The Role of This Blog

It has come to my attention recently that the title of this blog is actually "montrealfoodblog" which kind of implies that a large part of the content is about food in Montreal!

Well, that's in an ideal world. There was a time a few years ago when I physically despised the word "blog" in the same kind of way we all came to despise the words "Information SuperHighway" or anything with "Cyber" before it.

Blog. Fuck blog, I said. If this is what they call a blog, I've been fucking blogging before WordPress's founders were billionaires. And I was!

But now that's like saying "Hey, I was on Usenet before there were forums!"

My original intentions were solid. Montrealfood.com would be a semi-gossipy, occasional resto-centric, freewheeling site that only really had one agenda: food in Montreal.

That worked for a while. But eventually, the old "no ads on THIS site" became really old. Then, the foodblogging craze exploded -- the chowhounds, the egullets, the Food Network. These days, people with degrees in foodstyling take pictures of food and publish them in a whole new category called "food porn."

Even the diehard stalwarts, the stolid bloggers who seem to love going against the flow, still devote their entire blogs to reviews of restaurants -- brilliant pictures, absolutely phenomenally well-written reviews concentrating on everything from hot dogs to zershck ... frankly, I've on a number of occasions been very suspicious as to how these people manage to go out to all these fantastic restaurants, take these gorgeous pictures and post these journalistic-level reviews.

It's a struggle for me to review even one restaurant and write it up, let alone post excellent photos with links, podcasts, what have you . . .

So guess what? I've given up. On montrealfood alone there must be at least 50 reviews -- written by someone, for sure, maybe even me -- about restaurants that are long, long gone.

Who has the time to sit around following what new restaurant sprang up here or there or where the best brunch place is in Little Italy?

Now there are monstrous, massive sites like chowhound and egullet that have entire forums just dedicated to questions like "What's the best Glatt Kosher in Montreal?" with dozens, if not hundreds of very talented responders and recommendations!

I feel truly like Ogg, having invented the wheel. People were very impressed at my amazing achievement, until Ugg came along, invented fire, and burned it.

But I feel a strange and unnatural exhilaration when a website actually links to this blog!

There is someone out there who actually still believes this is a blog about food in Montreal! But it's really just a random diary about things that happened to me between meals and at meals with the magical addition of the snow that's making everything amazing at 7:50 on a Monday two days into my 52nd year. Now THAT's something to write about.

B-52

And by the way, I had a most excellent two days of birthday (it's not often it comes on a Saturday), yesterday just hanging with Brigitte, the dog and the fish, drinking the aforementioned perfect Bloody Marys and having delectable pasta with Italian sausage meatballs and playing guitar and force-marching the dog, and tonight heading off to the wonderful Basi for an intimate dinner and a return to Helicopter Dog (I swear, she could get off the ground if her tail was reconfigured for maximum lift) so my B:52 ended up being a grand success.

Plus I grew a whole inch in the night.

Herr I Go Again

Umm, I won't go into too many details, but recently a friend decided to take a break from his hospital job to go to, of all places, Columbia, for a week. Well, the jokes flew back and forth, but when it was established that there were no duty-free shops at Medellin International with dime bags I kind of lost interest.

But what he DID do, was leave us his dog for a week. A dog. In this apartment. On the eighth floor. To wit, this dog:



Now, while me and dogs go back a long way, I don't trust them. Brigitte "loves dogs", in that sepia bubble of nostalgiahood in which some of us bask from time to time (ripples, blurs and multiple harp soundtracks extra).

But me . . . uh-unh. So I approached this small bag of spiked fur and grafted-on tail (from a vintage helicopter toy) with a small amount of trepidation.

His owner, regrettably, "trained" this dog in French. Regrettably, I confine my excellent French to those who most deserve it: the French. English is fine, but I could see the dog wasn't getting it -- the wheedling, the begging, the orders, the bargaining . . . the pee still ended up far from the newspaper, in a manner of speaking.

Brigitte, however, strode into the task with enthusiasm, barking orders in the King's French with matchless aplomb. However . . . the pee still remained far from the newspaper.

