an old lady guarding the cashbox at the register.
I try something different. Shrimpballs rolled in rice. It’s not a bad thing, but heavy when there’s only one of you at the table. I’ve had something similar to this, but it was fried so that the rice crisped into the outer skin of the ball. I’d have to say I prefered it fried over this (but I still ate it).
Carpets are always a standard for us. It’s much more about eating fresh rice noodle than the pork fillings really.
The ribs weren’t as I expected. Beef ribs done much more as the “California cut” Korean kalbi, the cut of the ribs, that is. The preparation was very Cantonese, with the heavy brown gravy and ginger in the flavour. But when you went to eat them, it was the same “pull the last bit away from the bone edge” technique that you would use in a Korean bbq house (just messier on the fingers).
And then there were those little, translucent dumplings. Stuffed with pranwns and coriander.
While this isn’t Vancouver, the food was perfectly serviceable. I could say that Vancouver had more variety in the carts, but the emphasis here was shift from the service, to self-service, and I suspect everything you could ask for was up there. I just wonder how much longer they’ll keep up the cart service before the Canadian demand for speed and efficiency puts paid to it, and everything is done “from the buffet”?
Six courses was about my limit. The old lady who cleared my table was impressed, and assured me that it didn’t matter if I was fat, I had a good brain. How she gleaned that bit of dubious intelligence from the wanton display of gluttony before here, I don’t know.
After the meal I went through the little mall, stocking up on Jet Li and Stephen Chow films for the family. Cutting out the back, I was able to find the local grocery store, searching for fresh rice cake for Serena. They didn’t have that, but they did have fresh rice noodle, so I picked up a couple of packages, hoping they would keep through the next few days of travel (they did, although just on the edge of drying out).
I picked up my crumbers at the Cellar, a couple of books at McNally Robinson (George Mcdonald Fraser’s last two), and then stopped in the Joyce for a tot and to work on the Columbian segment.
I’d wanted to try the Bear & Kilt, but it was firmly locked up on a Sunday noon. Pity, but the Joyce was warm (as was the Dalwhinnie).
I had the afternoon at my leisure (aside from packing), and I would use it appropriately.
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Saturday, and the Wages of Guinness
Many of you know what it’s like to wake up for work having had one too many pints of Guinness the night before.
As Flann O’Brien, the great man, said “Thou shalt not drink ten pints of Guinness”. At least not without losing it. I can’t recall now, if that was the Third Policeman or At Swim-Two-Birds. Someone help an old man out here.
You have that horrid sour-iron tang in your mouth, the thickness about you that makes you check for a lost tooth in a fight some dark alley somewhere, but thankfully you find all of your necessities still attached. You brush your teeth for what feels like ages, and rinse your mouth ‘till it comes clean with the darkness.
And then, fool that you are, you don’t go back to bed nor take a hot bath, but drape yourself in new clothes (the ones from last night smell somewhat astray) and get down for a cup of that modern opiate, the coffee, and hope it’ll give you the same sort of strength the whiskey gave you the night before.
I shouldn’t poke through my old Irish writers while I’m writing. I get carried away.
This was another horrid day. This time it was packed enough that I wasn’t even to get away for lunch, but would work through to six.
I did slip away for ten minutes, and asked the concierge to get me a booking at Capo’s, however.
When I was here last, everyone talked after about Il Sogne. But it appeared that the chef there had left, and moved on to Capo’s. I’ll listen to public opinion, and so felt that a good Italian was something that I could indulge in on a cold Albertan night.
When I returned, however, I found that, for whatever reason, the Palisser and Capo’s weren’t talking to each other. The concierge was very apologetic, but it wouldn’t be the fault of either of them. Too often visitors make reservations, and then fail to materialize. This leaves the hotel with a tarnished reputation, and the restaurant with empty seats (and just get me going about this with regards to the Bangkok dining scene!).
I was on my own. I called Capo’s to try, and, unfortunately found that they had been sold out for weekends for quite some time. Even a singleton like me wasn’t going to fit in. Still, they would waitlist me for the 8:30 setting, and we would see what would happen.
I was stuck.
I wouldn’t say I was starving. I carry enough extra sustenance on my frame that it would probably take a few months to get me down to Ethiopian proportions, but a day without food was telling upon me. I spent some time with the rest of the team in the lounge, but would escape to my room on the half hour to check on the status of Capo’s bookings.
Unfortunately, unlike Quattro in Whistler where my persistence paid off in a pair of seats for Vivalda’s dinner, I was to have no such luck with Capo’s. Fully booked they were, and fully booked they would stay.
Darn.
Now I was in the next stage of my quandry. What to do now?
There were a number of places that sounded good. Alloy in particular was intriguing, but I really didn’t want to have to mess around heading outside of the downtown area to find myself late for a setting.
The concierge made a few phone calls for me – The Belvedere, BLVD, Vintage, and then things worked out with Tribune, across the street from Divino’s.
I was, I admit, becoming very localized in my dining.
I hurried through the empty streets to the Trib. Merely a couple of blocks, and the weather had lifted slightly. My skin no longer burned as the air stripped the moisture out of my pores. And I didn’t feel the cold claw of frost working up my nostrils and down my lungs.
It wasn’t as bitterly cold.
Just don’t get the idea this was tropical.
The Tribune welcomed me by name once I’d entered and asked for a table for one. And Vanessa immediately sent out a glass of bubbly to cleanse my palate and put me in the mood.
Vanessa, you’re a good woman.
