An Evening of Wine, Cheese and Beauty

I love cheese. Just fucking love it. Cheese predates written history so it's ancient which gives it mad street cred. There is no conclusive evidence indicating where cheesemaking originated, either in Europe,Central Asia or the Middle East, but the practice had spread within Europe prior to Roman times and, according to Pliny the Elder, had become a sophisticated enterprise by the time theRoman Empirecame into being. Proposed dates for the origin of cheesemaking range from around 8000 BCE (when sheep were first domesticated) to around 3000 BCE. The first cheese may have been made by people in the Middle East or by nomadic Turkic tribes in Central Asia. Since animal skins and inflated internal organs have, since ancient times, provided storage vessels for a range of foodstuffs, it is probable that the process of cheese making was discovered accidentally by storing milk in a container made from the stomach of an animal, resulting in the milk being turned to curd and whey by the rennet from the stomach. There is a legend with variations about the discovery of cheese by an Arab trader who used this method of storing milk.

Cheese-making may have begun independently of this by the pressing and salting of curdled milk to preserve it. Observation that the effect of making milk in an animal stomach gave more solid and better-textured curds, may have led to the deliberate addition of rennet.

The earliest archaeological evidence of cheesemaking has been found in Egyptian tomb murals, dating to about 2000 BCE. The earliest cheeses were likely to have been quite sour and salty, similar in texture to rustic cottage cheese or feta. Cheese is the perfect mixing of art, science, nature and Man working together with raw material to create a near perfect foodstuff. Only the humble egg bests cheese (See my post here re: Eggs are Natures Perfect Food) and that is because the egg is perfect as it is created, cheese needs a little help from it's friends. Namely us.

Speaking of friends... I was on the social networking site Facebook – perhaps you have heard of it? Anyway, I saw on my “wall” that someone had posted to me “feed.” Tserin - It's a Tibetan name, her father was a world class mountain climber and she was born right after he had been climbing in the Himalayans - an old acquaintance of mine had replied to a comment I made on a photo of her in South America. She suggested we transcend the boundaries of internet friendship which is limited to wit, puns and photo exchanges and meet in real life. I accepted and suggest dinner and drinks and she countered with Wine and Cheese somehow knowing my love of cheese and my abilitiy to put together a sick platter.

I met Tserin throgh mutual friends at the club a few years ago. She is a smoking hot punk rock loving elementary school teacher and doing her masters at UBC in Education. Yeah, I know, in other words... freaking awesome. She showed up fashionably late to my place on a cold January evening and I welcomed her in. She had brought a Chianti and a Cabernet Sauvignon which would work fine for what I had planned. I opened the Cab Sav and poured us each a glass. We sat and chatted amicanbly for a while and I noticed right off how easy going she seemed. No pretension, just speaking her mind and being all pretty and stuff.

We were both starved and it was nearing 8:30 so I put out the cheese and accoutrement.

6 cheeses from 3 regions. 2 hard, 2 medium and 2 soft. 2 French, 2 Italian and 2 Local canadian cheeses from Salt Spring Island (To see the list of the cheeses I chose as well as some info on them click here ---> !!!) I had 8 condiments 4 types of charcuterie and french baguette crostinis. We dug in, mixing and matching trying to find the most sublime combinations or just savouring the cheeses in their unadulterated natural state.

My favourites were the Chateau de Bourgogne which Tserin adored. A triple crème brie coming in at an astonishing 75% fat content and the Piave Vecchio which is a perennial favourite of mine with it's nutty sharp flavour reminiscent of parmesan but softer on the tongue. The brie was soft, very soft and it oozed slowly away from it's rind forming a small gooey heap on the plate. With clover honey on a crostini it was heaven.

The Pecorino was ok, a tad salty and would have been great in a risotto. It was also affordable at only around 5.99/100grams but couldn't best the Piave at only $3.95/100grams.

The Montana which is local and modelled after the hard Spanish Mountain cheeses like manchego was nothing to write a blog about, but I can't wait to stuff it in some dates and wrap them in bacon, a little mango chutney and BAM! Good eats!

Tserin also loved the Blossom's Blue. This medium density Blue is locally sourced from a dairy on Salt Spring Island and is named after the dairy's first cow. It's rich beige paste is flecked throughout with the blue penicillium mold that create the amazing flavour unique to blue cheese. Slightly salty, nippy and pungent it created a tingling sensation on the tongue and gums.

The Tomme de Savoie was a bit of a let down. With the consistency of a nice mozzarella it was a tad blan and quickly overwhelmed by any other flaovurs. It is said there are as many Tommes in the savoie region as there are mountains and valleys... so maybe I will try another one next time.

We managed to get through about 2/3^rds of the platter before succumbing. Our bellies full and another bottle of wine waiting to be opened. Tserin stayed until well after Midnight but having a group of 23 7 year olds waiting for you in the morning was enough to get her headed home by 12:30. The date was wonderful and we talked easily with each other for hours. Cheese seems to have the magic ability to bring two people together in a way other foods lack. I have her number and I'm sure I will be seeing her again.

Until next time,

Eat well,

Chris

Next Time: I finally get around to why “Eggs are the Worlds Perfect Food” and maybe another restaurant review.

From the Other Side of the Pass: Adventures of a Stagier, Pt. 1

Dear Eaters and Readers,

I have only ever cooked on a line in a diner or casual setting so when the opportunity to stage around the corner arose after 8 months at Save on Meats I jumped on it wanting to gain some insight, some new skills and look like I have a modicum of aspiration to those who employ me.

Let me explain first off what staging is. First off it's pronounced “stodge” and is from the french word for “sucker” and is a synonym to “slave labourer” and a few other more derogatory terms - I kid. You see most of the worlds kitchens and indeed cooking have evolved from the French. They may not be able to win a battle but they can cook the fuck out of anything that flies, swims, crawls or is at all organic. As such the Brigade de Cuisine (Or French Brigade System) of running high-end kitchens is prevalent and even drizzles down to the lower echelons of the line and casual dining. At the top is the Chef de Cuisine (Chief of the Kitchen) and at the bottom is Garçon de Cuisine (literally "kitchen boy") and in between are about 20+ different positions each with a specific task and station. If you are interested click here to read more.