So I hit upon a brilliant idea. Speak to it IN GERMAN! That magnificent Teutonic language, that commanding tongue where one word can send thousands to ovens even when shouted by a pygmy dwarf in a monocle and ill-fitting jodphurs! The ideal language! Instead of "Si-si, va faire pi-pi! Va faire pi-pi sûr les journaux MAINTENANT!" it became "UNTERMENSCH! GEHST-DU DER URINEN MACHEN ÜBER DEINE ALLGEMAINE ZEITUNG JETZT! JETZT! *JETZT* MEINE KLEINE TEUFELHUNDE!!!! RAAAAUUUSSS! RAUUUUSSSS!!!"

Oh, I forgot the "Schnell" at the end. But believe me, that gets results in the dog world!

I only have the hellhound for another four days but I was thinking of using a commandant-by-proxy for the rest of the time -- my vocal chords are sensitive -- so I was on the lookout for a Hitler action figure to add to my GI Joe collection. Hey, you wouldn't believe how many large corporations that make millions of beloved 12" Fighting Men decline to make a 12" Hitler doll! (or Stalin, for that matter!)

So I went looking! The only pathetic approximation I could come up with was here.

Needless to say, he's undressable -- his clothes are melted to his corpulent frame -- and the dog will not be impressed when I brandish Lil' Adolf and bark my orders in flawless German!

And when the coup de grace comes -- it always comes with my GI Joes, sooner or later -- I will derive little satisfaction pulling The Mustached Midget's feet off one by one to serve as ornaments in the fishbowl. Oh, I didn't tell you about the fish that our friend left in our safekeeping?

I've been reading that book Luc left me entitled "Japanese Cooking" with renewed vigor lately.

Raus!

Bad Me: Again

I posted the following on Craigslist under "writing jobs" . . .

Bad, bad me.
=====================================================================
English translation job desperately needed
Needed, ASAP: translation of the following sentence spoken by Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, into English, preferably, but other Indo-European languages also acceptable:

"I look forward to seeing a comprehensive agreement in Copenhagen, where we will actually get on with actually reducing emissions as opposed to just setting absolute targets."

All this company's translation teams are at a loss so it is with reluctance that we go to Craiglist for possible interpretation. Russian transliteration okay upon approval of CV.

* Compensation: $500/wd
* Telecommuting is ok.
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

=====================================================================

The replies (preliminary) that I've gotten:

"What, exactly, are you looking for? The sentence is already in English. Are you looking for what he meant?"
--------
"I look forward to seeing a comprehensive agreement in Copenhagen, where we will actually get on with actually reducing emissions as opposed to just setting absolute targets."

I look forward to reaching,in Copenhagen, a comprehensive agreement  which does not just set absolute targets, but which will in fact allow us to work on the actual reduction of emissions.
-------

(And this, the best so far -- ed.):

"It means 'fuck you; me and the oil companies are going pump out as much CO2 as we can'"

-- Keep 'em coming, folks!

Happy Birthday To Me

Yes, today I’m fifty-two.
Little doubt, much more than you.
Behold my fruitful time on Earth
Ignore my rather meatful girth.

I wake and contemplate the sun
That’s risen every day since One
And wonder if there’ll be one more
And if it be, just what’s in store.

With hurting heels I crawl from bed
Leave mindless epithets unsaid
And think of maybe making tea
But then I think “Why should this be?”

“I’m fifty-two years old,” I think.
”Fuck this tea. I need a drink.”
So many dawns; so many days
Ushered forth with bland Earl-Greys?

The frozen vodka mutely cries
The stalks of celery arise.
The Worcestershire, Tabasco, dill
(My recipe is in my will).

And so I now this nectar sip
My celery within it dip
Fuck, many more ‘fore setting sun!
And no more tea till I am done.

New Painting Project

The above is a painting done from a poster that we bought, by the miracle-working Jack Lee and the folks at Europic Art.

I've had them do at least 5 paintings so far, and they're absolute geniuses.