It was a good menu, and I was hard pressed for my choices. In particular, their risotto looked excellent. But when I consulted with my waiter, it became apparent that, even with my hunger, this was meant as a main, and not as a pasta dish.
It’s not really odd, as we all experience it, but I’m well aware now that the hungrier I become, the less I’ll eat. Or, rather, that I’ll eat too fast, and “fill up” too soon. As good as the rice sounded, I decided not to go there. Pity, as I read now on the internet that that may be chef Andrew Keen’s signature dish.
I’m also becoming aware, as I research the Calgary food scene more (“And the reason you didn’t do this before you went is????”, queries Yoonhi) is how tight a circle it is. Andrew Keen, the chef here, had been the original chef at the Living Room, which had also been recommended. Looking at the movement of chefs in Calgary, you’re struck by how many stay here, rather than the international comings and goings we see elsewhere. It does give this city very cozy feel. Sort of made me think of Glasgow, of all places, where many of the chefs (at least at the end of the 90s) had similar pedigrees (many tracing back to common ancestry at the Ubiquitous Chip).
The amuse bouche was a venison pate with black truffled demi glace. This was as good as it looked, with the game coming through in the pate, and the gooey demi glace filling up my nose with truffle. Not bad at all with a glass of bubbly.
I gave myself over to being a carnivore. I find it hard not to be interested in tartares when they’re at hand, so I ordered a nice mound of raw meat – Spring Creek Ranch tenderloin – seasoned and laced with shallots and capers. A few pieces of brioche (“c’mon, it’s toast”) to stretch it out a bit.
My palate cleanser of a wine was long gone, and we’d decided on a vin gris for this course. For this a monastrell, Torbreck 2006 from the Barossa Valley. Against the tang of the capers in the meat and the cool, dead flesh itself, the mild sweetness pulled things out well. Of interest to me, while I’d known of this as mourvedre (monastrell is the Spanish), I’d never heard of it as “Estrangle-Chien” or “dog strangler”.
I’m thinking of Dali now. Un Estrangle-Chien Andalou has an interesting tone to it.
The room down here (dining is done in the basement, drinking upstairs at street level) is low lit, light playing off of the sandstone walls. The wall beside me is clean, just the old stones that I can reach out and touch. The opposite wall is fronted by the wine racks, the bottles lying lengthwise to the audience, backlit against the rock.
My next dish was gnocchi (I need a pasta dish in a proper meal), with a ragu of braised lamb neck, with white truffle oil and pecorino cheese (a nice conceit to use sheep’s milk with lamb’s neck). The ragu is sweet, and the meat pulls apart like something from a zombie movie. My waiter brings me a half glass of Schug Pinot Noir from California. This is a fuller wine, but not over the top. I enjoy this with the animal fat and grease in the ragu.
The gnocchi themselves are very soft, chewier than many I’ve had (and making me wish for my own kitchen again).
A table nearby has two plates of the fish in a bag. I’m sure it has a much more alluring name here, but was effectively the same method as I’d observed in Bogota, the fish bagged in parchment. It’s a small world (everybody sing along, now).
My last wine is a treat, and one of which I take a full glass. A Catena Malbec from 2005. When I’d first asked about this when I’d received the wine list, I was told they were out. But the Tribune is partners with the Cellar across the street, and they were able to have a couple of bottles brought around by the “the Cellar guy”.
Now, as I contemplate my drinking, I see an evolution from the blushing sweet vin gris, to the fuller pinot noir, and ending in the carnal savagery of the malbec.
Writing, as I am now, from the domestic tranquility of my home, the child at her homework, Yoonhi meeting with coaches, I wonder “Where do I get this stuff from?”
But, back to the maelstrom…..The malbec is as brutal as I’d hoped for. There’s something about this wine that makes me want meat, and lots of it.
With this I was having the bison daube – a red wine braise tarted up with smoked bacon and hand-rolled truffled garganelli. For the garganelli they store the truffles in the flour beforehand, imparting the aroma. They do a 12 hour braise for this, and what I get are three beautiful chunks of meat glistening darkly in the sauce.
The meat pulled well, and, as predicted, I could feel my appetite grinding to a halt. This was about right.
As I said, I’d controlled myself. The menu had a fine selection of shared dinners, including duck, leg of lamb, chateaubriand, and a bison porterhouse at 36 oz. I’d contemplated all of these, but knew I wasn’t up to the feat this evening.
I considered their selection of liquid desserts, but opted instead for a graceful exit, rather than doing a Mr. Creosote. Still, the options were tempting. They were doing flights (or tasters) of ports, cognacs, Scotch, and ice wine.
I really wanted to go back across the street for some cheese at Divino’s, but the bloat I was feeling made this apparent unto myself that it was not a wise idea.
So, instead, I went with Murietta’s lured in by the sound of live music, something I only have access to on an occasional basis.
And I think I ended up back at the Joyce in the snook later on.
But that’s not for here. You'll need to wait upon my catching up on the Dipsophilia side of things.
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It's the "goats" that trouble me. That and the look of that pavement by the sea (if it is a sea, and not a lake).
edited for quotation marks. Whatever those animals are, they're keeping me up nights.
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Congratulations on your 1,001th post Peter! I am looking forward to the next 1,000 posts in the near future.
A salute to your verbose prose, very entertaining wit and seemingly bottomless capacity for food. Yay Peter!"Verbose"? Moi?
