Building a Relationship with your Server

I'll never forget the waiter at Chez Panisse. His name, perhaps, but not his face and certainly not his personality.

It was the mid-80s, and I was in design school. I didn't really have the cash to be spending a lot of time at Chez Panisse, a storied restaurant in Berkeley, California, but it was only the upstairs café, not the prix fixé downstairs, and a bottle of wine and a good casse-croute went a long way to restoring my sanity during those hectic days.

My dining companion was whoever I could find. I always bought, or they wouldn't have come. I didn't have a girlfriend at the time, so it was invariably a friend from the racquetball club that I played at, or rarely, a first date.

But I made it a priority to try to make it to Chez Panisse at least once a week.

The turnover there was quite slow. After all, who wouldn't want to work at Chez Panisse? At the time, it was quite possibly the most famous restaurant in North America. But when the waiter — let's call him John, because I honestly can't remember his name — suddenly entered into the mix, we somehow clicked. John was almost completely silent, all of the time. There were no long speeches or grovelling attempts at ingratiation. When he spoke, John tended to be brief, but there was a sly underpinning that one could never put one's finger on — as if the joke was always on you, but in a nice way.

So, as is my wont with servers I like (we used to call them waiters or waitresses) I gradually started tipping him more and more. It wasn't because I wanted better service. It was simply because when John served you, he served only you. He never forgot that quick "Oh, and a glass of water, too?" like most servers. Even when the restaurant was at its busiest, and it could get very busy, the glass of water would be at your table within a minute. The man had a mind like a steel trap.

It was innocent at first. I usually tipped 20% regardless, but it started creeping up with John. He was regrettably not always my server, but I gradually learned his schedule and tried to arrange my visits around it. And the tip began to creep upwards. Back then, a dinner for two with a few glasses of wine would run maybe $50. I began to tip John 25, then 30%. And silently, always silently, the experience at Chez Panisse got better and better. There was hardly a word exchanged between John and me except for the usual orders and thanks for a good dinner.

But then strange things started happening. On a very busy night, probably a Friday, I came in with a date. It was rare. I was usually with a racquetball partner or two. But John was there, and he immediately knew what had to be done. Within minutes, we were given the bay window table — the best seat in the house. I was amazed. I said nothing but felt like the guy in Goodfellas. My date was wowed. As usual, John said nothing, and attended us with the usual slight smirk on his face, as if we were all in on a huge cosmic joke to which only he knew the punchline.

That night I tipped him 60%.

And it went upwards from there. I wasn't rich, but I did the mental math. I could have this incredible time at the best restaurant in America (and I realised it even then) and all it would cost me was a little extra. I scrimped in other places in order to save for Chez Panisse.

And it paid off. One night, John put a plate of baked artisanal goat cheese (only the best for Alice Waters) down in front of me. "John, I didn't order this," I protested. He just smirked and walked away. It was not on the bill.

Another night, one with another rare date, a half-bottle of Roederer champagne was delivered in an ice bucket with two champagne glasses. By John. I knew by this time not to protest.

By this time the tip was up to 80%. This meant that on a meal costing $60, the tip was $48.

The turning point was the day I tipped John the cost of the entire meal. It was a meal in which my companion and I —I forget who — received a literal red-carpet treatment. It was like I was Charlie Sheen and we were at Spago. Dishes came fast and furious, the wine flowed — and half of it was unordered. Orange and grapefruit salad with wild fennel. Pizzetta with spring onions and anchovies. Caymus "Special Selection" Napa Cabernet.

John's expression did not change when he came to collect the credit card payment. The half-smirk remained. "Thank you, sir," he said, tipping his head slightly, and then he melted into the hubbub.

Imagine my surprise when I next brought a date and John suddenly wasn't there any more. "Oh, John," remarked the server, "He always wanted to open his own bookstore. He went off to do that. He was a good guy, huh?"

Yep. He was a good guy.

Further Reading

A Predictable Outcome (knowing me)

PETA ("People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals," the organization against the killing of animals, also affectionately known in some quarters as "People for the Eating of Tasty Animals") has a new war on its hands. Forget the debate about the murder of harp seals in Canada. This time the group is focused on a small island in the Pacific, several hundred miles from Mexico, now owned by the French. Its name is Clipperton (pop. 18.)

It seems that the island is a haven for Sooty Terns, a type of seabird. The island is so isolated that shipments of fresh food only occur about once every three months. So, "We eat the wildlife. There's no choice," says longterm resident Pietro Rocha, 59. However, since according to an ancient law (still on the books) the islanders are not permitted to carry firearms, the method of killing is somewhat primitive. "We use slingshots," says Rocha. ”We have no other way to cap the bastards."

And PETA is up in arms. "They should find another way of sustaining themselves. Perhaps supplies could be flown in from Mexico. Can't they grow vegetables? Need they kill these defenseless terns with stones? Imagine the suffering," says PETA spokesperson Pamela Anderson.