Stagiers are cooks who work for free in order to gain experience they may not be able to get otherwise and a few restaurants such as the world famous El Bulli (Now closed) “employed” stagiers exclusively with numerous extremely skilled chefs competing in order to essentially intern in the kitchen.

So, I had a very rare opportunity to work the kitchen of one of Vancouver’s top restaurants and I was excited if not a bit nervous. I hoped I would be up to the task. I showed up with my knives and tools, wearing my Save On whites and noticed first off how nice their whites all were compared to my shoddy over-washed over-used uniform

***Note to self: Buy personal whites.

I stepped on line and met Keiran (Saucier) Jeff (Entremetier) and Mark (Garde manger) - Aaron (Aboyuer) would show up later. All three were very friendly and welcomed me... putting me straight to work. Many chefs in high end dining prep all their mise en place on the day of service which means everything you put in your mouth at dinner was prepped a mere three or four hours previous from it's raw natural state. It seems fresh is the key to creating good food. It also creates a massive amount of labour costs which helps explain why those scallops melting on your tongue cost sixteen dollars for three. I set up at a small stainless table and proceeded to dice bacon for lardons – tiny bacon cubes rendered down and included in a few dishes and vinaigrettes. Jeffrey was supervising my prep and the first thing he said was, “You need to be more consistent.” My dice looked even and fine to me and the bacon was going to be cooked down but it's not my job to question my job is to do a good job. I slowed down and worked on precision. Three times he told me to be more consistent and by the end I was dicing perfect little squares of salty lard.

I tossed them into a large pot on the astonishingly hot flat top grill and left them to cook down, stirring occasionally. Apparently the flat top is so hot they turn it off at the end of the night and it is still warm the next morning. Kieran called it Mordor and I replied...“One does not just walk into Mordor,” but in my case apparently I did.

Back to my station I was to dice squash into equally small and precise cubes for use by Mark in the scallop dish for  the evening. I focused on my knife and went to work. Each cube 1/3^rd the size of a throwing die and all uniform. Mark looked at them,. “A little big,” he said, “but they'll work.”

Curses!!!

I almost burnt the lardons thanks to the hellish heat from Mordor but they were rescued in time. I tidied my station and was presented by Jeffery with a sandwich the fine folks from Meat and Bread had brought by for us. The crispy pork porchetta... Hells. Yes. This working for free thing was going well so far. After eating the sandwich there were also plates of what they were calling Country Mash. Mash potatoes done up on the fly and topped with a thick heavy portion of beef that was on it's way out along with a thick dark gravy. This was to be the staff meal before service but with the porchetta settling into my belly I had two  bites of the rich dish and dumped the rest. As it was no one else really ate theirs either.

Dinner service started at 5:30 and I was to be assisting Mark as Garde manger (Keep to Eat), The term "garde manger" originated in pre-Revolutionary France. At that time, maintaining a large supply of food and beverage was an outward symbol of power, wealth and status. It is because of this duty of supervising the preserving of food and managing its utilization that many interpret the term "garde manger" .

"The food storage areas in these castles and manor houses were usually located in the lower levels, since the cool basement-like environment was ideal for storing food. These cold storage areas developed over time into the modern cold kitchen.

Most merchants who worked outside noble manors at this time were associated with a guild, an association of persons of the same trade formed for their mutual aid and protection. Guilds would develop training programs for their members, thereby preserving their knowledge and skills. "Charcuterie" was the name of a guild that prepared and sold cooked items made from pigs. Through this organization, the preparation of hams, bacon, sausages, pates and terrines were preserved. When the guild system was abolished early in the French Revolution in 1791, garde mangers took on the responsibility for tasks that had formerly been performed by characutieres, who had difficulty competing with the versatile garde mangers due to the limited range of skills involved." (Thank you Wikipedia.)

So, Mark and I as Guards of the Pantry would be hammering out cold plates, terrines, desserts and cheese platters as well as the fryer because someone has to fry the fucking astonishingly good Octopus chips which I over portioned by accident and got to sample.

Two customers. A bill. Poutine and a terrine of Foie Gras. I can make poutine blind-drunk and half asleep. No problem, just had to get the portioning down...

Anyhow, I was learning the various dishes that Aaron would call out as the bills came in and where checked by him at the pass for perfection before being sent out. I got in shit at one point because the Rum Baba I sent out had the Baba an inch to far away from the Rosemary ice cream (which is fucking sublime by the way!)  I listened and remedied my plating realizing the importance of presentation.

Around 7:30 we filled up and got hit. Hard. Mark had the experience and relayed all the dishes he needed and I got on it. My timing seemed great, my plating pretty good and Mark was critical but supportive. Overall, we hammered out a massive amount of covers and a large number of desserts.

Midway through service Simon brought back a Chocolate Nib Parfait. A beautifully elegant minimalist chocolate delight of frozen mousse in a delicate ring of chocolate. It turns out the freezer had locked down the mousse to the point where the patron's spoon couldn't even scrape off a morsel. I didn't know it at the time but said patron also happened to be one of my best friends, Jessica and her mom who had stopped by for dinner. I pulled a number of the parfaits from the freezer and tempered them in the fridge, leaving them on the counter after plating for 5 minutes as well to soften them up. Success.

I had started at 2pm and we ran all the way through until 11 when the last entree went out. At this point I was treated to the evening's special. A perfectly cooked duck breast, skin hot and crispy over a layer of velvety fat and soft tender meat beside a small portion of agnoloti stuffed with some sort of rich creamy deliciousness. Only nine hours and they let me leave as I had to rush home to sleep as I had to be at S.O.M at 8am to pound out brunch. I will be going back next Saturday to do it all again... As Mark said before I left... “Work like a slave, eat like a King.” Truer words I haven't heard in a long while....

Until next time,

Eat Well...