So I have a new project -- while in New York a while back I took some photos from the Empire State building. I've messed with them in Photoshop and now have to decide which one to make into a 72" painting. Which would you pick? (Click for larger version)


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On Spidey Silk and Other Matters

I’m not the guy who’s going to ruin your movie experience in the theater, the dork who keeps whispering, cackling and commenting behind you.

No, I’m not that guy. Because I very rarely go to see movies in the theater. I wait to rent them. No, I’m that guy right next to you on the bed watching the movie on my 42” Plasma with Surround Sound.

I have a somewhat early memory of watching “The Shining” on VHS, one of the earliest rental videos that ever existed, and trust me, almost the whole block was over at the house to watch it. But I couldn’t stop myself. “What’s he doing? Who’s that in the background? Are the ghosts going to kill him? This isn’t like the book.”

My very own brother threatened out loud to silence me forever.

Flash forward: The Bourne Supremacy, with Brigitte. And the usual mantra, only much more sophisticated.

“Wow, he’s limping like a motherfucker from that botched jump. But how does he keep maintaining those razor-sharp sideburns? How come he doesn’t put on a fake beard and wear sunglasses to throw off the CIA assassins? Umm . . . he walks around half the world with no bag, no accoutrements whatsoever . . . what, he just wanders from hotel to hotel (well, make that “flees” from hotel to hotel) with no personal possessions whatsoever, not even a decent pair of sunglasses, other than what he’s wearing? How does he DO that?

“And is he a bottomless pit of money? It seems that his wallet is a personal printing press of greenbacks. Unless he’s charging everything — so where do his bills go? I’ve never, ever seen him, throughout this entertaining trilogy, profess to have a fixed address.”

Well, you get the picture. By this time, Brigitte is crawling the walls.

But now I have a different set of questions. Spiderman, the comic version. I’m sure you’ve all read it.

You remember all those panels where Spidey is on the move. Wham! Out comes his Spidey Silk from the heel of his hands. He leaps tall buildings with ease, always landing neatly on some rooftop.

But how come his Spidey Silk always attaches to something outside the frame? What, he’s gluing himself onto a cloud? Otherwise, he’d just find himself coming face to face with a huge concrete fly swatter.

How do they explain that? Huh? He shoots his silk at a cloud? Huh?

The Stalin Diet!

While he was murdering 20 million Russians, Stalin had to eat, too! (Rumor has it that his pipe tobacco was Blue Navy brand).

4:34 a.m.: breakfast/late dinner

Presiding over large table of cronies, plying vast amounts of vodka in order to loosen tongues, while drinking only water for himself:

Pickles. Lots of pickles, blini and beluga from the Iranian marshes. Drinking matches and slogans. Traitors mentally put in file folders.

6:30 a.m.: Arrive at dacha; deer sausage and real vodka.

6:30 pm. : No time, no time for food while being betrayed! Yet snack on limes marinated in vodka (bitter fruit!)

4:30 a.m.: Hold another fake drunken orgy with senior commanders. Drink water, ferret out traitors, munch on Iranian cashews. Too much useless fat! Must trim everything, number of soldiers not worrisome, waistline worry!

4:48 a.m.: Fantasize about Eva.

The Hitler Diet

(Well, everyone’s got to eat, right? Here’s my theory on the Hitler diet):

6:35 a.m.: Summon Grndl for scones and fishcakes. Bring out maps of the Volga while eating on gilt-edged tray.

8:15 a.m.: Tiring of discussion about troop movements north of Stalingrad with General Paulus on field telephone. Call in airstrike. Small cucumber salad with parsley and vinegar dressing. Looking forward to lunch.

11:05 a.m. Goebbels nothing short of annoying, having disturbed timetable by showing up unannounced and with some vague nonsense about some place called Treblinka. I’ll Treblinka you later, buster.

Two fat knackwurst (vegetarian, with bean curd and trifle) and hot Bavarian mustard. Glass of carrot juice. Full! Nothing more until High Tea.