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A Touch of Frost
It turned out to be a very long day’s work, and I finished somewhat shattered, really only interested in a simple meal, without the frills or planning that I should put into these things. I would have to take a meeting after dinner, so my timing was necessarily constricted.
I had the concierge call ahead, and I walked over to Teatro. I just wanted to walk quickly to someplace, and get a decent meal into me.
I’d disdained the idea of a taxi, given the proximity of the restaurant. Perhaps I shouldn’t take on such airs, not when the sky is frozen. Mind you, while it wasn’t getting any warmer, Calgary, with the lights up on the skeletal trees, is very pretty under these conditions.
Life-threatening, but pretty.
The old Dominion Bank building was still there, holding down the corner. Two years ago it marked the dividing line between the urban gentry and the rougher East Side, a clearer division than the one in Vancouver.
I recall sitting on the patio out back, and my friend being told that the civil ordnances wouldn’t allow cigars anymore, as the smoke might corrupt a minor, even outside. Upon close inspection we did spot some minors in the park, and I would think the City might find other aspects of their welfare to be concerned with (I was going to phrase this quite differently, but thought better of it).
Obviously, with so much time gone by the staff were all different, but the room was much the same – large, well managed, and alive with the babble of conversation filled in with soft jazz. All it lacked the whole roast boar on a spit it had had last time I was here.
But it was warm.
As was the hostess, from Iskandraya (Alexandria). After all this time away, it was pleasant to chit chat a bit in Arabic (although my part would be just a chit), and to bask in that sense of good humour the Egyptians have.
I considered the tasting menu, and realized that my heart just wasn’t in it today. I opted instead for a simple meal.
I decided to open with a half dozen oysters from New Brunswick - Beausoleils. I’d hoped to take these with Guinness, but Teatro doesn’t offer this on tap (there are limits) but only in a can. I changed then to a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, the Staete Landt 2005.
As I sipped at this they brought out an amuse – a bit of foie gras torchon served on a Matrix spoon (I’ve used the Uri Geller line too often), and adorned with caramelized onion and a corrugated wafer that gave a nice crunch. Smooth, sweet, crunch, and the flowers in the Sauvignon Blanc.
I was still done in, but at least I was happy.
The oysters arrived with a choice of a granite of a spicy apple mignonette, a tabasco sauce (which I found out), and a simple lemon slice.
The granite is an interesting thing, the contrast of ice crystals with the oysters being a neat trick. It reminded me of something I’d seen in Korea, where they would freeze a vinaigrette, shave it, and serve it on the salad to give you that very fresh hit. It would melt readily enough, but it was mainlyl about first impressions.
The tobasco I was caught out by. It wasn’t that it was overly spiced, but it was enough so that it rather ruined my mouth for the wine and the mignonette. I turned to the bread momentarily, and, with that and water, tried to balance things out.
The oysters themselves were good enough, but I’d preferred what I’d had at Murietta’s. These were smoother, softer, and more well-healed, while I like the variety in the mouth that I’d had with the B.C. ones.
Of course, I may just be biased.
In talking with my waiter, Josh, I tripped upon a valuable bit of information. I found out where to buy a crumber.
I don’t know if this is a big deal for you, but it mattered to me. Yoonhi had had me on the lookout for a crumber for ages, and I could never find them. In Houston I’d asked about them, and found that they were in short supply indeed. Most of the servers relied upon visits by the wine merchants, who would hand them out as gimme’s.
But, Calgary, bless it’s heart, has them for sale at The Cellar, right near Divino’s. Only around $2 or so. Okay, they’re not sterling, they’re plastic, but they look okay, and they’ll work at a dinner party (as opposed to the brushing things off with my grubby paws).
Where was I?
Ah, yes, the soup. This was a duck consomme. They’d done a double consomme, running through the clarification twice, and then had flavoured it with white truffle. At the bottom of this was a ravioli of duck bits, carrots, parsley, and probably some other things I’ve forgotten.
The ewer they poured it from was a thing of beauty, as was the consomme. It was clear, piping hot, and tasted the way I can never get my consomme to taste. And the ravioli yielded up what tasted like giblets. It’s been so long since I’ve had duck giblets that I can’t say for certain. The hint of truffles lingered back there. This was a very nice surprise.
I felt myself recovering somewhat. The room helped. There’s something about dining in old banks that has me thinking of the demise and resurgence of capitalism, particularly as I indulge in truffles and foie gras.
My main was Digby Bay scallops, served with spaghettini, Gaspesie sea spinach (not quite a kelp as I’m used to it), tomatoes, and anchovy butter.
Lemon grass was used to skewer the scallops after they’d been seared with the spices. It’s a nice idea, but the lemon grass didn’t do much, as it wasn’t opened to release its smell. Still, the anchovy butter did have an effect, and I quite liked the buttery, salty feel that eveything took up. But I really like salt.
I’d picked up a Stuhlmuller Chardonnay from the Alexander Valley in California to go with this. It did the job of cutting the butter and prepping my mouth for the next bite, so the course went well.
As expected, I passed on dessert. I needed to meet an old acquaintance interested in our company at the James Joyce, and anything sweet I enjoyed now would just be in the way of the Guinness bashing that was to come.
I contented myself with picking at the profiteroles and meringues that were presented (okay, I only have so much restraint) and then headed out into the cold. A last bit of Arabic before the frost, and I was gone into the night.