Chris

Next time: Cheese and a Pretty Girl

Saravanaa Bhavan: A Review

Readers and eaters,

The plan was to have friends over and watch three of the most depressing feel-bad-movies of 2011 and wallow in our own crapulence... Turns out everyone was busy getting on with life in 2012 so now I was stuck with no plans and my stomach was growly, unaware that my heart was still grieving the loss of a certain girl in my life. Pulling myself out of my emo-fest of self loathing I bundled up against the shitty weather and hopped the 9 over to Jessica's apartment. New plans were afoot...

Living in Vancouver with it's large Indo-Canadian population I am no stranger to the cuisine of India. Although truthfully it is so diverse in flavour, spices and techniques that one could spend years exploring the regional variations available, never mind the recipes like butter chicken that don't even originate in India. The apocryphal story is that an Englishman when being served Chicken Tikka Masala in Great Britain demanded gravy for the meat. The chef then whipped up a quick sauce of tomato, butter and curry and plunked the chicken into it. True or not all food evolves alongside the culture that developed and eats it.

I know East Indian food quite well, from the most mundane take out curry at Rangoli, to the mega vegetarian buffets of South main street to Vij's I have tasted my fair share. South Indian however has eluded my palate to the same extent with most of my experience being at Chutney Villa which was previously owned by my friend Chindi who has now returned to India to open a Canadian restaurant. I'm Serious. Anyhow, South Indian cuisine is based around the 4 southern regions: Andhra, Karnataka, Tamil, and Keral all having different ingredients and spices but with rice, plantain, lentil and coconut being the staples. Less chili powder is used and more tamarind and fresh green and red chilies.

As you make have guessed we were on our way to nosh on some South Indian. Specifically, Dosas. And the goings on were to be going on at Saravanaa Bhavan. I hadn't ever heard of the cozy little all vegetarian place before, but hey, I don't know every restaurant in the city right? Located near Oak street on West Broadway we Jess and I arrived to find the always amiable Alexander Kennedy already seated. The spartan interior was warm and smelled deeply of curry, the scent wafting almost palpable in the air. My mouth watered a little. We sat down ad poured water from the stainless steel pitcher into metal cups. I had noticed in the past the consistent use of metal cups and plates akin to prison issue trays at Chutney Villa. “Must be an Indian thing,” I figured. ***As a side note I should mention that Indian Vegetarian food has none of the irksome factor that many other vegetarian foods have and therefor escapes my general disdain and irritation with vegetarians and their “food.” For more of my ignorant ranting on the subject read ---> this post.

The menu will extensive was mostly variations of dosa, rice dishes, breads, and some tandoori. I was here for dosa though.

Dosa is a light crepe or pancake made from fermented rice and black lentil. A batter is put on a hot stone or griddle and the cooked crepe is folded or wrapped around a filling of some sort. Dosa's have been mentioned in literature as far back as the 6^th century making them a long time element of South Indian cuisine where it is still a common breakfast and street food.

Kennedy decided to go with some more standard tandoori style choices and ordered a vegetable biryani and a muter paneer dish. I was glad he did because I was interested in the South Indian take on Eastern dishes. Jess strayed from her usual dosa and went with a paneer dosa which featured the exquisite pressed curd “cheese” as the filler in her crepe. I defaulted to Jessica's usual choice. The Paper Masala Dosa which would have a mixture of potato and onion in it...

Or it would have...

If my dumb-ass had ordered it correctly.

I ordered a Paper Dosa and assumed it would be the one I had read on the menu. It arrived and was a spectacle to behold. Nearly 3 feet long the beast was a cylinder of fragile break away yet soft to bite slightly tangy salty buttered goodness. But the bastard was empty. Having omitted the word masala from my order they assumed I just wanted the dosa.

Legit.

After a little awkward explanation the removed my dosa and returned it promptly filled with a creamy deliciousness of chunked mashed potato and golden onion. I broke of a corner and got to work. The dish is served with 3 chutneys and a sambar. The creamy slightly sweet coconut chutney was probably my favourite, the green chutney which I looked up and is just called green chutney is a mix of coriander green chilies ginger and salt was a close second and the red chutney of cumin onion garlic ginger and red chili should have been my fave given the ingredients but was lacking in punch. The sambar, which is a dal like thick stew of tamarind and pigeon peas was hearty and complex, the sweet and sour of the tamarind playing off the savory curry-ness of it. I would love a huge bowl on a cold winter evening.

 

Alex's food was tasty and competent and inexplicably came with huge chunks of onion and tomato and a slice of lemon. Odd that.

Jessica was not so happy with her dosa. Not because it didn't taste good, but because it came folded over the filling in a massive triangle of flavour. This, while rich in taste cause the crispy dosa to soften and become a bit chewy. I helped eat it as I was not turned of my the mushy dosa but Jess lamented her decision to stray from the known and comfortable.

We ate every morsel of food and the perfectly fine meal ended on a sweet note. 2 lovely warm sponge-ball Galub Jamun shared between us. These warm little timbit sized dough balls are soaked through with honeyed rosewater and like little flavour sponges they wick the sugary goodness into their cores.

Divine.

I was full and highly recommend Saravanaa Bhavan not only for the quality of the food but for how inexpensive it is. Our total bill after tip came to around 45$ which is amazing although we only drank water. Saravanna Bhavan now serves liquor but we stuck to just water which kept both myself and the bill in check. I'm off the booze right now as I detox and get my shit together but I'm sure in the future I will be back and I will let you know how their beer selection is.

Until then... Eat well

Willy

Next Time: My First Foray into the Field of Fine Dining.

Entrenched in Chaos: New Years Brunch at S.O.M

Happy New Year Everyone,

So, here we are – 20 fucking 12. The past year was a whirlwind of love lost and found and lost again, old jobs gone and new ones begun. New friends and beautiful women. Amazing new places visited and the food in those places consumed with gusto and that's the thing: In and amongst the crazy fucking world that is my life there was always the food. Goddamn did I eat some amazing food last year. Unfortunately I didn't have the where-with-all to keep a journal, write it down or blog about it. So hopefully by the end of this year I will have an up to date and detailed account of my epicurean adventures and the highs and lows of working in the food industry alongside my fantastic crazy fun life.