All day, all day, headaches, so much business talk. Fed up with running an empire. Looking forward to Dieter’s dinner, even though he’s Romanian and his name is not really Dieter.

6:17 p.m. Supper on the balcony at Der Wolfsschanze with Eva, Hermann, Clothilde and Wolfgang: Breaded deep-fried beancakes with Hungarian potatoes “à-la-Provençale” in forest mushroom gravy while discussing troop movements in the Ukraine. Note to self: more carriages, less jostling.

10:26 p.m. Late night supper with bodyguards and Eva. No more telephones today! Let Groscurth figure out by himself how he’s going to feed the 23rd Division. I’m going to bed.

Small wedge lemon pie with meringue topping with mint leaves. Digestif of bergamot tea. Nighty night!

If A Taliban Warlord Ever Ate at a Montreal Restaurant, Then Reviewed It

Khyber Pass
506 avenue Duluth Est
Montreal, QC H2L 1A7, Canada
(514) 849-1775

by Mullah Gulbuddin al -al -al -al (sorry, frog in throat) Hekmatyar Abu Sheikh Abu Abu-abu-abu (sorry again) bin Dude

Translator is late! Late! Must to write review himself!

Montreal is evil city, evil since supplying alcohol nonetheless the US infidels’ prohibition of the times of Grandpa Adbullah VIIX.

Atmosphere is typical Western apostate haven of western musical abominations, of which I think I recognize Hank Williams. What is Hank Williams playing in Afghan café? Oh, sorry, waiter tell me it is Pashtun tribal songs. It is mistake mine.

Waiter is slow. I bring out Kalashnikov but drink still come slowly. Butter tea taste weird, not like what kidnap Russian girl make for Gulbuddin in 80s. There is no Glenfiddich, even though bodyguard ask nicely.

First course I ask roast mutton but no roast mutton. Only chicken. Death to chicken! But waiter say dark meat only, many bones, can eat with hands. Remind of home, so order. Not worried about taste. As they say in Isfahan, “Even cockroach taste like mutton.”

Too many napkins. No hand bowls. Appetizers weak (samosa taste like made by gardener wallah!) and dipping sauce not enough cilantro. I pull safety back on Kalashnikov, much noise, cilantro come quickly. Taste like mutton.

Is strange. Come in, place is full. Now place is empty, in, like ten minute.

Ask for rice. No waiter. Ask chapati. Still no waiter. Bodyguard go look. No waiter. No cook.

Bodyguard bring beer, Canadian, instead. Taste like what mutton make. Is good.

Restaurant get three red star.

Roasted Potato Stacks

I know, I know, sorry to have to give you all the creeps with the picture in the last entry. So get your mind off it by thinking of roasted potato stacks.

Here's the theory behind it: get a bunch of potatoes, waxy preferred, probably around medium to small, then slice them with a mandoline (sorry, if you're a serious cook you'll have one -- can't take responsibility for hand-sliced). Then soak them in cold water for a while, then dry them off, one by one, toss them in oil and herbs, stack them somewhat randomly into towers and then bake them. Here's how I did it:

Ingredients

(To serve two):

4-6 new potatoes, blond or purple, smallish (a bit larger than a very large hen's egg), scrubbed but not peeled
3-6 garlic cloves, peeled and slivered thinly
Truffle oil (optional)
Olive oil
1 tablespoon dried thyme or 2 chopped fresh thyme
Fresh ground pepper
Sea salt

Method

Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Mandoline potatoes, thicker than the thickest potato chip you ever ate but thin enough to bend almost in half without breaking; about 1 1/12 of an inch.

Immerse slices in cold water pre-treated with about three tablespoons salt and three tablespoons sugar.

After about a half an hour, drain and rinse potatoes. Dry thoroughly on paper towels.


Toss with truffle/olive oil and herbs until coated.

In a baking pan (aluminum, glass, anything flat is okay) start stacking the potato slices. Intersperse each one with a couple of slivers of garlic. The more garlic, the better, as the slivers will help keep the potato slices apart so the hot oven air can circulate enough to bake (and not steam) them.