But Rocha is unrepentant. "Let Pamela Anderson and her boobies (another bird species prevalent on the island) have a grand party together. This is our livelihood. We have to do this to live."

In the face of mounting campaigns against the islanders from PETA groups, sometimes in the form of actual monitoring from offshore organization boats, Rocha summed it up for the entire populace of the island:

"We will not relent. We will never surrender. We will leave no tern unstoned."

Thai Chicken and Yang Chow Basmati

Thai Chicken (adapted from Le Cordon Bleu Home Collection)

4 chicken thighs, skin-on, bone in, or 8 chicken wings, skin-on, bone in, or any combination thereof

Marinade:

4 cloves garlic, chopped
2 T grated ginger
1/4 cup chopped cilantro
2 tsp Nam Pla (fish sauce—do not leave out)
1/4 cup good soy sauce (not Kikkoman)
1/4 cup honey, or 1/4 cup Mirin
2 green onions/scallions, cut lengthways into thin strips
2 serrano or piquin chiles, finely diced (optional)
1 tsp. chopped lemongrass (optional)
2T lime juice

Garnish:

2 green onions/scallions, cut lengthways into thin strips
Small bunch cilantro leaves

Combine all marinade ingredients. Pour over chicken in a container with a lid. Marinate for 24 hours, or if you have a Foodsaver, 3 hours in the vaccuum marinating container (comes in handy!)

Preheat oven to 400F. Arrange the chicken in a shallow roasting pan, well-spaced. Pour over some of the marinade and bake for about 1 hour, basting frequently with remaining marinade.

Arrange the chicken on a serving dish and garnish with scallions and cilantro. Serve with rice and spring rolls with a chile-garlic dip.

Yang Chow Basmati Fried Rice

You don't need to use basmati rice for this, but the only acceptable alternatives would be Patna and preferably Jasmine. Do not use Uncle Ben's, Texmati, arborio or Calrose Japanese rice. Jasmine is the best substitute and cooks very similarly to basmati.

Pre-cooked Basmati

2 cups Basmati rice
2 T ghee (clarified butter) or 2 T vegetable oil
1/4 cup shallots
2 bay leaves
3 whole cloves
3 whole cardamom pods
2" or so stick cinnamon
3 garlic cloves, diced
2 1/3 cups chicken broth or water

Rinse rice thoroughly. Let soak in water for about 90 minutes. This allows the rice to swell somewhat and adds to fluffiness once cooked. Result of soaking is that you need less liquid to cook it in.

Drain rice through sieve. Heat large nonstick sauté pan on medium-high. Melt ghee or oil. Add shallots, bay leaves, cloves and cardamom. Sauté for approximately 5 minutes. Add drained rice and garlic. Sauté until rice becomes somewhat glassy, about five minutes, stirring constantly. Heat chicken broth in microwave until almost boiling.

Add broth, stir to combine thoroughly, reduce heat to minimum, cover pan with aluminum foil, then pan top. Steam for 18 minutes or so. Turn off heat. Let rest for 10 minutes. Remove whole spices, stir to fluff up.

Fried Rice

This must be cold — not room temperature, but cold — before preparation, so either flash-freeze very carefully until cold or store in refrigerator until next day. If you try to make fried rice with hot or warm rice you will end up with a sticky mess.

Chop the following in small dice (about 1/3 cup each; add or subtract vegetables according to taste:

Carrots
Celery
Red onion
Red or green peppers
Green onions

Plus, according to taste:

Diced garlic
Diced chilies

Prepare:

1/2 cup good ham diced in 1/4" dice
1/2 cup baby cooked shrimp

2 large eggs

1T sesame oil
2T peanut oil

1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup Mirin

Sauté chopped vegetables in oil on medium-high heat for approximately 10 minutes, stirring constantly. Add garlic and chilies, sauté five minutes more. Remove from pan and set aside. Sauté cold rice in 2T oil until warm. Add all the rest of the ingredients. Add soy sauce, Mirin. Stir to combine. Break eggs into bowl and whisk together. Drizzle onto rice and stir thoroughly to combine. Cover and cook on very low heat for 10 minutes. Serve.

On a Roll

Warning — Rant Quotient: Off The Charts

I'm sorry to be writing all this airline-centric copy. To people who rarely fly, it must be a remarkable bore. But I think the points I have to make here also apply to the small-mindedness of a lot of other service-oriented industries. Mainly: when the airlines decide to cut back in amenities, they don't really think it through carefully; rather, in emergency terms of black and white. "Jesus Christ," one suit realises, "If we only remove three in-flight magazines per plane per year, we save $10,000 in fuel costs." In suit-speak, this is absolutely true.