I'd like to thank anyone that sticks it out as this burgeoning blog grows and hopefully flourishes. It's gonna take some time to flesh out but I guarantee great stories and great food.

In that vein let's kick it off with a post on New Years and working the line on New Years Day at one of the few eateries open for brunch.

January 1^st, 2012. 9am.

I roll out of bed having crashed there round 4am. I'd started the night at my best friend Simon's home where much karaoke and merriment was had. The 6 tall cans of Old Milwaukee, 2 glasses of champagne and 3 ounces of bourbon give-or-take type of merriment.

With mouth down-turned I bid the kids farewell at around 1am stopping in at Tyrell Jared Shaw's place which is just around the corner from my place. A fellow cook, Jared will be joining me at the end of January as my new flatmate as well. Jared and I met on our first day at Save On and we hit it off immediately. We share an interesting relationship based on food, women and the general enabling of each others more base demands of a liquid and powdered variety. Living together we both hope to not be dead by June, as summer 2012 should be a good one.

Anyhow, his place was overrun by drunken youth and the macbook that was spitting out Robyn tracks featured a nice new spiderweb of cracks along the upper corner. Jared sees me and we embrace glassy eyed. I ask if he has any booze and he hands me a bottle of Wild turkey with a good 8 or 9 ounces left in it. I thank him profusely and pour 3oz into a glass. There's no ice so I sip the fowl liquor at room temperature. I hand him the bottle and he gives it back to me... Fair enough. I make my way around the house. Plenty of Save on Kids to say hello to as well as other acquaintances. Playing cards litter the main room and no one can explain the how or why of it. I play DJ on the broken yet functional laptop and we dance the night away.

I had locked into my head that I had to work at 10am and was being relatively responsible given my usual proclivities when it come to New Years Eve. So when 3:30am came on I took towards home. The night had passed quickly and although many people had left others were just arriving as I left. By this time Jared had been intercepted by Megan, his server-at-work-fuck-buddy/girlfriend-he-won't-admit-to, and I hadn't seen him in an hour or so.

Home equalled lying on the couch and eating 3 slices of cold Megabite Pizza left over from the past day of recovering from the 40 hour party that was my birthday which is always more epic than both Christmas and New Years (But I suppose that might be another post...) I through some sort of media on and gorged on cold congealed carbohydrates... (another post to follow!) I risked passing out on the couch but made it to my bed and set my alarm which dutifully woke me from a dreamless sleep at 9am.

The pizza and straight bourbon had come back to haunt me like the ghosts of New Years Past. My guts were rotting and felt flooded with acid, I managed to brush the night off my teeth and drank 2 glasses of water. The sun was up and thank fuck there was no rain. As I headed to work, I popped in my headphones, Radiohead making the grey morning much more manageable.

9:40am

I'm walking down the alley behind S.O.M to get in through the back entrance. 3 doors down in the massive newly renovated space I can hear the bass pulsing as techno still drives some chemically driven youth to dance into the new year. A few haggard people mill about looking sweaty and nearly vibrating as the drugs continue their hold, their pupils dilated and eclipsing retinas wild and crazed they have welcomed the Year of the Degenerate with arms, mouths and nostrils wide open.

The door is locked.

Given the neighbourhood and the neighbours I'm not surprised. I pound on the door. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I text Jason, the head Chef. Nothing. Josh, the front of house manager. nothing. I end up googling our number. Why I don't have it in my phone is just from never needing to call - remedied. I call Josh and he has Caylen let me in, not a single word out of her sarcastic mouth. I'm happy.

Binh, my older, Vietnamese compatriot in the battle against the demands of the hungry masses has the line nearly set as I get downstairs in my whites. This is good as I have no idea what to expect. Doors open at ten and I will be running the pass from 10 till 6. All brunch all day baby!!! In my position I will be cooking all the eggs, running the fryer and be in charge of all food going out across the pass which means plating, checking consistency and quality and timing. No biggie right?

First bill of the day comes in at 10:02; 2 burgers, poutines on both, fried egg on one burger, avocado on the other. Someone needs hangover food – this is a trend I hope will not continue to excess. A few more bills and all is quiet... “Maybe,” I think, “It will be dead all day.. Everyone sitting at home recovering... Then the phone begins to ring. And ring. And ring.

“Yup, we're open...” Is always the answer and then it happens.

11:20ish.

Bills begin to roll in. Working a line in a busy diner is a feat of multi-tasking unappreciated by many people who haven't worked in kitchens and some who have depending on the kitchen and the amount of people working in it. A chit pops up and I have to look at every dish, determine what is specifically needed and how long each element will take and how it's is broken up between the three of us working the line. I call out the requisite parts of the order to those making them and I then have to time all the disparate parts to make sure they come together in a cohesive and timely fashion. One fuck up can kill a whole bill as we struggle to hold food hot and fix the error. I have a new found respect for anyone who cooks me and my friends brunch at any high volume restaurant. We can seat around 60 people in the restaurant and when we are full it is a constant blur of motion as work to make sure every dish is sent out hot, quickly and with the others at it's table. This is difficult when every table is constantly being replaced by another. I had at a variety of times more than 8 eggs Benny sets being cooked at differing doneness levels as well as being able to only cook around three sets of eggs in a pan - yet a white out of egg orders across my chit board. Our flat top is dominated by pancakes and steaks and bacon and sausage and hamburgers keep coming in which at least I don't have to cook and decisions are made to bump orders that will take longer and screw ups bump bills along the bar and I'm fucking hungover. Fuck.

The coffee, oh thank fuck for the coffee. And litres and litres of water.

The chaos continued from 11:30 until 5pm when we closed the doors. It was only 5 hours but it was 5 hours of pure barely controlled chaos and I only stepped off the line twice. Once to piss and once when Shay relieved me for a five minute break to get my head straight. It was probably the craziest 8 hours I have ever spent in a kitchen or at a job.

Then we did it all over again today.