Once stacked, ideally about 1 1/2 to 2 inches high, carefully place in baking pan.



Reduce oven temperature to about 475 and put the potatoes in on the middle rack. Time it at 15-minute intervals so you can rotate the baking dish and make sure the stacks aren't collapsing.

After about 45 minutes, start checking every five minutes or so. The top few potato slices should be brown and almost crispy, as should be all the edges. Serve with chopped Italian parsley.

This Little Fucker

Out of the corner of my eye (a very well-trained one, from years in the tropics, although admittedly rheumy now -- but still quick!) I observed the above little fucker scuttling across my living room floor this evening. MY LIVING ROOM FLOOR!

Have you ever seen these little fuckers before? My skin crawled as I performed my dutiful "husband-therefore-bug-catcher" and caught the evil bastard, almost two inches long, in the old cup 'n' cardboard trick.

Can you imagine that horror crawling over your face in the middle of the night?

The picture is from a quick search of "Quebec centipedes" but I'd be happy if you could PUT A SHINE on what the little fucker is so I can nuke future Its out of existence.

Much obliged in advance.

New Potato Project?

Here's the theory. I'm not even bothering to go look to see if it's been done before or not.

But how about potatoes -- I assume they'd be russets, the bigger the better -- which would be scrubbed but not peeled, then baked, then perhaps an 8th of the top of the skin removed, then all the insides scooped out and perhaps buttered, then perhaps some kind of chowder made, maybe involving clams, maybe not, maybe with bacon, maybe some sort of cheese, in order to create a very dense slurry, then perhaps the shell of the russet oven-baked until slightly crisp . . . then, being "stuffed" or rather, "filled" with the chowder, broiled in the oven for a few minutes, then served, garnished with Italian parsley or chopped bacon . . . d'you think that could be done? Has someone already done it?

Ranty Rant: Why?

I have a few questions to ask about restaurants in Montreal. Yes, I know I've presided over a website called montrealfood for almost ten years now.

But I still have the same nagging questions that I did ten years ago about restaurants in Montreal.

Here are some random nagging thoughts that have yet to go away, and most of them begin with "Why?":

Why are there seemingly 4,000 "Pho" restaurants in Montreal? Why are there maybe only one or two Cambodian restaurants? Lao? And why are most of them so terribly mediocre?

Why are all the "Japanese" restaurants in Montreal run by Chinese or Vietnamese, and why, if they're actually run by actual Japanese, are they so expensive?

Why is pizza in Montreal so very, very bad, to the point that a pizzeria that actually might serve something other than "all dressed" causes a sensation among "foodies" here, when they're a dime a dozen in, say, San Francisco?

Why is even fast food so bad in Montreal? So tired, so hackneyed, so predictable? That a chain like "LaFleur" actually exists?

Why are hamburgers in Montreal so bad? Why does it take an ambitious effort by some deep-pocketed ones (m:brgr) to come up with an actual concept of upscale burgers? Not that I'm saying that they're particularly any good, but only that there's only ONE of them. In San Francisco, Toronto, Vancouver, Denver -- the list goes on -- I'll bet you could find better hamburgers than m:brgr at half the price.

Why are the ethnic restaurants in Montreal so provincial, so tame, so unwilling to step out and serve their own food the way it's supposed to be served, not catering to the pathetic Canadian sensitive palate? All the Indian restaurants are the same. They all serve the same food. Very few exceptions.

Italian food here is pathetic, unless you have very,very deep pockets. Chinese food belongs in a 70's-era episode of All In The Family. French food -- well, they try to dress it up in Quebec colors, but hey, just having Arctic Char on a menu doesn't make it innovatively Montréalais. In general, it's bland, overpriced or deliberately gimmicky -- witness Joe Beef or any number of these "foodie" joints that serve comfort food at executive-level prices.

There is probably only one thing that I can come up with to recommend restaurants in Montreal as opposed to restaurants across North America.

And that's that you rarely have to stand in line or make a reservation. Hmm. I wonder why exactly that is.