You fucking idiot. While you're counting beans, you're overlooking the obvious. I would gladly PAY for a $40 meal in economy — meaning, what you serve in First and with free wine — even though your costs for the meal would probably be more like $20. Fuck it, I'd leave a fucking tip, too, if the meal pleased me! Why is it that the airlines can't transfer the restaurant model to the skies? Fuckin' cruise ships got the idea long ago. Meanwhile, we're being humiliated with choices of Subway sandwiches on flights less than 5 hours. Just plug me in for that in-flight option of "full gourmet meal with wine for $40." I'm already paying up the ass; what's $40 extra?

Listen, motherfuckers, it's quite simple, at least to me: offer a great product, ie. what you plaster your Business Class geeks with, and offer it at a price. A reasonable price, say, what you'd pay in a real restaurant. Serve it on a real plate and include a couple of glasses of decent wine. That's worth $40, don't you think?

What, the rabble that travels in Y class doesn't have brains? Need I remind anyone that all the fucking hijackers from 9/11 were in Business class. Gourmets all, no doubt.

When are the fucking airlines going to get a clue?

The Dagwood Challenge

The challenge: what to make out of this list of leftovers, cooking for one.

After almost a week of cooking a separate meal every night, I am left with a bunch of items in my refrigerator that need to be used. The good news: they're all still very fresh. The bad news: they're all over the place in terms of menu creation. Can you come up with an acceptable menu using these ingredients (plus anything purchased in addition to help the menu along)? It's quite a challenge.

Ingredients:

Small container of sour cream
Small cube of feta cheese
Large cube of Gouda
Parmigiano Reggiano
Garlic-shallot parsley butter
Cilantro
Italian parsley
Lettuce
Jalapeño chilies
Carrots
Celery
Red onion
1/2 red pepper
4 ripe cherry tomatoes
Small amount Jambon Toscane (ham from Tuscany)
Fried rice

All I can think of is some very bizarre salad along with maybe chicken and some fried rice. Is there a soup in there?

Cry Me To the Moon

Warning — Rant Level: *****

Jesus fucking Christ. I don't drive a gas-guzzling SUV or a muscle car. In fact, I don't drive any car at all. So I don't give a flying fuck what the price at the pump is. But they're giving it to me up the ass another way: I just bought a ticket from YUL-YVR-Osaka return and it cost me $1405.58. And that price only if I stayed for six days (which I don't want to do.) If I'd turned around within 6 days it would have jumped $700 to $2200 (all prices Canadian.)

As I'm looking at approximately four roundtrips to Japan and four roundtrips to San Francisco yearly (long story) one can quickly see that any $1 increase in oil prices is going to be hitting me rather hard.

All in an era where the planes are more crowded, they're offering no amenities and flying is basically a fucking drag. Hmm. I'll have to start sharpening up my Business Class wheedle a little more diligently.

Not Your Parents' Salad

I believe I just ate the best salad I have ever eaten (and I certainly got the most out of a $30 steak! Works out to $10 a dinner.)

It's adapted from a recipe in the book Steaklover's Companion, by Frederick Simon. You don't have to use Kobe beef for this — any old filet mignon will do. The crunchy bits of chile, red pepper, green onion and beansprouts coupled with the tangy sesame-ginger dressing and the unctuousness of the steak make for a superlative dining experience.


Pacific Rim Kobe Steak Salad with Sesame-Ginger Dressing (Serves 4)

For the Marinade:
2tsp. sesame oil
1tsp. soy sauce
2 garlic cloves, chopped fine
1 tsp. Chinese plum sauce
1 small serrano chile, seeded, chopped extremely fine ( I used a Jalapeño because I couldn't find Serrano)

For the Steaks:

Either use the leftovers from last night's rare filet mignon or grill yourself some new ones. Slice the steak into very thin strips.

For the Sesame-Ginger Dressing:

1/2 C rice vinegar
1/4 C grated ginger
1/4 C sesame oil
2 T soy sauce (usukuchi is best if you can find it)
1 garlic clove, chopped fine

Mix well in a bowl and let flavors merge for 30 minutes

For the Salad:

2 heads Boston lettuce, leaves washed and separated, only the best inner leaves reserved for the salad
1 red onion, julienned
1 red bell pepper (capsicum for you Brits) julienned
1 cup bean sprouts, cleaned up and sorted for only the best
2 scallions (green onions), white part only, sliced on a diagonal

Marinate the sliced steak in the marinade and cover for at least 30 minutes at room temperature.

Combine all the salad ingredients except the steak and shake with as much of the dressing as you like, but be generous.

Pile salad on an attractive serving vessel and drape steak slices on top. Drizzle with remaining marinade. Serve.

Here's The Beef

Kobe Beef Steak Sandwich with Truffle Oil Marinade



I figure this sandwich cost me altogether about $35 worth of ingredients. Not quite the monstrosity here, but pocket-lightening nonetheless.

Okay, so the truffle oil idea wasn't in my original plans. But as I was getting geared up to make this thing, it occurred to me that a tango for one is not a dance. The Kobe royalty needed at least a Marquise for a match, or the sandwich wouldn't work. And tasty or not, aged Gouda just wasn't up to doing it alone.