Today sucked worse. It wasn't as busy and I wasn't at all hungover but I was in a shitty mood and you know, a shitty mood made it all the more unbearable. Every server error or request was a personal attack on my person. I ran the shit out of the pass today though and I don't think any food went out over 15 minutes with most food beating the bar. (Food made it out to a table before drinks). The unfortunate lesson I subconsciously learned is it may be better to be hungover and Happy than not hungover and unhappy... Uh-oh.

As sucky as it was at times, this is what I do. I cook, and it seems I'm pretty good at it and getting better. The feeling at the end of 8 or 9 or 10 hours of this insanity is masochistic at best but I keep going back to it and it must be because I love it. I love the people: the fucked up chemical dependent social misfits of a kitchen are some of the most in your face honest people I have ever met and I will take that over office politics any day. We aren't a perfect Utopian family and there is much anger, hatred, frustration, bitching and people talking about each other behind their backs, under-cutting each other as we work to rise up the food chain but it's always honest and when it comes down to a day like new years brunch at one of the only places in the neighbourhood open everyone comes together like and we just get it done. Anyway we can.

Affairs of the Cart....

Friday morning. It's really difficult to roll out of bed after a raucous night of karaoke with friends at a roaring East Van bar until later AM hours. This was made doubly so this morning having to face a dismal grey sky that shit cold despair down onto the city.- add to this the warm naked woman that shared my bed and you have a day that may just be best faced from under the covers. The alarm was bleeping though and I rolled over to shut it off and take a long guzzle of the stale water that is always beside the bed. My parched throat welcomed the hydration and I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Rising up to shower I glanced back at the beautiful creamy curve that is the place where a woman's waist meets her hip at the cusp of her ass. Perfect.

***sigh***

The shower was warm and quick as I had places to be. A hair appointment with Liam at Clover Salon on Georgia. Then, a food cart tour with the sometimes lovely but always vociferous Jessica who works for These Guys. Hair shorn short and my spirits lifted I met up with Jess and the group of 4 other brave souls who felt that a Friday in December with the mercury at 6 degrees and a sky the colour of ash would make for an enjoyable backdrop to eating food and learning about Vancouver's burgeoning food-cart scene.

Vancouver has a storied past in regards to food carts and the eating of comestibles outside of brick and mortar licensed venues. Up until the Olympics jostled our collective consciousness regarding our city as a foodie destination and subsequently brought us to the attention of the world beyond snowboarders and pot smokers, who are too often the same people, Vancouver fucking sucked for street eats. Having traveled extensively I have come to appreciate many cultures and judge their food based on what I can buy on the street for a small amount of money in often less than optimum health conditions. Pad Thai, Anticuchos, Donair Kebab, Tacos and Cerviche, Lhaksa and Takoyaki these are the foodstuffs that create memories and scar a palate with their flavours and textures. Good food made in not the best conditions but full of passion and flavour.

Up until last year Vancouver had hotdogs. Yup. Fucking hotdogs. And generally, mediocre hotdogs with condiments that were by law mandated to have to be prepared by a commercial kitchen. Long and short, our street food sucked ass. We also inexplicably had roasted chestnuts and popcorn. I guess the logic was neither had led to any deaths or sickness so we were likely safe.

Where the fuck did this anal uptight food fear stem from?

Well.... It seems back before you were born there was a picnic in a park and foodstuffs prepared in residential kitchens were served. A listeria outbreak killed hundreds and sickened the city to the point that so many man hours were lost that week that they named it The Dark Times. Diarrhea effluent darkened the waters around the city and tourism dropped to pre-20^th century levels.

None of this happened. Well, except that a few people got pretty sick. But the reaction of the government was on par with my hyperbolic tale. They banned the preparation of fresh food anywhere but in a licensed commercial kitchen by state appointed apparatchiks and thus issued the death knell of anything that wasn't a long synthetic tube filled with unmentionable bits of animal by-product.

Fast forward to the Olympics. A little cart by the name of Japadog had been thumbing their noses at the city and provincial government by following the rules but breaking the mold of the standard frankfurter franchise and offering a hotdog with a Japanese twist. The immediate and lasting success of Japadog, the influx of erudite and moneyed tourist and the need to feed the millions that were flocking to our streets for 12+ hours a day led to a trial run in fresh food preparation. It seems that the rest of the entire fucking world may have been on to something as the first 18 carts created quite a buzz. Unfortunately the lottery system used to decide who would be given a license was probably not the best way to have approached a long term investment in culinary excellence. Fruit carts and other testaments to mediocrity slowly failed as people visited the best among the early upstarts and left the rest to die a slow death on the curb... Those that succeeded, like The Re-Up BBQ are still flourishing and now have a second cart to supplement their businesses. This move was part of the expansion of the program to include another 18 carts in mid 2011.

Now we are getting somewhere.

The law is still strict regarding placement and movement – or non-movement in this case – of the carts but we now have a flourishing, inexpensive, quick, and damn tasty set of options for food in the downtown core. So... what did we do on the tour?

Well, over the course of a finger numbingly cold 90 minutes we visited 4 of the 36 carts (I know, I would have loved to visit 10 or more, but you fill up quick, even when just eating half portion samples at each venue) We started at Re-up which interestingly enough, rents space in the commissary kitchen where I am a cook and does all their prep work there.

Texan style BBQ heavy on heat and vinegar we were presented first with a sweet Southern Tea. An iced tea that in mid July would have blown my fucking mind, in mid December I drank it quickly as my fingers began to remember the Edmonton winters of my past. The mix of lemon and sugar and black tea was spot on though and that drink was lovely if a bit misplaced season wise – but I guess in Texas they don't have a lot of hot refreshing beverages of a regional variety. The pulled pork sample we tried was good. Smoked in an electric smoker with Pecan Wood chips it was different than the fire smoke apple-wood that I used in my stint as a BBQ cook. It wasn't the best I've had, but solidly good. The pork shoulder could use longer in the smoker to really become a flossy melt in you mouth consistency but the BBQ sauce was very tasty and well rounded with a spicy bite. It wasn't a cloyingly sweet tomato-y mess and it complimented the cider vinegar and thick shreds of cabbage well starting a bit sour but finishing smoky and spicy. The bun was straight up traditional BBQ style, a simple slightly sweet hamburger bun which is more of a meat delivery system and sauce containment unit than anything else. I want to try their brisket because in my world almost anyone can make a decent pulled pork but cooking and slicing brisket is a skill. I didn't notice much else on the menu in regards to sides, condiments and desserts but it was cold and we were on our way to the next cart... Overall: I'd go back

Bun Mi... Banh Mi! Fuck yes.