Oh, sorry, forgot Schwartz's. The only place I can actually count as an anomaly: a place that serves mediocre food mediocrely, that rests on its considerable laurels as a Montreal "institution" and that actually has lineups for slices of meat on grocery-store bread in a cafeteria-style atmosphere with indifferent service.

That sums up Montreal food quite nicely, I think.

Shrimp à la Nick

I swear, I never have more fun cooking than when I abandon all thoughts of recipes. Yes, recipes have their place, but once you've cooked shrimp 1,000 ways you can just grab what's on hand and make it sing.

If you know how to cook you'll know how I combined brined shrimp with sesame oil, red peppers, garlic, onions, bamboo shoots and scallions and flambéed them with saké, added soy and mirin and cilantro and a little corn starch . . . well, you'll just know.

I'll never be able to duplicate this exact recipe, however . . .

Steak Teriyaki

This is always a hassle-free dinner and it doesn't take much time. It shouldn't end up like those teriyakis you get in Vietnamese restaurants (there are only a handful of Japanese-run Japanese restaurants in Montreal), with cloyingly sweet-sauced, rubbery steak concealed by too many inexpensive vegetables.

Contrary to popular belief, no one eats steak teriyaki as we know it in Japan. It's entirely a Western invention, like chow mein. The closest thing might be teppanyaki (think Benihana) but even in Japan that's considered Western food. And they don't throw knives in the air or behind their back. One interesting thing they do do is to put live jumbo shrimp on the griddle. Now that's something to watch. And the heads are a delicacy.

But there is no such thing as "teriyaki sauce." They usually serve the steak teppanyaki with a thin dipping sauce on the side. It's always eaten with plain white Japanese rice.

Since I don't have a griddle, but rather a grill pan, I had to do some things differently here. Authenticity was not my target. But these things are nice to have around, if not authentic (I like 'em, so that's what's in it!):

Carrots
Bean sprouts
Scallions
Mushrooms
Broccoli
Ginger
Garlic
Mirin
Japanese saké
Authentic Japanese soy sauce (preferably usukuchi)

And that's about it. I make my rice with jasmine and coconut milk, just because I want to.

So here we go:

Ingredients

A couple of nice steaks, about 3/4 of an inch thick. If you have the bucks, spring for filet mignon. If not, a ribeye will do. Don't get cheap steak.
20-30 mushrooms, preferably shiitake, but any will do, sliced
3 bunches scallions (green onions), sliced (use mostly the lower parts)
2-3 carrots, peeled and sliced on a bias
1/2 head broccoli
10 cloves garlic, 6 of which peeled and sliced very thinly, the others chopped finely.
2 tablespoons ginger, frozen and grated with a microplane grater
2 handfuls beansprouts, washed thoroughly and drained
3/4 cup soy sauce
1/2 cup saké
1/2 cup Mirin
1/2 cup chicken broth
1 teaspoon cornstarch dissolved in a little water
2 cups jasmine rice
1 2/3 cup chicken broth
1 cup coconut milk
Sesame or mustard oil


Method

Season the steaks with oil, salt and pepper, cover with plastic wrap and set aside, unrefrigerated.

Combine soy sauce, mirin, saké and chicken broth in a bowl.

In a sauté pan, sauté the mushrooms in oil on medium heat until they have given off all their moisture and begin to brown, about 10 minutes. Set aside.

In more oil, sauté garlic chips until they begin to brown and are slightly crisp. Set aside.

In same oil, sauté carrots with diced garlic for about five minutes; they must still be firm. Set aside.

In a little more oil, sauté broccoli florets for about 7-10 minutes on medium. Set aside with carrots.

Pour sauce in sauté pan and bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Add mushrooms and cook until slightly reduced, about 10 minutes. Add cornstarch mixture and stir until slightly thickened. Set aside.

Make Rice

I use a rice steamer. Rinse rice thoroughly and drain. Combine rice, broth and coconut milk in steamer and set to cook. If you don't have a rice steamer bring broth and coconut milk to a boil in medium pot, add rice, stir thoroughly to combine, reduce to minimum heat and cover tightly. After 18 minutes, turn heat off and let rice rest, covered, for ten minutes.