So I hustled off to the the place where truffle oil comes from and plunked down an astounding $42 for a small bottle.



Not that I have a clue what truffle oil is.

But when I got home I warmed the leftover Kobe steak very gently in aluminum foil in the toaster oven — I did by no means want it to get any more done — and then sliced it thinly and tossed it in a tablespoon of truffle oil.

Then I assembled the sandwich. My great regret here is the bread. I do not understand why Montreal is so bereft of good bread. This sandwich cried out for a sourdough roll or seeded baguette but they are in very short supply here. I had to make do with a Première Moisson submarine loaf — quite a despicable thing when you actually get a good look at it. Definitely not a good tango partner, unless you panhandle for a living.

But the redeeming ingredients were perfectly ripe little cherry tomatoes, the choicest chunks of a fresh Boston lettuce tossed in balsamic vinaigrette and an amazing shallot-garlic-Italian parsley butter.



With sweet gherkins, Japanese mayonnaise and Polish mustard rounding everything off, all in all, the end result was a triumph, despite the bread. How many steak sandwiches have you had to chew your way through, pulling out whole slices of steak en route?

There was no hard chewing here. The steak might as well have been foie gras.



Well, don't believe me, just believe your eyes. And imagine. I did all this so you don't have to.

There, Rare

Now that I have the steak blog going, I am conflicted. If I make a steak dinner, should I post there, or here? Perhaps the answer is to post some aspects here, then narrow them down there. If you're a vegetarian, you won't want to go there. You may not even want to stay here. But if you're an incisor-user, you'll definitely want to go there, because I made my first Kobe steak tonight.

Here is the video.

Resto Review

Reviewed a restaurant for the first time in two years. I really should get out more.

Late-night Comfort Food

Leftover Pasta with torn Prosciutto, White Wine, Garlic, Green Peas, Basil and Parmesan

When it's time to take stock of what you've got in the refrigerator, and when you're reluctant to get dressed and go to the all-night grocery store, this is what you make.

6 slices or so of prosciutto, torn into pieces
1/2 cup or so of white wine
1 large clove or so of garlic
1/2 cup or so of mini-green peas
Basil leaves
Parmigiano Reggiano
Cracked pepper
1 pkg. cooked cold spaghetti or spaghettini
1/4 cup or so of extra-virgin olive oil

Heat non-stick pan with olive oil on medium. Add prosciutto and garlic. Sauté five or six minutes. Add white wine, cook for another three minutes or until slightly syrupy. Add peas and spaghetti and mix well. Toss pasta and other ingredients, mixing well. Reduce heat and cover for three or four minutes.

Serve in a wide bowl with lots of Reggiano and pepper and garnish with basil. Serve a side mixed baby salad with Japanese goma dressing. Have a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc and freeze some chocolate truffles for the in-bed surprise. Watch Perry Mason on TV Land.

Oh Lo Lo C'est Dzuur

I was sitting in an airport bistro in San Francisco the other day reading a magazine when some people came in and sat at the bar behind me. I didn't pay much attention, but after a while I noticed that they were speaking a foreign language. As I usually do, I tried to figure out what it was. Hmm . . . it was not unattractive, not particularly guttural . . . Eastern European, perhaps? Yes, definitely from that part of the world. Possibly even Serbo-Croatian.

But then I noticed that a key feature of the language was the word "Lo," which seemed to be tacked on to just about everything they said. Interesting, thought I, kind of like the "desu" at the end of Japanese sentences or the "nida" in Korean.

I thought no more about it and returned to the magazine.

When I checked in at the gate, I noticed that the same four people who were at the bar were checking in as well! Serbo-Croatians going to Montreal? How odd. They spoke perfect English to the agent, almost accentless. And then I heard it: the giveaway. One of them said "Dere." My god, they're Québecois, I realised. Then I listened more closely.

" . . . an ce maman lo lo," one of them was saying, and after about a minute I realised she had been saying "En ce moment là . . ." and then someone said "Oh lo lo, c'est dzuur . . ." of course meaning "Oh-la-la, c'est dur . . . "

Well, it was a revelation. I speak pretty good French, but I was taught it by Belgians, who sound a bit like Parisians. Since I hadn't been expecting Québec French, I just assumed it was some foreign language that I couldn't speak. And now I realise that's quite true! Half the time at the grocery store I don't have a clue what the bag guy is saying to me when he says "Tsu vuy an sac?"

I'm learning, but I still say "deess" instead of "diss" when I say "dix," or "pah sa" instead of "po so" when I say "pas ça." It must sound quite quaint.

Tsu camprain s'q' j' dis, lo?

The Best Way

The best way to start . . .

. . . and end a plane trip:

Why Me?