Banh Mi is probably one of my favorite inexpensive satisfying-lovely-quick-bite-to-eat foods there is and now I can buy it on the street. On Robson near HMV (Soon to be not HMV) Banh Mi is probably one of the worlds best sandwiches. Harkening back to the leftovers of the colonials in French Indochina (Now Vietnam) the Vietnamese would take the leftover slightly stale baguettes that their asshole French rulers had left for them and add to them local ingredients like cilantro and cucumber and pickled vegetables and whatever odd meats might have been available. Sauce that bad boy up or not and we have Banh Mi. They rock a chicken thigh-meat simmered with lemongrass and I was hesitant as chicken is not a usual suspect in the otherwise suspect meats that make up the banh mi I love. I took my half and bit in. Banh Mi? Fuck me! It was tasty. I'm really glad they went with dark meat because while chicken breasts have their place, rich in flavour and body they are not. I would have liked more lemongrass and more jalapenos but the little bits of skin that were in the few bites I had were sublime. The pickled carrot and daikon were crunchy but not the best. The whole thing was also slightly over seasoned. Luckily I like my food salty. Overall: I liked it but at 5$ a pop it's not a destination for me due to my proximity to amazing and cheap Banh Mi 5 blocks away. I guess if I am ever shopping in whatever takes over the behemoth of a retail space that HMV is evacuating out of I might be tempted to visit Bun Me and have another go. Oh, PS. They also rock a tofu version for any vegetarians out there.

I was appetized at this point and ready for more.

We continued South on Burrard and I had a sense of where we were headed. Back to where it all began. This made sense today. Our group was small and it was a dreary December weekday. We approached Japadog in it's long standing spot at the corner of Burrard and Pender kitty corner to the Scotiabank Theatre. A few patrons waited patiently for their dogs but it was nothing like the epic lines that in the summer stretch down the block and during the Olympics precipitated 3 hour wait times with  people being paid as line holders by wealthier patrons whose time was worth more than waiting in a line like us working class schlumps. Today though, no lines. Just a hot delicious fusion of flavours. The hot greasy beef of a thick Frank topped with Japanese condiments. We had the basic starter dog. The beef teri-mayo with caramelized onions, kewpie mayo, teriyaki sauce and shredded nori.

Not my first dog and not my last, these are always good and if you can fight your way past students shooting pictures of each other in front and if you manage to negotiate this you too can be part of the craziness that is Japadog. I have to admit though, I don't eat a lot of hotdogs and Japadog is a novelty so therefor a food of opportunity and craving. I have to be in the area and wanting it's unique flavours but they do what they do well and in their words: “...Hot dog stand in the matrix as possible, changed the history of the stand of North America... Always something new, is growing in power to try to defy the common sense that hot fun!”

well played Japadog... Well played.

Turning about face I ran ahead at Jessica's bequest to the next “cart” because we were edging 3pm and things occur at 3 that could be detrimental to our next visit. You see at 3, Vancouver's rush hour starts and all lanes open in the downtown core and anyone still parked in those lanes is viciously and without mercy towed by hulking hairy brutes who smoke filthy cigars, kick dogs and curse openly in front of children. Our destination that we were fast approaching was the Tacofino Taco Cart... er... truck.

True to the Baja style prevalent throughout California some hippy surfer ne'er do wells had somehow obtained an old food truck and turned it onto the local Canadian version of a taco truck up in Tofino. It's must have played well with the locals and the surfers because now they are down in Vancouver spreading the taco gospel as the love of Baja mexi-cali cuisine spreads like a wildfire through wealthy LA county real estate. Seriously, at this rate, within a year or so we will have as many taco places as sushi and hopefully the quality will be on par.

Tacofina, by the way, also operates out of Save On Meats and they are a nice bunch of people who happen to make pretty sick food (sick like in the good surfer lingo the kids use these days) I hadn't eaten at their food truck before and we got there with just enough time to slam some deep fried fish taco into our gullets. They use locally sourced ingredients as best they can and the mix of crispy hot battered ling cod and crunchy cabbage beside the fresh salsa and sour crème in a soft tortilla made my heart beat a little faster. These guys nailed it. It's not Chronic Tacos and it's not La Taqueria it's just plain good and I will be back. As a nice little bonus we received a Chocolate caramel corn-pop tart. A soft subtle chocolate pastry shell filled with sticky chewy caramel embedded with corn pops cereal like crunchy little prizes of awesome and all topped with a fudgey chocolate coating. Now, this is outside of my usual go-to tastes as I don’t really rock dessert all that often, but for 4 bucks... get your ass down and demand one of these and if they are sold out I know for certain the Chocolate Diablo cookie will melt your grey matter with it's mix of sea salt, dark chocolate, fresh lime and loads of hot chili powder. Probably the best cookie I have ever eaten. Period.

A lovely day overall and that was just 10% of the fare available. I was stuffed after the four carts and in subsequent posts will be visiting 4 carts at a time with a friend and splitting a menu item or two. So stay tuned. Maps and routes will follow as well...

At this point we disbanded and Jess and I walked back to the HMV to peruse the 70% off sale that seemed to be mostly DVD's. She bought a CD for her brother. I left with a sense of self satisfaction. Have fun dying a slow slow death you outdated retail monstrosity - maybe a media cart might be in order.


* * *
Eat well,


Wiilie


Next time: Eggs and why the worlds best food fucking sucks.