My initial reaction would be to compare the restaurant of 2006 with that of now and to say that it was “diminished”, but reflection, which always comes of my looking at my experiences, would tell me that it was myself, tired out and bedraggled from one too many plane flights that was the lesser, not Teatro.
The service had been very good, attentive, and not too close, while still willing to entertain my questions. And while I did not interact with the sommelier (who looked somewhat like Hiro from Heroes) Josh was quite up to the task of choosing wines.
Perhaps I've just been gone too long?
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Divino
I had enough time to dash for lunch. Just. I needed something that would be close, as the weather was becoming worse and worse. It was somewhere down around -29 centigrade, and that’s just not right.
I bundled up as fast I could, and took my latest bit of advice.
Divino’s.
I’d had the concierge check for me, and, yes, they would be open at 11 for lunch. My scheduled work wouldn’t pick up again until 1, so this was possible.
And it was really, really close. Just up the street past Murietta’s, turn right, and I could see the sign right there.
I made it to the door, teeth chattering. It was just past 11 a.m.
I turned the door….and…..nope.
I was glad I was well dressed, but that was still only good for so long. My blood has thinned way out after all these years overseas in Southern climes. I stamped my feet and peered in the window.
The good news was that there were people in there.
The bad news was they weren’t looking in my direction.
I tried politely knocking on the door.
I tried politely tapping on the window.
I tried politely turning blue and losing body parts.
Finally they ambled over to let me in.
“Sorry, we’re running a little late today, as we’re a server down.”
Thank God and Walmart for long underwear.
Seats near the window were available, and, while sensible eaters had reserved the seats further in where it was warm, I didn’t mind it too much up here. Compared to outside, it was pretty tropical.
Lindsay was at my call today. She made up for much of my earlier discomfort, as she was quite happy to take the time to answer my questions as the lunch went on.
But, before I get to that, what did I eat?
I started with a glass of the Argentinian Colony of Rabbits, and ordered the sweetmeats. These came braised with orange, topped with greens, and sitting atop endives and a mass of chanterelle mushrooms and twice smoked pig belly.
This was a significantly large set of sweetbreads than what I’d taken at St. John and other venues. I wondered about my appetite, this being early on in the day. The sweetbreads themselves, probably from the size, were slightly spongier than I recalled in texture. But the endive was a nice touch, that bitterness working well with the texture of the different meats.
Lindsay brought me some fresh, hot bread to make up for the cold butter from earlier. I used the opportunity to beat on her about other places to eat. I may be wrong (okay, I’m usually wrong) but people in the restaurant trade often have a good idea of what’s good and what’s not for local eating.
She agreed that Capo’s was worth the visit (especially if I wasn’t paying), and also spoke well of Alloy, which has also been mentioned in this thread by others. The chef at Alloy is Rogellio Herrera, who’d worked before at Teatro and here at Divino. It sounded interesting, not just because the chef is Columbian. I am a fond believer in working with syncopatic threads as they arise. My only concern was venturing too far in this cold.
Divino’s umbrella group – the Canadian Rocky Mountain Resort Corporate Family (maybe I should make my family use a name like that?) – also has Cilantro, and I’d heard some good things about it. She also spoke well of the Living Room down on 17th (within reach) which has a very good crab salad, and of Vintage, if I felt I had to have a steak.
Outside the window, the snow that had been drifting down earlier was ramming past at a 45 degree angle. The latest group of diners entered the room banging their boots off.
I followed the sweetbreads with the daily special – BC salmon cakes. These were with a cream sauce and garnished with snow crab.
The cakes were a mix of potato, leek, celery, capers, and herbs, with a dusting of toasted sesame seeds. Good texture, and the medium bodied Colony of Rabbits was fine with this.
Once done, I was sorely tempted by the cheese. But if I had the cheese, I’d want another glass of wine. And if I had another glass of wine, I might not be performing…..well….optimally at work, so I swore I’d be back again for a quiet glass and some cheese in front of that big window.
I do have to mention the cheeses!
(I was going to just scan the menu and let you read, but I have to be careful of my disk space. It seems to evaporate as quickly as my drinks)
A semi-firm Comte from France, described as bittersweet.
An Appenzeller from Switzerland, a firm, bittersweet, fruity cheese.
A Roquefort Causse Noir (‘nuff said).
A Pecorino Vento Estate – barrique washed and aged in hay.
A French Morbier, again a semi-firm from Franche-Comte, but lightly fruity and aromatic, with traces of plant coal.
And, from La Belle Province, Quebec, Le Chevre Noir, a firm, cheddar style made from goat’s milk.
Montasio, which gets really gritty and sweet.
And I could go on further. There’s a total of 22 cheeses, which you can take in selections of 3 or 5 (or a chef’s selection). Seeing as so many of these with raw, unpasteurized milk are considered controlled substances in the USA, dining on plates of these has a certain frisson.
I won’t digress too much. I know there’s a thread out there on the inanity of the FDA’s ongoing war on good cheese. I sat in one seminar once (offshore) and listened to a very talented and passionate man describe the lengths he had to go to in order to smuggle good cheese into the United States. Beside me an acquaintance from the US Embassy, an FDA liason agent, was holding his ears shut and looking at the floor.
The other item I should not is the selection of gins. I know I don’t get out much, but I was thrilled to see names I hadn’t come across before. Old Raj and Danesbury’s from England (and they do say “England” here, not “the UK”), Rogue Spruce from the US, and Broker’s (also English).
Plus they had seven Belgian beers on offfer!
I tore myself away from the menus and the warmth, and got back to work.