Call it the luck of the draw. Call it a bullet with my name on it. Call it someone whose time has come. Call it Fate, Chance, Karma, Kismet, Feng Shui. Call it Oh No, Not Me Again, Why Did They Pick Me, Why Did It Have To Be Me . . . . in reverse. Call it The Word Of God. Call it anything you goddamn want. Call it What The Fucking Fuck. But why the hell did they bump me up to First Class . . . again?

It began as most flights do, but with a difference: this was the day after Easter. Every Tremblay in the phone book was gonna be on Flight 760 from San Francisco to Montreal, and I was dreading it. Imagine my horror when I checked in, only to be told there wasn't a single window seat available! That means "really, really full, dude."

So I whipped out my usual Aeroplan wheedle, waving totally useless upgrade coupons (you practically have to buy a full-fare ticket to use one) and generally trying to charm the hell out of the agent. Needless to say, it didn't work. He told me to try at the gate for a window seat. So, a couple of glasses of wine later. I approached the gate agent and gave her my boarding card. She said she'd call me. Just before boarding, she did. She gave me a new boarding card and I thanked her. Then we started boarding. I looked at my card and saw "4E." "That's can't be right," I thought. "That's all the way . . . in the front!"

And so it was. I had to double-check with the purser. "You wanna complain?" he said a bit snidely, but oh, no, I so did not want to complain.

So, for the second time in as many trips with Air Canada, I flew first class. Free-flowing Chardonnay. Herbed chicken with green beans and baby potatoes. Haagen Daaz ice cream. A nice Bailey's Irish Cream to finish.

I don't think I'll ever be able to fly economy again . . .

Maid by Mao Followup

Interesting article in the National Post about the Jan Wong pseudo-story about becoming an undercover maid. Better read it quickly before it gets snatched, but basically, . . . . . . . my sentiments exactly.

There is an interview conducted “online” by her employers in which stringent parameters are outlined about the nature of the questions allowed, which of course results in much fawning and soft lobs in her general direction. A couple of illustrative quotes for your reading pleasure:

Karen McIntosh from Hamilton writes: "Many were very critical of the fact that you have a housekeeper and expressed the view that you were being hypocritical of those that hired you as a maid. Would you care to defend yourself here?"

Jan Wong: "Thanks, Karen. I don't understand what is hypocritical about my hiring a housekeeper. She has worked for me and my family full-time for 11 years. Now she comes in once a week. I have a housekeeper, but I have also considered getting an agency maid. Now that I know what I know, I think I won't. Mainly people tell me they're so glad I didn't clean their homes."

Jeez, Jan, I’ll have to remember that when I’m next in a Tibetan hovel, about to be rounded up by local Revolutionary Anti-bourgeois-roader Party stalwarts and looking for a Chinese maid to clean up the turds I left behind. I'll just tear up your resumé, shall I?

Monetary Mayhem

So I finally went and did it.

Picky Bastards

Why must people be so difficult? One reason I never want to open a restaurant is that I couldn’t handle the woman who comes in and orders the BLT with no tomato. What the fuck is a BLT without tomato?

And I would punish the “well-done” steak person. I don’t know how, but an accidental drop on the kitchen floor would not be out of bounds.

But I, myself harbor picky-eater-syndrome! I chalk it all up to experiences having to eat British food in school as a child, but it includes a distaste for almost all cooked fish. I love sushi—raw shrimp? Bring it on! But a cooked halibut is off the menu. Strangely, the insect versions of fish (lobster, crab, shrimp) are all exempt from this bizarre prohibition. I love them all.

How to reconcile our food likes and dislikes? Cooking for my very own family is an exercise in patience. Two will not touch any seafood whatsoever. One will not eat any meat except beef, and it must always be well done. One only likes his steak rare, and two cannot eat steak unless it is fried to a corpse-like fritter.

One despises cucumbers. Another despises cilantro. One will not eat my spaghetti sauce if it has mushrooms in it. She will pick them all out. Pick them all out, for fuck’s sake.

One will not eat cooked carrots. Raw carrots are okay, but not cooked. One does not like lettuce. Does Not Like Lettuce. Who the fuck doesn’t like lettuce?

As you can imagine, a meal cooked in this family requires quite a few ingenuities. Pork in the yakisoba disguised as beef wins over the pork-hater, but this is not a trick where you want to reveal the secret if you value your life. Trouble is, half the time they can’t tell what the hell is in their food anyway.

But don’t you be putting no goddamn asparagus in my rice.

Gone Fission

What vengeful god cursed us with a president (I'm American, in case you didn't know) who can't pronounce a simple English word, one that we all wholeheartedly wish that our president would know every possible detail about, in addition to being able to pronounce: Nucular.

We're doomed by nucular weapons, folks. Them nucular weapons by them Eye-rainians is gonna wipe us off the planet.

Jesus, what has this world come to that I have to live in it.