Cook Steak

Oil grill pan lightly and place on medium heat for about five minutes. Add steaks, cooking for about 3-4 minutes on each side for medium rare. Only flip once.

Set aside on warmed plate and tent with foil. Let rest for about ten minutes. Transfer to cutting board and slice against the grain as finely as you can. Pour any juices into mushroom sauce.

Put finished rice into a small bowl and invert onto plate. Transfer steak to plate, garnishing with garlic chips, briefly microwave carrots and broccoli until hot, place on plate, pour on mushroom sauce, then garnish with beansprouts and green onions. Serve.

Strine Wine

I like Australia. I always wanted to move there, in my youth. I learned to speak Strine and watched everything by Bruce Beresford and Mel Gibson. Throw in a Paul Hogan, and you pretty much have my star-speckled view of Australia, mid-youth. Oh, I made up for my absence; Toohey’s and Foster’s Lager were always a priority if offered (even though they taste like pisswater now compared to my hearty Quebec offerings).

But it was Japan that got me in the end. Same quadrant, different beer. And surprisingly, I met more Australians in Japan than I ever met during my years in California. I even roomed with one — some cobber that was convinced that all Japan needed was Australian beef, and he was the man to import it.

Not sure how that turned out, but he was a generous well of vicarious living as far as Australia went.

But to this day, mention Australia, and my ears perk up. So when I got a roundabout email announcing an Australian wine tasting here in Montreal, well, who the HELL was I to say no, mate? (That’s pronounced “mite” and is probably appropriate when it comes to me).

The occasion: Wine Australia. Don’t even pretend to laugh, you ignorant flock of wallabies. Australia now has some of the finest wines and finest food in the world. I was living in California when California overtook France as the the makers of the finest wines in the world. I’ve always been aware of Australian wine and although I’m not an oenophile, I know what’s shite and what’s not.

These guys have been prowling around in the Antipodes, eating their Balmain Bugs and having arm-wrestling sessions over which Sheila gets to make their ‘Roo Stew for hundreds of years before you and I were a twinkle in our grandparents’ eye.

But make no mistake, “MITE” — they make the best wine this side of Cook Island, that bunch of descendants of Cockney prisoners, that loose rabble of some of the smartest people in the world.

Tonight was merely the proof.

Held at the rather renowned restaurant in Old Montreal, Verses, a venue to which I, as an ostensible food critic, have never been, it was rather a tiny assembly of perhaps 40-odd attendees. Many wines were on display. They started with whites and sparkling and progressed down the line; as I said before, I’m no oenophile but I know what I like, and I’m most definitely a “Sparkling Whitey” when it comes to wine. I like white wines, rosés and sparklers, although I won’t turn down reds in a pinch. Just that I prefer a Grigio over a Cabernet.

The orchestrator of all this vinous vivaciousness is one Geoff McFadzean (pronounced “JestdabestShirazyouevertasted,mite”) who hails from Wine Australia’s Canadian marketing division.


Geoff (at right) and fellow Strine invaders

Geoff is an affable non-descendant of British prisoners. Okay, well, that might be open to discussion, since he hails from Toronto, all Montrealers’ favorite place in the universe.

But what must be realised is that Geoff is a decoy. He’s a benign-seeming representative of the Australians. We know him. He’s from Toronto. I mean, what would we do if a delegation of Australians suddenly appeared in Montreal, all looking like Paul Hogan and Olivia Newton-John, announcing they were from the Australian Wine and Brandy Corporation? They’d promptly steal all our partners with their underhanded charm, wouldn’t they?

No, they had to sneak in under the radar, and so they have.

I do go on, but I’d just like you to get the word out — I’ve been kidnapped by the Australians. Who knew being kidnapped could be so nice? Their wines are better than our wines.

Get the word out — before they overrun us all. Please note that the first invasion occurred practically unnoticed at Restaurant Verses, Old Montreal, November 3, 2009.