But dinner wasn’t that far away.
A note just in passing, this was my 1,001th post. I'd missed my 1,000th, using it to correct a mistake I'd made.
That just seems appropriate, somehow.
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One correction just in! (And I'm lucky it's only one so far)
When I wrote:
In addition to Harry Sasson, Lina also spoke of having taken cooking classes from a Maria Arriegas. She doesn’t have a restaurant here, but consults and runs some classes. Given – I’m told - that she’d worked for Ferran Adria in the past, she’d be an interesting person to meet when I can get back here next.
Lina was actually speaking of Maria Villegas, who has authored and co-authored a number of books; Taste + Colour, A La Carte, and others. For those of you who've been madly googling for the references....well......sorry?
I can't even blame alcohol for this lapse, as I was still quite contrite about the evening before.
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I've had some fantastic pig brains in Phnom Penh. Steamed or fried, they just melt in your mouth.
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While the health care issue is an interesting take and a topic for separate discussion, I wonder about having to start tipping the support staff separately under a "service charge".
What ever happened to the old fashioned system where the tips worked their way through the back of the restaurant, either through a "pot" or else through the time honoured tradition of the waiters having to tip the cooks and plongeurs, or else risk not getting their orders filled?
You tip the waiter as he's your contact, but the grease should spread to the whole machine. At least, that's how it worked when I was a kid in a restaurant.
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Rouge
First, had I mentioned about it being cold?
The temperature was dropping. It had been tolerable the evening before, and when we’d gone to Murietta’s for lunch I made do with just the long coat.
But, when we wrapped things up around 7, it was turning bitter.
And there was white stuff falling from the sky. That’s never a good sign.
I bundled. I’d come prepared to layer, and I hadn’t carried these togs halfway around the world and up and down for no reason. The Walmart long johns went on (TMI, I know), the extra socks, the heavy slacks, the boots, the t-shirt, the shirt, the tie, the sweat shirt (I needed the hood), the scarf (Gordon tartan), and the cashmere coat (a gift of my mother’s).
I figured with all of this on, I could make it to a taxi.
I’d called ahead and had a reservation for Rouge, over in what they’re calling Inglewood now (I believer). Someone else had referred to it as “Crossbridge” or some such, but all I know was that it was in the SE.
Unfortunately, when I’d written down the address, I’d failed to note which number went with “street” and which with “avenue”. Calgary is on a very sensible (if uninspiring) grid system of streets and avenues, with suffixes of NE, NW, SE, and SW, so it’s really quite easy to figure out where you’re going.
Unless you’re an idiot.
I was hoping that the taxi driver knew what he was doing.
Synergy and Merlin (above) had both had positive things to say about Rouge, and the concierges (is that the proper plural? It looks wrong) on my floor had also been recommending it.
(Note: I really liked my concierges. After a few days they were getting used to my incessant badgering about meals, and got well into the sport of it all. The fact that they were very easy to look at had no impact upon this)
So here I was, deposited in the snow outside of a residential looking house in a part of Calgary that I never would have ventured into some 20 years ago. Mind you, it was all looking quite proper, and the area was obviously working its way upscale.
Inside, in the hallway/reception, things were abustle with people being directed to this party or that party, and others asking questions about gift certificates and other such things. The young lady at the desk asked me which party I was with, and I cheerfully answered with “None!” and then gave my name. She knew who I was right away. I suspect that lone diners aren’t so common as one might expect. She did compliment my coat, with its antique lable, so my mother must be proud. She said she’d seen a number of these nowadays, the fashion coming back. Myself, I associate them more with gentlemen fond of wine in paper bags, but that’s just me….
I took at table in a small room on the side that looked out over the snow covered garden. I take it that they grow a lot of their own material here, and I wondered as to the best month to be eating. But I shouldn’t downplay winter - there are worse ways to spend your time than watching the snow on the open ground, and if that meant that some of the ingredients might not be as ultra-fresh, then so be it.
The house is very much a house. The rooms have been opened up a bit, but renovation is constrained by the heritage listing (which is what, in part, makes this 1891 landmark so pleasant). The colour scheme is one of strong solid colours and dark wood, setting off the table cloths which are, of course, rouge.
I took the briefest of looks at the menu, but my primary interest was in trying the tasting menu. The executive chef, Paul Rogalski, had just taken Gold Plate in the local competitions, and was away at the Canaidan Culinary Championships (checking up on this, Melissa Craig from Whistler’s Bearfoot Bistro took the prize. A nice result, as she’d been a last minute substitute for Pino Posteraro from his Mediterranean Grill in Vancouver’s Yaletown).
Anyways, where was I? Oh, yes, the restaurant is very well recommended, and they’ve been on the job now as Rouge since 1983, so I had no reason to be worried about the main chef not being there. The waiter seemed a little surprised at how quickly I was ready to proceed, but he recovered well.
Myself, of course, I was still trying to get used to the speed at which things moved here. It’s been a while since last I was in Canada, perhaps two years since Vancouver, and it always takes some adjusting to the “efficiency” of how things happen up North. Nothing wrong with it, and it does make working here a joy, but it leaves me a little breathless at times.
I asked the waiter to treat the tasting as a surprise in each instance, and he immediately asked if he could pair the wines. That sounded fine by me, and I was able to close my menu in piece and turn to my cocktail.
This was not a good start. The “Holiday Martini”. I should’ve known better, and so it’s my own fault, but this technicolour monstrosity not only was way too sweet for me, but it was also full of ice, which is not something I look for in a martini of any name.