85-pound Sandwich

News item: 85-pound sandwich for sale at Selfridge’s (some upscale food chain in Britain.) No, not in weight, but GBP. That is $170 in Canadian funds. Some mo’fo “grand chef” is making a Wagyu (Kobe beef) sandwich, with roasted peppers and cherry tomatoes with mixed greens on “24-hour fermented” sourdough bread, and that’s what the motherfuckers are selling it for.

Apparently, as yet, there are no takers.

No fucking kidding! For that price, I want a personal chef to come over to my house and assemble it. I certainly wouldn’t pay that for some piece of shit Saran-wrapped crap that’s been sitting around in a food case for twelve hours, but that’s what the news bite showed.

They deserve to be whipped with celery stalks. Where has humility gone?

Montreal

It’s only when you leave Montreal that you begin to appreciate it. You appreciate its tininess, first of all. You can walk from Guy to St. Laurent on St. Catherine in half an hour or less. Try walking from North Beach to the Golden Gate Bridge sometime.

The people aren’t nice. But that’s the way you like it. You’ve gone to the same grocery store for ten years, but no one knows your name. You nod and say hello, but they still address you in French, despite your carrying a Montreal Gazette bag and despite years and years of seeing you around. Even the bag guy that you suspect to be an Anglophone addresses you in French. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

In other cities, strangers passing you in the street say hello as if they know you. In Montreal, no one says hello if they don’t know you. But if you suddenly act like a Californian and start chatting up the register guy in the Provisoir, he suddenly becomes Californian too. Open up the floodgates, and out it will come. I rarely open up the floodgates, because that’s the way I like it.

I remember my first day in Montreal. It’s etched on my brain. I took the 65 downtown and had a coffee at a terrasse somewhere on Sherbrooke—it must be gone now. But I said “Hot damn. I’m in London. No, I’m in Paris. No, I’m in New York.”

And I remember crossing the border on Amtrak and seeing all the signs suddenly switch to French. “Fuck,” I always think, “these bastards really have a nerve to be making this tiny island of total French in this ocean of English. How the fuck do they DO it?” I sigh admiringly.

And it’s always good to talk about Montreal to people when you’re on foreign shores. So many things you say elicit a “Really?!?” that you end up thinking “Yup. Montreal is myyyy secret.”

Umm . . . sorry

I realise I'm going to have to come up with some flag system or something . . . amber: Nick is in a bad mood . . . orange: Nick is about to rant . . . red: take cover, all ye innocent bystanders

Validation

Bernard St. Laurent, the radio host, the person/thing I never thought I would ever see (who ever imagines oneself in front of a radio host? It’s not a normal human expectation) asked me the questions I always get, by email or in person.

What is it like being a food critic? Well, thought I, it’s great. I get to go to the restaurants of my choice and eat lots of food and then write about it. Unfortunately, I pay for all the meals and no one pays me for the writeups.

But isn’t that the great part? That is the great part. I am beholden to no one. No editor scans my review. Literally no one has a fingertip on anything I write except me. So what sets me apart from the horde of Zagat zombies who mail in their “reviews”? Did I graduate from some school of reviewerdom that makes my opinion any more valid than theirs?

Yes. I goofed around in English class and received a C for my opinion about the reasons for the Peloponnesian Wars.

But I also fucking knew how to make a mean Sunday Gravy, which is more than those motherfuckers have a hope of knowing anything about.

So fuck them and the horses they rode in on.

Two Million Bottles of Wine and Some Chilies

Going into a supermarket in California can be an awesome experience. Of course, here they can sell any alcohol under the sun anywhere. And they do. Want a bottle of red wine for $2? Get some Two-Buck Chuck.
As you can see from the photo, this aisle of delight probably stocks more wine than your SAQ, and on the other side is every brand of hooch ever known to corrupt God and mammon.
And the selection of vegetables in a typical supermarket rivals all of Jean-Talon and Atwater Markets combined. Just gaze in slavering lust at the selection of chilies. I carted off 30 of those nuclear habañeros and made a killer salsa (recipe below.)

Chez Louis, eat your heart out.

Habañero Salsa

20-25 Habañero chilies (or Scotch Bonnets)
1 tomato
1 red onion
2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 T balsamic vinegar
3 T olive oil
1 tsp. salt
Cracked pepper to taste

Chop chiles into small dice. If you want it a bit less hot, discard the seeds, but it will still be fairly piquant. Be very careful to wash your hands thoroughly after chopping the chiles. Chop tomato and onion into small dice. Mince garlic. Chop cilantro. Mix all together. Let flavors mix in refrigerator for an hour or so. Enjoy.

Fuck You, You Can’t Come In

Maybe when you were a kid there were still games like when you all had a little club and you had to give the secret password to get in the “tent.” You’d yell the incorrect password gaily (that word still possessed its original meaning back then) and then they would happily deny you entry.

Well, okay then, maybe when you were a little kid the only games you played were on a PlayStation.

No matter.