The first white station -- my preference throughout the evening


There were at least six stations like this one -- and every bottle at every one was good.

. . . and the food wasn't bad, either.

I'll keep you up with what's happening with the Strine Wine. Apparently most of it is already available at the SAQ. Go to wineaustralia.com for details. And tell 'em your kookaburra friend sent ya.

Jolly Green Galaxy

If you took Jolly Green Giant frozen peas and filled the Montreal Olympic stadium with them to the absolute brim, and each pea represented a star in our galaxy, you'd need two more Olympic stadiums full of peas to equal the number of stars in our galaxy (403 billion).

If you were able to count one pea per second, 24 hours of every single day, it would take you 12,675 years to count them all.

Good luck with that.

Pizza Night

Six of 'em tonight! Three tomato-based (mozzarella di bufala, tomato sauce with a hint of chipotle, ham or salami or prosciutto, onions, red pepper -- all scantly spread -- kalamata olives, gruyère, aged cheddar and Maréchal de lait cru) and three with goat cheese, sliced cherry tomatoes and a combination of the above.

I do believe I'm getting this down. Some before and afters:

Vietnamese Beef Noodle Soup (Pho Bo)

Brigitte is in Pho mode, which seems to happen every fall or so. But although I like it, it's not exactly my cup of soup as a meal. (Apparently Pho is pronounced "Feu" and is descended from the French dish Pot au feu).

But it was a challenge to see if I could match the Pho from her favorite Pho joint (Hoai Huong, on Victoria). In my research I discovered that to make it from scratch involved oxtail bones blah blah blah and I was not about to explore it with such fervor.

Luckily, I turned up a convenient can of Pho broth at Kim Phat, Cote-des-Neiges. No harm in co-opting the real thing. I added large amounts of plain old broth but also added in the spices I had found in my research -- the one giving it that indefinable "Pho" flavor being star anise, which I'd never used before.

It worked out far better than I could have expected. Brigitte said it was BETTER than the restaurant's.

So this one's Pho you.

Pho Bo (Vietnamese Beef Noodle Soup)

Ingredients:

Broth

1 can (796 ml/27fl. oz./3 1/2 C) pho beef broth (available at Asian groceries) or the equivalent in beef broth
4 additional cups beef broth
2 cups chicken broth
3-4 whole cloves of star anise
I stick cinnamon
3-4 cloves
4 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
1 inch ginger, frozen and grated
1 inch lemongrass, frozen and grated
1 medium onion, peeled and quartered
1 fistful cilantro, washed and shredded by hand
1 1/2 tablespoons palm sugar (brown sugar is acceptable)

Method: Bring all ingredients to boil. Partially cover and simmer fairly energetically for thirty minutes. Strain through fine-mesh strainer and reserve broth.


Broth on the simmer

Other ingredients:

1 high-quality bavette/flap steak/top sirloin steak, about 3/4 inch thick
2 generous cups bean sprouts, washed
1 small white onion, sliced thinly into rounds
2 large carrots, peeled and julienned
3 green onions (scallions, spring onions) washed and chopped into 1/4-inch rounds, 3/4 of the way to the green end of the stalk
1/2 package Banh Pho (Vietnamese flat dried rice noodles, available at your Asian grocery store)
Handful cilantro leaves, washed and torn
Whole sprig Vietnamese basil or Thai purple basil
Mint leaves, if desired

Method: Put steak in the freezer for about thirty minutes. Using a very sharp knife, slice across the grain into 1/8-inch slices. Set aside.

In a bowl of hot water, soak the noodles while the steak is freezing.

In a small pot, boil 3-4 cups of water. Plunge beansprouts in for approximately thirty seconds to blanch, remove to strainer and chill with cold water. In same pot, bring the noodles to a boil and then remove after about 2 minutes. Chill to stop cooking.

Assemble dish; heat broth to boiling point, then pour into large bowls. Add the steak, the onion, the scallions and the carrots. After about three minutes, add all remaining ingredients and serve.