However, my first wine, a 2006 Touraine les Charmes Sauvignon Blanc helped put that trauma aside. A bit of bread and some of the olive oil with the mixed berry to scour the candy-like taste out of my mouth (what was I thinking, ordering a cocktail with a cute name?), and a bit of water, and then I could appreciate the wine. The smell reminded me of when you fall in the grass and take your first breath.
This was with a first course of duck liver parfait with homemade crackers and caramelized onion puree.
The Sauvignon Blanc had a nice sweetness to it that went well with the duck liver parfait presented egg-like in a small cup, flanked by “micro greens” and the onion crackers. This had been bruleed, which made it a delicate matter to get through the top (which reminded me at the time of the hard disk on the foot of a sea snail), but the result underneath was a very pleasant, almost muddy mixture. Taken with the crunchiness of the crackers and the freshness of the greens, this was a pretty little dish. Beneath the greens were some dabs of orange and some rock salt, to pick out some highlights. I allowed the sweetness of the wine to draw out the flavour a bit, lingering on the middle of the tongue, and gave a happy sigh.
The chef tonight was James Wang, who’d come here from the Marriott in Ottowa. He’d done a good job on this first course, and I appeared supported in my belief that a good restaurant holds its own regardless of who is or is not there.
Next I was brought a Domaine Meyer Gewurtztraminer from 2005. This German struck me as somewhat weak for a Gewurtz, but I withheld judgement until I’d seen what was on the plate.
Once I had the soup – foie gras Mulligatawny with crab apple drizzle the wine made more sense. There was more than enough strength in the soup. The Gewurtz carried well with the creamy fatiness of the soup, and with the mouth filling tang of the crab apples. At first I thought perhaps I preferred the Sauvignon Blanc with this (I still had a fair bit in the glass) but the more I tried, the more I came to the conclusion that it was a case of the S.B. contrasting the food, while the Gewurtz, with it’s oiliness, tended more to complement the food, working into the over-the-top fatiness of the broth, and especially the foie gras cream lurking in the middle.
Settling upon Gewurtz, I use that to chase the taste of foie gras around in my mouth. It must have been two weeks since last I had any foie. It’s amazing I survived.
From the next table I eavesdrop on:
“What are your wine recommendations?”
“It depends what you eat.”
I also approved of the Gallic recommendation of duck over the prawns.
And, I notice in my book, that, although they were good about honouring my request to be surprised with each course, they did check first to ensure that I had no food allergies.
Next came a Pinot Noir, Reserve de la Chevre Noire from 2005. A light nose, and a flavour that rested up front in the palate and twisted my tongue around a bit. With this came the lamb and ricotta lasagna with St. Agur and black truffle. I could smell the truffle as it approached. A baby tomato in thirds for colour, and plenty of lamb and ricotta to settle my hunger.
Again, after an initial concern, I could see what the wine was meant to do. It was very much about going along with the dish, of filling in the holes that the weren’t covered, of reaching a certain harmony, while I’d been thinking instead of the Henry’s Drive, and how it went for the truffles and accentuated them, reveling in the spike more than the overall impression. I chewed the lamb happily while I kept the truffle on my fork close by my nose.
Right after this came something cute. A mojito gelee and lemon sparkling water a deconstruction of a mojito that worked quite well. The big bubbles in the sparkling water opened up the mint and lime in the gelee, and, like when Manzke did his deconstructed taco, it just tasted right (okay, okay, I know, why go to all the effort to deconstruct something to put it back together to taste like it should?.....because you can!). Plus, I got to eat from another of those Uri Geller spoons. I keep staring at them, but I can’t straighten them out.
As I look at my notes for my comments on the mojito, I see “it makes me smile”.
Also, I see was a categorizing the courses. I considered the first course, the duck liver, an exploration, accompanied by a rather strident wine. The second course, the mulligatawny, a comfort, with something compliant to ease the load. The third course, the lasagna, was there for the hunger, and it was matched with something soft and omplimentary, and the fourth, the mojito, well, like a good Latin, it was there for fun.
I’m often amazed at the junk I write when I’ve got a couple of botttles in me.
Next came the main, the AAA beef tenderloin with potato puree and espresso jus . I admit it, I was too content at this point to remember to pull out my cell phone and shoot the damned thing. The potatoes had been truffled, and the steak given a dollop of crème fraiche to crown it.
The waiter had recommended a Portugese red for this. I tried it, though, and had to push it back. It was a good idea, but it didn’t feel right, too much front of the mouth, and a little too thick. Even when chewed, it would hesitate in the mouth, and then run to the front. My waiter ran back and brought out a Clos du Val Cabernet Sauvignon from the Napa, a 2004. This was rounder wine for the meat, and I was content enough with it.
The espresso jus with the steak was a nice idea, but I couldn’t really taste the espresso. I took my time with the meat and potatoes, and used the cab to wash out all the corners in my mouth with the essence of truffle.
My sommelier/waiter (I never did get it quite straight) was fun to talk with. He’d considered a position earlier with Scirocco at the Dome in Bangkok (or Lebuan, or whatever they’re calling it this week). This, of course, gave me the opportunity to chit chat about the food scene in Krungthep, something that’s guaranteed to have me running over like an Egyptian toilet.
Sorry about that imagery.
