Elimination

Can't someone just eliminate the human race, meek as we billions are, from the words "Tiger Woods"?

Why not first off all call him by his real name, which is A. Sshole? His preposterous famename alone is grounds for . . . well, being ground up into penis dust for wealthy Chinese animal-parts traders.

Has there ever been an idiot as pretentious in recent memory as this guy?

I leave it to my flock to judge.

Combination of Words You Never Want to Hear Part XVII

. . . "is known for its speed and aggression."

cat postcard

Weekend Update

Quake, Tsunami, Cancer, Religion, McDonald's . . . can being alive possibly be any worse than this?

The blessed relief of a private hanging in your shower is most definitely a viable option. I'll never forget the science-fiction story I read where someone wakes up on their home planet and realizes that that they're off the hook. They're home-free.
They've finally finished their sentence. And their sentence was living on Earth.

When?

Will the Winter Olympics mercifully go away? It's almost as bad as having to read about the eternal Middle East conflicts.

Couldn't the phrase "Never Again" apply here? Can you say "Super Bowl?" "Soccer?" "Religion?"

Isn't it the time that humanity found the time to devoting itself to other things, like malaria, ovarian cancer, river blindness, poverty, homelessness, drug abuse, child abuse, domestic abuse and religious insanity?

How can something like the Olympics -- the crazy joke that they are -- contribute a single thing to the betterment of the human race?

I would dearly love to hear a scholarly discussion on just why the Olympics, or frankly, any other "sporting event" contribute a single thing to human society.

I mean, as compared to "American Idol Contestant Arrested For Break And Enter," how can any headline be as banal as "Canada Advances, but Struggles With Slovakia."

WHO THE FUCK COULD GIVE A SHIT IN THEIR RIGHT MIND?

Shamu! Yes, Shamu the Killer Whale!

There's a reason why they're called killer whales. Stop putting animals on display for dumb-ass tourists and just do me a favor: just shoot the trainer and save me the trouble.

What Is It About Porn

Oh, shut the fuck up. Like you've never looked at it. You're a Mormon? You're a serial rapist. You're a Buddhist? Little boys aren't off the menu.

But you have to admit: looking at images of porn are bizarrely stimulating. It's different for men, even different for GAY men, and different for women, but as human beings we seem to be programmd for it.

It's just a manner in which to procreate, but how the fuck does it trump the gambling and movie industry for amont of dollars transacted?

Try to explain that to me.

How Can You Not Laugh

At an article called "Dine with Shamu"?

Yes indeed, dine with a 12,000 pound (that's six cars) predatory animal! Guess who's going to be doing the dining?

The ways in which human beings dispense with themselves in ridiculous manners are simply too many to be believed.

Yahoo, Shamu!

A Note of Appreciation

I'd just like to thank you schmos (that's an affectionate term! Really, not an insult!) (I mean, after all, we're dealing with this bizarre world that I call my own!) (So let me off the hook with all these parenthesesese (sic).)

But I know you're there. Christ, why the hell does anyone from Austria ever want to visit montrealfoodblog? This is the question, but the simple answer is, they do! I can't figure it out, but I've long since given up the idea that I'm some secret genius. Ich simply spiele dem blauen, Mr. Austrian! Hey yo, you're from the European Union, aren't you? What is it these days, Euros or Austros? Have you gotten over the Anschluss yet? Oh dear, I feel a rant is a-coming. What was your search term, anyway? "Der Berghoff?"

Hello, Australia! What the fuck's up in Kookaburra, Northwest Territories! That you come to this blog. As I always like to say, YO YO MA! What was YOUR search term? "Montreal wallaby"? Have another Foster's and go shoot a 'roo.

What, you Frenchies? What the fuck is up with you?

Patate Cinque Formaggio, Prosciutto, Cipolla, Crema, Aglio e Mandorla alla Nicola?

Uh, sorry, that's Italian.

Why on earth do you people continue to come here? Especially, my JAPANESE visitors.

All one of you. Akio Toyoda. Itte oshiri ni mitte kudasai! (That would be "Shove it up your ass," but politely).

I love you all. I just sometimes don't understand why you're here . . .

Those Italians . . .

 . . . they crack me up.

I Surrender

I officially give up my post as a ranter to this guy. He makes me look like an amateur homeless dude on a pedestal in Central Park.

Dubai Hit Team

Wow, now it appears that the entire country of Israel, every man, woman and child, is a suspect in the murder of that Hamas guy. No, really! The list is growing each day and it appears they were all travelling on real passports! All 28 million of them!

The European Union, that August body of supreme bureaucrats, is up in arms! Gambling? In this establishment, under MY auspices? Never! Never, I say! Those are not dice, they're cubes of butter. Those are not cards, they're receipts for business transactions. Those are not poker chips, they're ornamental decorations in several colors.

I just wonder where you're going to find a prison big enough to hold 28 million people.

Ai Yai Yai

I feel like shit. You know those days. Everything conspires to make you feel like shit. I JUST DON'T WANT TO DO ANYTHING.

Everything seems to be coming together to make me feel like shit. A job I'm not working on because it's turned ugly. A sore throat which really hurts when I eat anything, which isn't often. I just want to lie under the covers, get drunk and read a book.

