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eG Foodblog: jamiemaw - In the Belly of the Feast: Eating BC


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Thanks for the wonderful blog Jamie. I visited your beautiful end of the country last year - and you've been reminding me all week that I need to return. Thanks for taking the time to share with us.

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I am overly prone to sarcasm, but after this lovely blog, filled with wonderful writing, imagery and life, I have nothing but praise to offer. Thank you for sharing, Jamie. Thank you for including us. It has been an extraordinary treat.

Dean McCord

VarmintBites

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Lovely, Jamie.  I'm adding Haas to my list for January, and I hope you'll be on it too.  This is one of my favorite blogs ever.

I'll be checking it twice.

from the thinly veneered desk of:

Jamie Maw

Food Editor

Vancouver magazine

www.vancouvermagazine.com

Foodblog: In the Belly of the Feast - Eating BC

"Profumo profondo della mia carne"

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With apologies to old Blue Eyes:

What a blog this has been,

What a rare mood I'm in,

Why it's almost like being in love ...

For this beautiful blog, Jamie, my deepest gratitude ...

for giving me a new view of another part of this continent, I thank you ..

for enlarging my understanding of how food can play a major part in one's life, I am in your debt (do not attempt, however, to collect!).

I think it only appropriate to mention that, heretofore, I had little understanding of how the tasting of food could correlate to oral sex, but wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles (thanks here to Sheldon Harnick for those lyrics), my eyes are now open wide!

C'est magnifique, Mr. Maw, in all respects!

(when, exactly, does my free subscription to Vancouver Magazine begin?)

Melissa Goodman aka "Gifted Gourmet"

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Thank you one and all. Your kind remarks have gone a long way to relieving my post-partum blog depression. On the plus side of the ledger, however, I now seem to have a 24-hour gap in my day . . .

Best always,

Jamie

Edited by jamiemaw (log)

from the thinly veneered desk of:

Jamie Maw

Food Editor

Vancouver magazine

www.vancouvermagazine.com

Foodblog: In the Belly of the Feast - Eating BC

"Profumo profondo della mia carne"

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Stollen Moments 

gallery_12924_2214_14209.jpg

A German Santa from the Brothers Grimm. Or Billy Bob Thornton.

Jamie and Eva.

I want to join everyone here in thanking you, Eva and all of those who took part in this great blog, for two things actually. First, for your time, enthusiasm, great photos, and words that have made your part of the world come to life for me. Heck, I'm even sitting here kinda choked up and misty eyed, especially at your reminders for what we should truly treasure and be thankful for.

Thanks again Jamie and Eva

Oops, almost forgot the second thing I wanted to thank you for: photographic evidence that Santa is indeed a BROTHA'. True dat. :biggrin:

Inside me there is a thin woman screaming to get out, but I can usually keep the Bitch quiet: with CHOCOLATE!!!

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Jamie, I've just managed to catch up on your wonderful blog and wished to add my thanks to you for taking the time to create such a fabulous blog. You have a wonderful way with words, stories and imagery. It was truly a pleasure to share the week with you. All the best to you and Eva for the coming year.

Barbara Laidlaw aka "Jake"

Good friends help you move, real friends help you move bodies.

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I would like to join with the others and thank you Jamie for a wonderful blog. I can only imagine the time and effort a week of blogging takes. It is a huge committment at a very busy time of year. Your photos showed off our part of the world for the wonderful place it is.

As I live on the Sunshine Coast, I loved your story about your summers on Pasley Island and fishing off Whorlcombe Island. Next time I get a salmon that is worthy I will definately try "Big Pete’s Salmon".

Merry Christmas to you and your family.

Life is short, eat dessert first

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The intermission Muzak was killing me, so . . .

POLITICALLY CORRECT: Gastronomic Language of the Banal-Retentive

Politicians are the same all over. They promise to build a bridge

even where there’s no river. - Nikita Khrushchev

“To PC or not PC, now that is the question,” my elegant luncheon companion invoked in the downtown dining room called Bacchus. Eva is well-schooled in matters culinaire; I had been watching the swoop of her hair as it fell in a Veronica Lake waterfall, deliciously close to her soup.