As I wrapped up this course, I thought about the story. It had been a good adventure up to this point, but the main lacked a topic. It was more about general satisfaction. Perhaps we were just describing a good marriage with this, having worked through the thrill of early romance, and now settling in to the heavier appetites?
Or maybe I’ve just been away from my family for too long?
Next I took a warm triple crème brie on walnut cracker with strawberry glaze . With this was a port. One of the Taylor Fladgate 30 year olds, a wonderfully clear port. The brie had a nice hard crust on the underside, and the crème anglaise with strawberries perked up the sweetness already there in the port.
Damn, that’s a nice port to finish up on.
But, of course, I wasn’t finished. They brought out a sparkly muscat, the Clairette de Die Gabrielle de Richaud, a light alcohol sparkling from Domaine Achard Vincent. This had such a fine bubble to it.
And, for a man who doesn’t do many desserts, I was quite happy to eat dessert. A treacle pudding with vanilla bean anglaise and whiskey ice cream . Highlighting this were raspberry and blackberry coulis, colourful little swirls.
And, finally to the finish line, an espresso. Just to help me sleep.
I thanked my waiter and collected my things. Unfortunately, I should have thought further ahead regarding having a taxi called. The hostess at the door was a little concerned as she said the dreaded words “I forget there was hockey tonight”.
That, in essence, meant that most every cab was booked out for the evening. Still, a good hostess has her wiles, and she enveigled her favourite company to send a couple of hacks out our way.
I didn’t particularly mind the wait. It gave me the opportunity to admire this old house some more, and I could listen in on the business dinners that were also letting out, reminding me of how glad I was not to have a real job.
And outside it was snowing.
And it was getting colder.
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In Houston tonight and tomorrow, looking for restaurant recommendations. Read all the posts from autumn of last year and about the only place people people are in agreement about seems to be la Dolce Vita, but I ate at Arco Doro last night so I don't need any more Italian. I'm curious about anything that would be considered a truly iconic establishment, and especially about anything that might be considered regional cuisine (don't know what this entails in Houston--Tex/Mex, Chili joints, Pit BBQ???).
Being shameless, you could consider looking at my last Houston visit. Of the iconic, I'd consider the original Ragin' Cajun on Richmond, and the Breakfast Klub wasn't bad for the morning. For regional, I enjoyed Hugo's, and the steak frites at the Montrose Cafe across the street was a great meal.
I liked Tony's, but a lot of people recommended Mark's and I didn't have time.
Oh, and Reef is getting very good reviews (and I missed out on it as I got delayed down South).
Please post your findings! Houston has a lot to offer, it's just hard finding it sometimes.
Cheers,
Peter
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Addendum
In retrospect, I think it's a shame I didn't get a rental and check out Odessa.
It might've been interesting, from what I heard.
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At this point, back home with my main computers to work from, and with a weekend in which to overcome jet lag, I've now tied up parts 1, 2, and 3.
From here on, I promise to commit myself to finishing the Calgary leg.....
That is, except for when I'm answering questions in the other parts, posting extraneously, planning the next trip, and cooking.
(don't worry, we'll get there).
Next: Seeing Red
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Like a good beer, things were coming to a head.
Houston (part 1) was out of the way, and, as with every trip, I was growing to like it more and more.
Bogota (part 2) had been truely wonderful, in the sense of the word as "full of wonder". It was not what I had expected, and I was yearning to go back.
And even Midland had been good in many ways, giving me a reminder of small town life, away from the hustle and bustle that I've grown used to. I liked the good manners, and the easy approachability of folks.
And now we were heading to Calgary, in that very young of middle-aged nations, Canada.
One thing to remember about Canada.....
Before we were a nation, we were a department store.
Next: Calgary
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Houston, again
This was the briefest of interludes. Just a way stop between Bogota (part 1) and Midland (part 3) .
After an extremely long day of travel on Saturday (and I am still in shock that the lounges in the USA charge for everything, American Airlines’ Miami club including internet access in their fee-based “service”) I arrived back in Houston, cleared my luggaged, and picked up a car to get me back to the Marriott for a night’s sleep and to pick up my left luggage.
After a half hour’s drive, one go around on the the Nuevo Latino CD I’d bought, and an attempt by two blondes to engage me in business from a stop light (“no thank you, I’d really rather sleep”), I found myself back in a bed.
When I did wake up the next day, it was to fog and warmth. The weather had changed. I contemplated my clothing choices with this increase in temperature, and began the sorry job of packing.
I also had to make contact with a friend of a friend. I’d ordered some things from Amazon, and needed to collect them at this time. Our plans had changed, and we wouldn’t be stopping here after Midland, but would rather be moving straight on to Calgary after we’d done what needed doing.
Unfortunately, when you’re relying on people for favours you really can’t complain. I put the dead time to good use, though, and got my luggage in order for decamping the next morning.
When the material did arrive, I finished packing and then headed out for a quick bite. Being a Sunday, I was limited on my options. Reef wasn’t open (I’d had to do a long-distance cancellation of my previous night’s reservations), and it was now too late to get back to Hugo’s for another go at the Mexican. I was hungry, and still tired, so I fell back on my old favourites.
Back to the Cajun
But I only regressed so far.
My immediate reaction was to go for the usual, but I thought, “I just ate here a week or so ago, and I may not be back for awhile. Let’s try something different”.
First, I asked if I could try the infused vodka in a martini. The waiter was kind enough to warn me as to the strength of the flavours, but we agreed that, as this was in the interest of science, we’d put that caution aside.