Today having a password is a big deal. How many passwords you got, huh? No, really, how many? What do you do, a variation on a theme, say, by starting with a very familiar password and then just running it backwards for one site or machine, or maybe you stupidly (as they continually remind us) keep the same password for everything?

Or maybe you have three familiar themes and you spread them around. Some places demand you have more than 6 characters, but your original only had five. What do you do? Hmm, my phone number’s out, that’s too obvious. Dad’s name . . . no . . . favorite movie first three characters plus my house number . . . no, too obvious . . . (As if some wily hacker will figure out what your favorite movie + your dad's name is + diabolically put two and two together, or maybe run that evil "kracker" code box that will run through every combination until it gets to yours, like in Wargames. As if.)

Okay, I don’t want to know how you got your passwords, and I’m not going to tell you how I got mine. But sooner or later, like a handyman with a beltful of fifty keys, you’ll be walking around with fifty places that require a password. Some are near worthless, like that stupid mp3 site you were forced to join just to hear one song.

But some are your bank account. You definitely don’t want someone knowing the password to your checking account #4617-0098-876.

So what the fuck do you do? You can’t write them all down—you’re cautioned a million times not to do that. You can’t possibly remember them all, unless you do the “variations on a theme” thing that I mentioned earlier. And even that is iffy. You get into the cycle of "Is it this combination of that password, or did I run it backwards this time? Did I put a hyphen in there . . . ? Did I use the "1" as a "!" or did I run it naked this time? What the FUCK DID I DO?" This of course always happens when you really, really need to get into that account now.

And if, like I was today, your million passwords somehow don’t accompany you and you’re forced to recall them (*cold sweat* “Jesus, why doesn’t that work? I swear that was the one I had for this account . . .”) you are truly, my friend, forked up the Grand Behind.

There’s gotta be a better way.

The New Helpless

A while back, travel problems used to be pretty straightforward. Lost luggage, perhaps, or an overbooked flight.

Today was the first time that I have flown on a plane without a laptop for five years. (My laptop died a few weeks ago.)

I didn't anticipate the havoc that would ensue. I am typing this on my father's Windows computer, basically glad to have been able to get to this space at all, having had to plough through multitudes of obstacles which have conspired against my doing so, not the least of which is that I forgot all my passwords (which were stored on my laptop.)

On an alien machine in an alien environment trying to get the word through as best I can.

I must admit to feeling as helpless as a kitten without my laptop.

I can't . . . bring . . . this . . . computer . . . to bed with me

Shrimp Angst

I miss Red Lobster. I used to go down there to where they used to be on Crescent St. and order the Shrimp Feast. You got three kinds of shrimp: breaded and deep fried, garlic shrimp and cocktail shrimp, and it all came with rice (as far as I can recall.) Then I'd order a beer or two, and the whole meal would come to, say $30 after tax.

Why did they leave Montreal? The clientèle was pretty middle-class/blue-haired/families with kids, but there were a few couples sprinkled around. And you couldn't beat the price.

So far, I haven't even come close to finding a substitute for a reasonable seafood night out downtown.

No Grater Love Have I

How do you grate your cheese? It's an intensely personal thing. Are you a sturdy box-grater type? Or do you prefer the ephemeralness of a wispily simple flat grater? Or even, perhaps, the gadgety rotary grater? Could you be the total geek who goes for the electric rotary grater?

I myself approach it on a logical level. Box graters are gross; after grating, you peer into the dark maw and see the remnants of gratings gone by clinging to the sides like grim survivors of a cheese death camp. Then you realise a lot of them just escaped into your pile of fresh 5-year-old cheddar.

Plus, you have to grate onto some flat surface, then get the cheese into a container. Why not grate the cheese directly into the container? Trying to stand a box grater up inside a bowl is not only potentially knuckle-shredding, it's gymnastically impossible. Whoever invented the box grater should be whipped with lemongrass.

I don't want to be grating onto some flat surface. I want to grate my cheese into a bowl or container. Of course, if I don't use all the cheese, I'll be having to put it into yet another container, one with a lid. So wouldn't it be nice if someone had a grater that had a base into which you could grate, then just snap a lid on it? Haven't found one yet—that's too logical.

Then there are the flat graters, the photo-etched ones (I'm not kidding.) These are the Lamborghinis of the grater world; Microplane is the one always mentioned. But still, you have the problem of where to put the cheese. I don't usually hover over my plate and grate a few hairs of Romano onto my Bolognese—I grate a shitload of Emmenthal to put in the macaroni with four cheeses.

The rotary graters are an insult to humanity. If I ever see a waiter approaching my table with one, I'll ninja-kick it out of his hand and chain him in a room with a one-channel TV eternally showing Live With Emeril.

So where does that leave me? I just ordered a Cuisipro Accutec Extension Grater. Looks to me like this beast does damn near most of what I want it to, short of provide the container with the cap.