Biscuit B@#%*

When you find yourself on a liquor fueled whirlwind concert trip to a city like Seattle food is not usually the first thought that comes to mind. But food is a necessity that fills a void that booze just can't and after the epic failure that was my Friday night the ache in my belly needed to be filled before the sour sick tentacle-like grips of a Four Loco hangover took hold. Enter Biscuit Bitch

Now I have always maintained that I am a sucker for a clever, witty or otherwise over the top marketing campaign so when Shawn, Jason, Mike and myself trundled our way down 1^st ave near Pike Place thumbing our noses at the cafes and hip eateries we all stopped short outside of a small storefront where the a curse word features prominently in name and on menu. Being that all men are effectively 12 year olds with jobs and body hair we of course find the idea of cursing in public venues to be mix of taboo and hilarity on par with dick punching.

This is how you get the attention of still half drunk men in Seattle

BiscuitBitch. The name elicited a number of thoughts, such as, “Get me a...” Or perhaps an answer to, What is that? "It's a...” Or worse a huge doughy woman covered In flour hair pulled back flecks of spittle on her lip from yelling at staff, "Who is that I would stammer...?”

“That... Is the Biscuit Bitch”

A boozy shudder ran the length of my body, surely this store would not have the balls to have shaved a chimp and have it on display for the masses to gawk at, but I pressed thought from my mind as I stared at the photos of the food available inside.

As we entered I saw that the small space was dominated by an espresso machine and a long display case showing off the usual cafe pastries and fare. At the rear of the space a small electric range was attended to be a diminutive Latina. “I was much less concerned about the threat of a Biscuit Bitch now. We waited in line as the barista took orders. The menu only held 11 items all based around a biscuit covered in gravy and then topped with a selection of other foods and condiments. I ordered the $11 “Hot Mess Bitch” which was the aforementioned Biscuit and Gravy with spicy smoked sausage, cheddar cheese jalapenos egg and grits.

Grits!? I'd never tried them before as I hadn't been to the Southern US nor to anywhere in Canada that served them. I knew grits where a corn based dish similar in consistency to creme of wheat or oatmeal and here I got to try them in Seattle of all places.

The Hot Mess Bitch

We seated ourselves at the only table in the place, a small booth that the four of us settled into cramped but cozy. I sipped black coffee that was completely fine, as most is in Seattle and waited for my food to be ready.

Within 6 or 7 minutes I had in front of me a weighty slop of biscuit and gravy; meat and egg, jalapenos and cheese melted on top and a load of grits rounding out what was at least a pound of food. The first bite was hot and immediately my mouth lit up from the jalapeno and sausage combination. The sausage was salty and not really amazing but mixed with the soft biscuit and thick viscous grits it worked, coating my stomach and silencing the rumble that the coffee had elicited. So, grits... They are kinda bland and seemed to mostly by filler. These had the consistency and flavor of spackle or gritty drywall mud but they seemed to be more of a bulking agent than something you might eat on it's own (much like spackle). But then again what does my ignorant ass know. Shawn had the “Cheesy Pork n Bitch” which substituted the sausage for a mess of bacon. Yes please. The others all had Hot Messes and no one was able to finish the massive portion.

Cheesy Pork n' Bitch

Feeling somewhat satiated I got up to use the facilities. I walked to the back and asked the cook where the washroom was. She replied that they had no washroom and that they had to walk to Pike Place Market to do their business. I've been all over the world and I think this is one of the only times I have found a restaurant that has no washroom. Strike 3 Seattle, time to get the fuck outta dodge but it's a good thing you have great biscuits because I will one day forget my misadventures in your town and return. Until then...

Eat well,

Willie

* * *

Next time: Vancouver tries to have a little fun with Food Carts...


* * * 

On Learning...

For Your Consideration,

Cooking doesn't pay well 99% of the time. Dish washing pays even less. Fortunately my 19 year old self had fewer costs associated with my existence other than food, rent and entertainment; with food being a major pro in the world of cons that face a budding chef. Free meals, stolen meals and pilfered food are the standby of every low-level dishwasher, prep cook and line cook. Above that the risks are to high to continually eat on the company dime but when you are young and stupid and hungry, well that walk in fridge just looks like Heaven's larder and you govern yourself accordingly. Now, I wasn't one to lift any big ticket items but I watched a good deal of food walk out the door at The Sands and subsequent kitchens I have worked in and rare is the occasion where anyone had to answer for it other than the head chef who would be fired due to mysterious cost over runs.

I guess Bourdain was on the mark when he said that kitchens are filled with gypsies, thieves, degenerates and addicts... or similar words to that effect. I have worked with them all and I suppose I myself have embodied those descriptions at different times in my spotty career as a cook.

So, rent is paid, I'm fed.. Entertainment. At the time this consisted of the shared PlayStation that graced the TV stand that was likely found in the alley behind where we lived and was hooked up to the television that either Tulsa or Sam had procured at the time of our domiciling together. This was supplemented with as much pot as we could afford which was also communally shared with whomever was crashing on our couch. Usually a rotating cast of ne'er-do-wells who had come into town from the suburbs where we had all grown up together. At the time I considered liquor an extravagant expense and limited my consumption to merely 2 or 3 nights a week. My average day consisted of either semi-attending classes at Emily Carr where I was slowly letting pot induced apathy and the hunt for pussy degrade my marks leading up to me being put on probation during my second year and subsequently just saying fuck it to the whole pretentious preposterous idea that a 19 year old has any idea what the fuck they are talking about when it comes to life and therefor art. That, or: Working from 4pm until the early morning hours at which point Tulsa and I would catch the last train and head home to the apartment, come down from the litres of free caffeine in the form of Coca Cola we had consumed all night and play the PS1 until dawn. Actually more often then not he would play as I lay in a marijuana induced stupor and just watched... Or hammered out some lame excuse for Art that would be critiqued later that day - often positively due to my ability to bullshit my way through a critique.

This went on for about a year.