I’d have to agree with him. It was a little on the odd side, the onions in particular overpowering things (which is surprising, as I figured the garlic would win out) and then the olive and capsicum. Still, it was wet, and I was there, and I really didn’t have any trouble polishing it off.
After that, I set to trying to expand my repetoire. Luckily, the Cajun offers many of it’s dishes in cups, rather than full-sized, so I spread myself out a bit.
First up were two standards of cajun cooking: a crawfish etouffee and a shrimp & crab gumbo.
The etouffee had that rich, elegant sauce that just cries out to your arteries, with the crawfish tails in that gravy just chewing down real easy.
I’m drooling again. Sorry. Just let me clean this up.
I polished that off smartly, and then turned my attention to the gumbo. This was much thinner, as expected, and the stock had a good backdrop of boiled prawn (or crawfish?) heads. It was a black roux, and had that feel of low tide and rotting carcasses that I admire so much. A bit of a bite in there, too, which is good to feel. I’ve had too many gumbos that were scared to offend, and generally ended up doing just that.
Lots of crab and shrimp in there, and the rice was nicely bloated (like me!).
I followed that up with the Mardi Gras oysters. They’d been breaded and fried, then placed back in their shells and smothered in pico de gallo (“rooster’s beak”). These were okay, but I don’t know if I’d be in a hurry to go back to them. I guess if you have oysters that don’t taste that good raw, this is a way to make them more palatable. But if they don’t taste that good to begin with, why have them?
But alongside this was a bowl of red beans and rice. You can never go wrong with red beans and rice, especially when you top up with raw onions and shredded cheese. My appetite was fading, but I added seom Pepperdoux sauce and made certain I cleaned up all of the sausage in there.
That done, I considered another dish, and then thought better. I needed to be out in Katie in a few hours for the Super Bowl with some Canadian friends (we treat it as an anthropological study), and I didn’t want to be too full. Cathy’s a very good cook, and I knew I could expect good things out there.
I was not disappointed, either. When I arrived she had pulled pork on the go, and Paul was getting out the buns. We yacked, ate, drank, and occassionally watched the game. It was great not working in real time, as Paul had the recorder going so that when things got real dull (as Superbowls always do) we could cut over and watch some back episodes of Corner Gas.
Some chicken wings, all sauce and juice on my fingers and beard, and plenty of Labatt’s Blue.
Dinner was lamb, and it was very good, much better than the game, which really only came alive in the last two minutes. We had this with a Chilean Carmen Cab (that I’d mistaken as Argentinian) that I’d brought back from Bogota, and the evening just got more fun as we went along.
And for a temptation beyond all other cherries. Remember, I spend several months at a time in the desert. These are something I dream about from a childhood in Vancouver.
I should’ve taken more pictures of Cathy’s cooking than I did, but I was too busy relaxing, catching up, and just being human again. After days on the road, it was good to be eating in a home again. This was my one break in the three and a half weeks of business travel I had, and I needed it.
I got back to the hotel in good shape, finalized my packing, and went to bed.
Next day I had another culture to visit.
Next – Midland
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‘Cause I’m Leavin’ On A Jet Plane (They can only hope)
The next morning Lina was there for us again, patiently herding us and our voluminous luggage into the van. It was a Saturday, and we were keeping her from her family, but she was still perfect in her handling of us.
She really wanted to make certain that we left this time. We were getting to be like the cat that came back.
But everything went without a hitch in the airport. Eric, from the morning before, was looking in better spirits, and we’ made sure all of our papers were in order. We cleared customs and immigration, and made a beeline to the lounge, where we greeted the pleasant young lady at the counter as an old friend. From there we phoned Lina, and let her know we were safely away.
From Bogota to Miami on American was an easy enough trip. While I can complain about the mechanical work of American Airlines, their cabin staff were infinitely more pleasant than Continental’s.
As we rode North, I reflected (okay, I didn’t reflect, I wrote) on this leg of the trip.
I had expected something quite different of Bogota. Perhaps I’ve seen one too many films of Latin America, and so was thinking in terms of a Spanish speaking Phnom Penh, but what I had found was a very sophisticated culture that functioned well, and with a darned sight more grace and aplomb than I could ever muster.
Given the opportunity, I will return. I’d even spend my own money (stop gasping, you lot!) to come here. It’s less than 5 hours from Houston, and I’m there from time to time. Obviously, on business there are restrictions on what we can get up to. I would love to be here on a looser leash, and to check out the sandwich shops, empanada stands, and sidewalk cafes that I saw whilst in Bogota. And I could get out to the clubs without worry about facing work the next morning.
And there were more beers I hadn’t tried, and liquors I hadn’t hurt myself with yet.
And somewhere out there is a plate of big ass ants with my name on it.
Cheers,
Peter
From here – continue back to Part 1 in Houston for a short stop, and then it’ll be part 3 in Midland. Me, I’ve got to get back to part 4 in Calgary now.
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Peter,
I have been contemplating about doing another blog. But I am waiting for something special like a festival or an event to blog about. I was so glad you're doing these set of blogs, it's like travelling with you without the hassle and the hangover.
Hassle ? Do I ever sound like I encounter hassles?
And hangovers are to be savoured, as you know you'll feel so good when they're gone.
Culinary Guides
in Food Traditions & Culture
Posted
If anyone needs it, I have the contact for our guide, Java, in Chengdu. She hadn't started out doing food, but once she realized that people wanted to find our more of what Sichuan cuisine had to offer, she warmed to the task immensely.