“You’re right, you can’t be too careful these days,” I drolled pleasantly, unruffled by her rising invective, and concentrating instead on the piece of clam lodged between my new crowns.

“From the tone of your voice I suppose you’re referring to the Politically Correct, and not the demise of the Progressive Conservatives, or whatever they call themselves now,” I asked.

“Just look at this,” she announced, unfurling the morning tabloid. The headline read, 'FISHERS AGAPE AT SOCKEYE CLOSURE.' “I’m just old enough to remember when a fisher was something that mountain climbers tried not to fall into,” she steamed.

"Especially on their way home from the pub,” I allowed. “Rather ironic, too, that no self-respecting “fisher” would wrap his,” I paused, “or her catch in this nasty newspaper.”

“And look at this one,” she exclaimed, shaking her finger at the business section headline—'CHAIRS SHUFFLED ON B.C. FERRIES BRIDGE.' “You see, even our public servants have been reduced to mere sticks of furniture.”

“So in a PC board meeting, I guess the Chair could table the motion? I asked.”

“Yeah, and then you’ve got the whole damn dinette suite,” she said.

* * *

After the bowls of cassoulet had been delivered, we ate quietly before she continued.

“It must be particularly difficult to be PC in your line of work. I mean, don’t people ask you how you could possibly write about 14-course tasting menus when so many people in the world go hungry, especially after the tsunami and the hurricanes?”

Oh sweet duck reduction, I thought. Her question had momentarily soured my lentils—they took on the taste of tin foil applied to molar fillings.

“Good gravy, Eva! You just have to be clear,” I said. “For instance, while I was waiting for you, I ltold our waitress — excuse me, our female server — that I'd be donating her tip to help restore the offshore kelp forest."

“Hmmm, and was she pleased with this news?” Eva asked.

“We can only hope,” I said, wiping some pre-Mussolini Brunello from the sleeve of my suit. It married well with some foie of sparrow. “Besides, I’m simply trying to assist my fellow countrypersons to come to grips with our collective fear of sensuality. I mean, after all, this is the country that gave the world Hush Puppies. The shoes I mean.”

“Hmmm,” she said, exhaling deeply, “and enough of this crêpe!” as she pushed an earthy-smelling pine mushroom pancake away.

“Besides, eating is the only thing that Canadians are still allowed to do three times a day,” I said.

“Well, as long as we take huge helpings of visible free range fibre,” she said “and keep our veal, foie gras and caviar predilections in the closet, maybe the Culinary PC Police will leave us alone."

* * *

“In the light of what Proust wrote with so mild a stimulus, it is the world’s loss that he did not have a heartier appetite. On a dozen Gardiner’s Island oysters, a bowl of clam chowder, a peck of steamers, some bay scallops, three sautéed soft-shelled crabs, a few ears of fresh-picked corn, a thin swordfish steak of generous area, a pair of lobsters, and a Long Island duck, he might have written a masterpiece.” - A.J. Liebling

I took a large slice of tarte Tatin for my dessert. Eva had a plate of fruits. A purée of raspberries lapped against her figs and promised to stain her teeth the colour of the Renaissance.

“A.J. Liebling was profoundly non-PC,” I started, “but persons of the opposite . . . gender loved him for what he was. And there was much to love.”

“If you keep eating like this you’ll end up looking like Liebling.”

“Trouser-challenged?” I asked.

“Fat.”

“Liebling simply put his mouth where his money was,” I said.

“He was a glutton.”

"Horizontally-challenged, a person of size, a larger-than-life character,” I said.

“He ate and drank to excess,” Eva said, really throwing down the gauntlet, for she knows full well my love for Liebling.

“He simply loved life and let it love him. His very name announces that,” I said.

"He was a blimp, for goodness sake.”

“No, he was simply an early adopter of the politics of inclusion.”

“He took up the whole sidewalk.”

“He provided his friends with a feeling of approval towards life.”

“He had gout."

“Rheumatism of the over-served.”

“He could eat the GDP of several Red States in one sitting.”

“He simply thought that a clear soup was more important in life than a clear conscience,” I said.

* * *

Finally, over coffee, I told Eva what I thought she might care to hear: “I think you’re better,” I said, “You haven’t said anything remotely PC for the last ten minutes."

But she wasn’t quite finished with me.

