Travelogue: the Americas (part 4)

[Peter Green]

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.

[Peter Green]

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

Edited February 19, 2008 by Peter Green (log)

[Shelby]

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....

[Peter Green]

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!

[Shelby]

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!

←

I'm glad they found your photos!

I bet you're glad to be back home with your family!

[Peter Green]

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!

[Peter Green]

Okay, the answer is in from the magic of the information superhighway!

I was listening to Scott Nolan, and I was drinking Thirsty Beaver.

Seek, and ye shall find.

[Peter Green]

Final Exit

You wake up some mornings with serious regrets.

First and foremost among these is having woken up.

Luckily, this was not a dawn patrol morning. Leaving the Palliser at 8:30 a.m. would ensure plenty of time at the airport to catch the flight to Toronto, which in turn had plenty of time to get me to Amsterdam, and so on.

But as I came to rest in the lounge at the airport, looking out on the thaw that was beginning to break the hold of this resurgent winter, I thought on the things that I hadn’t accomplished.

Being a Rat (this is my year) my most pressing agony was not having gone back for cheese at Divino’s. (Sorry, Shelby) And I chastised myself for failing to ensure reservations in advance for Capo’s.

More mortifying was my holding up the others in Bogota that morning, running late and reeking of mojitos.

However, as soon as that image crept into my mind, I couldn’t help but smile.

So much for regrets.

I recalled that they won’t serve beer here until 11. However, the sly among us know that there’s often some still left in the lines. I coaxed a Guinness out, poured a cup of coffee, and considered the high points of this four week marathon.

First, I was, by going back to my early mission statement, a failure. I had hardly done serious damage to my expense account, with the food element of most meals seldom getting above $70. Tony’s in Houston was probably the only major blow out, and that due to the wagyu. If I’d gone with my second choice, the duck for two, I still would have been under $100.

Houston, itself, I grow fonder with each passing trip. I think part of it is the surprise of discovery. The city itself is a fractal – self repeating patterns – that can cause people to rest in their locales and never leave. Why drive twenty minutes just to get to the same selection of shops and stores that you have right here? But food is the joker in the deck, and there are enough people in Houston that love making good food, and that love eating good food, that you have a reason to explore the town, looking for things that break the mold. Finding Hugo’s and Café Montrose face to face across Westheimer, expressing different continents and common threads, is something I could write a book on.

Didn’t Doddie call me verbose back there somewheres?

Midland I was prepared to pick on (I had another word, but it may not be politically correct), but I liked the Wall Street Bar & Grill. And Johnny’s BBQ was a good lunch (and a great price, which again didn’t help my expense account total). In particular, though, I liked what Scott Gunn was doing with his place, The Bar. He’s a man after my own heart, bringing new food ideas back to his own kitchen. Okay, I’m not as big an Elway fan as he is – carving “Elway” into the floor and naming his dog after him – but I admire a lot more of what I saw of this guy who worked his way up from deliveries.

Calgary has become a very interesting experiment, with a food scene that borders on the incestuous – chefs trading off from one restaurant to another, partnerships formed, expanded, curtailed. As before, I had some very fine meals, and was struck at the fun people have with their food (okay, they didn’t want me making snowballs of the rice….)

But Bogota. Bogota was the real gem for me. Perhaps part of that is just the novelty of being in South America, a land mass that I’ve only skirted the coast of (and that’s something so long ago I can’t remember)? But exposure to the southern part of America has put me in a mind of potatoes (and a good thread here on a BBC article) and of meats. Of sausages and arepas and empanaditas and ceviche and stouts. Of a sophisticated and passionate people.

And, of course, of mojitos.

And that just makes me smile again.

Final tracking point for this trip

Part 1 - Houston

Part 2 - Bogota

Part 3 - Midland

Part 4 - Calgary (just for the sake of being complete)

and

www.dipsophilia.com for the boozing

Edited February 21, 2008 by Peter Green (log)

[Shelby]

That's ok, Peter. All of your pictures have more than made up for the cheese lol. As I read all of your adventures, I sit here and marvel at your stamina and your ability to eat all of that gorgeous food. If that were me, I'd weigh 500 lbs. I hope you're getting some well deserved rest!

[Peter Green]

That's ok, Peter.  All of your pictures have more than made up for the cheese lol.  As I read all of your adventures, I sit here and marvel at your stamina and your ability to eat all of that gorgeous food.  If that were me, I'd weigh 500 lbs.    I hope you're getting some well deserved rest!

←

I really do feel bad about not getting back for that cheese.

Thanks for sticking with me through this, Shelby. It's been a long, long trip, marred by the fact that my company expects me to do some work when I'm on these junkets.

It is nice to be home, with my own kitchen, my own ingredients, and my own schedule.

And there is some extra me there around the middle that I'll have to do something about.

At least, I'd better do something about it before the next trip.

[Shelby]

That's ok, Peter.  All of your pictures have more than made up for the cheese lol.  As I read all of your adventures, I sit here and marvel at your stamina and your ability to eat all of that gorgeous food.  If that were me, I'd weigh 500 lbs.    I hope you're getting some well deserved rest!

←

I really do feel bad about not getting back for that cheese.

Thanks for sticking with me through this, Shelby. It's been a long, long trip, marred by the fact that my company expects me to do some work when I'm on these junkets.

It is nice to be home, with my own kitchen, my own ingredients, and my own schedule.

And there is some extra me there around the middle that I'll have to do something about.

At least, I'd better do something about it before the next trip.

←

Isn't home especially comforting when one has been away? Such a cozy feeling to be back around the familiar.

Again, I truly enjoy all of your travels. I look forward to the next time.

Oh, and it is a bunch of crap that your job expects you to work!

[Peter the eater]

As usual, a pleasure to read.

I wish I had a seven-foot folk art Lanny Macdonald.

[Peter Green]

I wish I had a seven-foot folk art Lanny Macdonald.

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Doesn't everyone?