I was unaware that I was learning anything at the time other than how to do a job. The job paid me and I needed money. That was it. We made shitty food for shitty people and didn't give a damn about anyone or anything other than ourselves and the heavy metal that blared non-stop from the stereo mounted precariously above the world filthiest meat slicer which still despite the grime retained a razor sharp blade. The guards had been removed because they slow you down and what remained was a pathogen laced death trap just waiting to shave a thin 1/16 of an inch off your thumb causing a wound that just does not want to stop bleeding. We fought continuously with the stupidly hot servers that worked the Bayside Lounge which we provided greasy pub fare to as well. In order to increase their tips wait staff would always be trying to finagle free sides and dips and all manner of food out of the kitchen for their customers. We may have been robbing the place blind but I'll be damned if you are getting an extra 2 ounce side of blue cheese dip for "the cute guys at table 8" without a motherfucking chit. So, learning to cook and learning people skills and learning that I was not attractive to these women. I never fucked a server at The Sands but my stoned 19 year old ass was definitely not operating at a level that these women were after. That being: Not a dishwasher and preferably able to afford his own dinner, let alone hers.

We went through 3 Exec Chefs, 4 Bar managers and 3 menu changes in the nearly two years I worked at the Sands. Stability was not a constant in my life and this chaos was perfect for my young mind as I raced to keep up with new rules and new personalities. This schizophrenic work place also had a rotating cast of cooks and dishwashers many of whom were in much worse places than me socially and mentally. I still hold is you are over 25 and not a refugee, if you are dish washing it's now a career because something has gone horribly wrong. Dish washing provides jobs for the borderline unemployable and immigrants legal and otherwise and this allows people who surprised me on a day to day basis in regards to self attire to have jobs and be useful contributors to society or at least provide for the family they brought here from some place that makes Vancouver look like a rosy perfect land of opportunity. This is all very important because well... those dishes won't wash themselves and mashed potatoes have to come from somewhere, right?

Back to me... and cooking. There were certain times that would go down that I wouldn't be at work. Also known as weekends; the work week was spent planning on how we could get the most fucked up on the least amount of money and hopefully see a show or meet some girls. Part and parcel of not being at work was the necessity of sustenance. Eating.

In order to eat you need to either have someone cook you food, or cook it your damn self. Up until this point in life food had either been cooked for me by my mother or by a professional or I had opened the bag/box, reheated the can, or untwisted a lid. My new found knife skills and developing palate provided me with an opportunity and a discovery.

I fucking loved cooking.

I'm a guy. I can't have babies. I cannot create life, but you know what? I can kill something and make something edible, tasty, and beautiful out it. I wasn't great at it off the bat and my ingredients were poor bachelor meets 4th year arts major. But from the start I seldom lived on reheated food, Kraft Dinner or Mr Noodles. The three of which were a constant staple for most of my friends. I learned how to cook rice and pasta and added things to them that made them good. Not just edible but damn good.

You see it all comes down to my Mother. (Sorry Mom) My mother was the one who primarily cooked for my family - my Dad being more of a baker and responsible for desserts and treats. My Mom's English background provided her with 4 methods of cooking. Boiling, Roasting, Frying, and Boiling. Add to that her spice knowledge including garlic salt, salt, seasoning salt, pepper and the result is bland Canadiana based on cheap whole cuts of meat, frozen vegetables, a starch - usually potato based and white trash salads with a choice of Thousand Island, Ranch, or Zesty Italian dressings by Kraft - Trust me that my discovery of the Caesar Salad at the ripe ole age of 12 precipitated me eating almost nothing but chicken Caesars at restaurants until i was about 14.

Fucking gross.

My mothers cooking which sustained our family but failed to entice the palate or challenge the senses mixed with living in Spruce Grove, a semi-rural suburb of Edmonton created a perfect storm of culinary darkness and comestible despair. My experience with Ethnic Food (sounds racist) in the Grove was limited to Pizza (Italian) Fish and Chips (English) and The Rainbow Palace's glossy glazed and corn starch driven 'Chinese' inspired fare. The Chinese food was salty and delicious I'm sure loaded with MSG but even this was ruined by the damned China Lily soy sauce company whose viscous salty shitty soy sauce was the only one in our fridge and in my little world represented the only soy sauce in the world. (I still to this day despise it) Mixed with dried out rice of the Rainbow Palace or my Mother's Minute Rice it led to me hating rice until I moved to the West Coast and learned not only how to cook rice but that there are numerous tasty varieties out there

As time passed and I moved towards the end of my time at The Sands my confidence in the kitchen was growing. I had achieved some of the milestones needed to progress up the kitchen ladder including a trip to the emergency room to deal with a bad cut, nothing with which could be done due to the necessary chunk of finger having been left in the carrots I was cutting (I still am wary when I cut carrots, due to the psychological trauma of this event) as well I was moved to work the line at times and learned the lingo that is present in every kitchen around the world even if it's in a different language. Hell in The Sands alone we had cooks speaking 4 languages all trying to communicate that we are, "Now selling table 12!!!"

I continued to cook at home and shared with friends who often remarked how nice it was to eat something that didn't come out of a can or a plastic wrapper and as well, I ate. Oh did I eat. It was around this time my good friend and fellow foodie Jessica (at the time lover and confidant) introduced me to sushi. This blew my mind. Like a fucking orgasm of food potential and I was starting on the Beginner Level sushi, dynamite rools and spicy tuna rolls having to take awhile to work up to where I am now. This led to weekend sojourns to Little India, Chinatown and other locales to sample food outside the small box that I had been confined to. Realizing the power of food in other cultures to bring people together and that can be somewhat lacking in our North American culture I became enlightened in regards to going out a spending my hard earned money on a good or at least tasty meal, and at this point I hadn't even left Canada on my own to explore food in it's native environments.

 I believe it was Stephen King who said “If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”  It's the same with cooking, you have to find the money and the time to eat, eat everything and experience food because it allows us at a base level to communicate across cultures and gain an deeper understanding about what it is to be a people. As well, from a cooks perspective it creates a dictionary or encyclopedia in your mind of flavour and ingredients that without which you can't ever hope to be a real cook.

It is the time I have spent eating that has allowed me to blossom towards being a great cook, not the time I spent in kitchens. That was important to learn the rules of cooking but it is food that breaks those rules and makes you rethink your ideas of what constitutes a meal.

* * *

Willy

Next time: A look at Secret Suppers and Cloak and Dagger Dining