Hopefully after I receive it there will be no grater sorrow.

Pasta with roasted cherry tomatoes, goat cheese, kalamata olives, Frank and Hawaii-Five-O

. . . and the video . . .

2 1/2 pounds cherry tomatoes, halved
1/3 cup olive oil
5 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1/4 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper
3 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano

1 pound farfalle (bow-tie) pasta
1/2 cup halved pitted Kalamata olives or other brine-cured black olives
6 ounces chevre (goat cheese—feta will do fine), crumbled (about 1 1/4 cups)
1/4 cup pine nuts, toasted
Parmigiano Reggiano to taste

Position rack in center of oven and preheat to 375°F. Combine tomatoes, oil, garlic, vinegar, oregano and crushed red pepper in a glass baking dish. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Roast until tomatoes are tender and juicy, stirring occasionally, about 45 minutes. (Can be made 2 hours ahead. Let stand at room temperature.)

Cook pasta in large pot of boiling salted water until just tender but still firm to bite. Drain. Return to pot. Add tomato mixture and olives. Stir over medium heat until heated through, about 2 minutes. Add goat cheese and stir until melted and creamy, about 2 minutes. Divide pasta among 6 plates; sprinkle with pine nuts and Parmigiano Reggiano and serve.

Shortage of Red Meat

When I took a look at this vast list of food blogs it occurred to me that not a single one was about steak. This is an oversight that needs to be remedied.

Steak fajita with sambal oelek

The new camera seems to be doing okay.

This was a grilled steak fajita with roasted tomatoes, red onions, celery, aged cheddar and mixed greens with a very lovely sambal oelek sauce (not for the faint of heart.) I used the Huy Fong version.

This was a very tasty shoot.

Disturbed

After a fantastic pork loin dinner at Shelley and André's house last night (medallions of pork, butter-cream mashed potatoes, sautéed string beans, homemade baguettes, cherry pie) I discovered a disturbing thing about myself: I know all the words to at least five Alice Cooper songs.

Lunch With Nick

Ah, Jan Wong. Like a jack-in-the-box, you never know where she will pop up next. You might never have heard of her, but she has been at varying times a columnist at the Globe & Mail. Her major claim to fame is a series of columns she wrote for the paper called "Lunch with Jan Wong."

In the columns, later released as a book, she would interview various politicos or celebrities and gleefully tear them apart in the column the day after, usually on the basis of what they ate or didn't eat, or their pathetic celebrity foibles such as drinking too many martinis at lunch or perhaps demanding that the mayonnnaise be separate from the salad.

It was hilarious.

But this is the same Jan Wong who, as a privileged Canadian-born Chinese, was admitted to special studies at Peking U. in 1972. According to one account, while she lived in the dorms with Chinese roommates, "the university treated her like revolutionary royalty." She and an accompanying student "were provided with tutors, administrators, a cook and a typist—40 people in all."

But she didn't want special attention; she wanted to be treated like everyone else, in true Communist fashion. She got her wish and "was put to work at the Beijing Number One Machine Tool Factory and, later, at a communal farm."

She was "such an enthusiastic proponent of Communism that she even turned in a classmate who once asked her about life in the West," an act which she later "bitterly regretted."

So the newly-minted, reformed, now committed non-communist Jan Wong married a Westerner and came back to Canada to start life as a privileged "reporter" for a major newspaper.

I don't like Jan Wong. Her series of articles about "lunch" with celebrities and pseudo-celebrities—in which her main plan seemed to be to first trap them with an innocent request by a journalist from a respected newspaper for an interview—were just cover for non-sequiturial petty sniping and clumsy jokes about their idiosyncracies as a result of being well-known figures. Much like the sneering that might have gone on in an interrogation room at the local cadre's meeting hall, thought I.

I feel no sympathy for most of the people she skewered. They were and are pampered members of society's elite and have inexcusably eccentric affectations that would annoy the hell out of most people. But let someone other than Jan Wong skewer them. Of all among us, what gives the right to Jan Wong to magically flit from one privileged reality in which she turns someone in for some imagined transgression—a very serious crime at the time and likely resulting in severe consequences for that person—to another privileged reality in which she now uses her interrogational skills to attempt to deflate others?

I would have said nothing until I picked up today's Globe & Mail. In it, Jan Wong is running a series in which she pretends to be a maid in Toronto. In the vein of a Paris Hilton reality series, she vows to cast off the shackles of "the good life" (and by her own admission, it is very, very good) and become a maid, working for the has-alls in Toronto, cleaning their houses. Great, Jan, whatever.

But she decides to drag her two children into the project, which, consent given or not, is to me unconscionable.

How many times does this person have to prove she is incapable of any rational judgment to be censured by anyone with a brain?

We suffer with you, Jan, as you clean these people's toilets and complain about the minimum wage being earned by them (and you.)

But we all know you'll return to your mansion tomorrow.

Isn't this hilarious?