“I just realized,” she said, “that the only way to stop you from eating all this stuff is if I let you keep your tongue in cheek.”

“You must excuse me,” I said, “I didn’t realize I was being so obvious. I’m afraid I have something snagged in my new crowns.”

“You’re excused,” she said. “Do you think they have any decent Scotch in this joint?”

Edited by jamiemaw (log)

from the thinly veneered desk of:

Jamie Maw

Food Editor

Vancouver magazine

www.vancouvermagazine.com

Foodblog: In the Belly of the Feast - Eating BC

"Profumo profondo della mia carne"

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Just beautiful Jamie!

Do your friends hesitate to invite you for dinner for fear you'll have your food critic's hat on?  I know I'd feel somewhat intimidated by your presence.... :unsure:

Of the many reasons not to invite me over for dinner, I suppose this one ranks just below fondling the help, telling off-colour jokes in front of my hosts' children, and drinking their wine cellar dry.

Here's how it actually looks when I'm on tour . . .

"Mr. Maw will no doubt also offer to prepare a meal based on his extensive but regionally focused repertoire. Allow me to describe how this works. After leading you on impossible and highly expensive goose chases to local butchers, fishmongers, greengrocers and wine shops (beware his Siberian Peach Pie with Chateau Petrus, 1931), Mr. Maw will come down from his evening bath, circa nine o’clock, wondering why you and your family look so tired.

"He will then enchant your other guests with tales of foreign intrigue, win all of the party games and seduce your neighbours’ wives. Their husbands will never speak to you again. He will then take all of the credit for cooking the meal, even if in tones of faux-modesty (“Heavens, it really wasn’t anything at all”), which your wife (who actually prepared the meal according to his specifications and recipes) will misunderstand and blame you for over the next decade. Your son, who has been hefting cords of firewood to Mr. Maw’s in-suite fireplaces all evening, will herniate a disc in his back and have to retire from any notion of a rugby career. Your daughter will never marry."

The rest of the piece is here.

Edited by jamiemaw (log)

from the thinly veneered desk of:

Jamie Maw

Food Editor

Vancouver magazine

www.vancouvermagazine.com

Foodblog: In the Belly of the Feast - Eating BC

"Profumo profondo della mia carne"

Link to post
Share on other sites
Just beautiful Jamie!

Do your friends hesitate to invite you for dinner for fear you'll have your food critic's hat on?  I know I'd feel somewhat intimidated by your presence.... :unsure:

Of the many reasons not to invite me over for dinner, I suppose this one ranks well below fondling the help, telling off-colour jokes, and drinking my host's wine cellar dry.

Here's how it actually looks when I'm on tour . . .

"Mr. Maw will no doubt also offer to prepare a meal based on his extensive but regionally focused repertoire. Allow me to describe how this works. After leading you on impossible and highly expensive goose chases to local butchers, fishmongers, greengrocers and wine shops (beware his Siberian Peach Pie with Chateau Petrus, 1931), Mr. Maw will come down from his evening bath, circa nine o’clock, wondering why you and your family look so tired.

"He will then enchant your other guests with tales of foreign intrigue, win all of the party games and seduce your neighbours’ wives. Their husbands will never speak to you again. He will then take all of the credit for cooking the meal, even if in tones of faux-modesty (“Heavens, it really wasn’t anything at all”), which your wife (who actually prepared the meal according to his specifications and recipes) will misunderstand and blame you for over the next decade. Your son, who has been hefting cords of firewood to Mr. Maw’s in-suite fireplaces all evening, will herniate a disc in his back and have to retire from any notion of a rugby career. Your daughter will never marry."

The rest of the piece is here.

So are we to start thinking of you as the J'Lo of the food critic/foodie/gourmet/gourmand world? For example, alleged demands such as:

J'Lo's Divaesque Demands On the Road, Part One

Or, even this:

J'Lo Demands, Part Two

In light of the entirely reasonable list of demands that must be met before consenting to your next dining experience, perhaps you should consider an additional online moniker, say J'Maw?

Edited for grammar.

Edited by divalasvegas (log)

Inside me there is a thin woman screaming to get out, but I can usually keep the Bitch quiet: with CHOCOLATE!!!

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