Imagine this: the possibility of a job as a bass player on a cruise ship! See the fantasy: halcyon days as I lounge in my cabin or maybe poolside, a leisurely cocktail before I go on, a cool jazzy set or two and some bantering with the other musicians. Then, get off at midnight, have a few champagnes and admire the starry sky from a blanket-covered deck chair. Do it all again the next day.

The reality: a tiny holding cell on some heaving ship with no amenities at all, because you're just a galley slave. Forced to wake up at seven for "crew drill." Spend the rest of the day being shanghaied into moving chairs around in the "ballroom". Enduring days of rain, bad food and questionable water, working with underpaid and resentful assholes while being underpaid and resentful. Playing "My Way" yet again while despising the white-haired dancers and the moron musicians you're sitting next to. Having yet another conversation with someone who marks an "X" when they're required to provide a signature. Except they're YOUR BOSS.

You can see why I just want to hide under the blankets, now, can't you?

What To Do When You're Miserable.

No. Shut the fuck up. I DON'T WANT TO STEP ONE FUCKING FOOT OUT THE FRONT DOOR. Okay, I need my blood pressure pills but maybe the heart attack will be a welcome distraction. At least I'll get bussed *in style* to some comfortable hospital bed. Let's play fucking Doctor.

"Stop drinking scotch. Go to the dep and get beer. Go pick up your prescription."

Really? That's all? How's about I have another double and blast some blues on the guitar (just kidding, I love you and you know it).

Aaach, when you're in a non-mood there just is NOTHING you can do about it. The thought of putting on those boots is too overwhelming. Just let me lie down with jazz and scotch and all will be well.

I think.

Musical Humor?

You Guys

I don't know who you are! But obviously you're stopping by and reading my endless stream of umm, okay, all right, nonsense. But at least you're loyal purveyors of nonsense! You don't have to understand 100% of my nonsense! You don't pretend to! You just stop by and say "What the hell is he going on about today."

That's what I like about you.

Having a Blog

God, it's insane what brings people to a blog. Mine is totally random. Just what I want to write at any given time, as if I'm just writing on some bulletin board at some college, for instance. But how people actually get to me is more astonishing. The drivel I tend to write is inconsequential -- it matters only to me and to you, my faithful, endearing swarm of guppies!

They search for "spicy dill pickles." Yes! I'm top of the list! They search for "Chicken jalfrezi!" Yes! I'm top of the list! They search for "Thoughts on being handsome." Yes! I'm top of the list!

I swear, year after year, it's always the same search result! I wrote a stupid piece on "What does an atom look like" but hundreds, if not thousands, surf to my highly irresponsible post about how an atom looks like George Michael! Google it, my faithful!

Hmm. I think I shall have to lock myself in my bedroom and watch Hawaii-5-0 while sniffing cardamom incense.

Thinking

If you think about life on a quantum scale, or a galactic scale, you'll quickly realize that the acid you've just done is too strong and you're going to beat the fuck out of the guy who rubbed it on your arm "for a joke." Hey, don't laugh! It happened to me. Except I just ended up in an emergency room and you don't beat the fuck out of girls.

But just cogitate on this fact: a nanometer is the distance your hair grows every second. And a light year is the time someone who's taken too much acid to realise that the bread has fallen butter-side-down.

Good Move, Bad Move?

Brigitte has persuaded me to Try It Again. Faithful flock members will recall that sometime last year I tried to form a band.

For those of you who aren't musicians, I can only say that trying to form a band is like getting together with three uh . . . boyfriends, that have to agree on a bunch of things like tastes in music, food, girlfiends (not a typo), politics, religion and a whole load of crap that we usually don't subject ourselves to willingly.

Now, my non-musician musicians, how many chances do you think it's going to take that four guys in a room all playing different instruments are going to get along? Enough to actually produce something that anyone in their right mind actually is willing to listen to?

Okay, you see where I'm coming from. Herding cats is a truly viable alternative.

But, like Prometheus, who was doomed to eternally having his liver munched by some stray griffon (I have mine munched by scotch and Boréale Cuivrée) I DO try, try again.

The odds, my dear friends, are hilariously against me! But like a 97-year-old granny, I'm convinced that THIS TIME I'm going to win the lottery.

Yes. Me and Bruce and Mike and Peter are going to sit in a room and recreate the Magic of The Beatles. Update, as always, at 11!

Pissed Off With The Israelis

I'm really fucking pissed off with the Israelis. Namely because they won't take credit for the amazing assassination of Hamas scumbag Mahmoud al-Mabhouh. Hey dudes, we know it was you -- brilliant job well done! But at least take credit for it.

Okay, no, all right, we understand you wanting to remain in the shadows. It's only assholes who want to broadcast the fact that they've killed human beings to the world -- the Al Quaeda maniacs, in ludicrous third-world videos (what's with the insane reverb and hilariously bad Photoshopping?)

Thank you for erasing this asshole from the general public. You did it in an incredibly tasteful manner. I frankly would have hanged him upside down for 24 hours and carved my initials in his balls, but I realise you didn't have time for that.

Okay, well, maybe I'm not so pissed off any more.

OMG! The Dutch Pull Out . . . WTF?????

Fuck, I hate acronyms. What the fuck, oh my god. Just say it, assholes! (JSIA).

But this one is good. The Dutch! Yes, them! Oh, how they figure on the world stage! Right alongside the Swedes and the Finns! Hey, we REALLY NEED OUR PARTNERS, THE DUTCH, alongside with us in Afghanistan! They can bring the free marijuana and the sex shops! We really need a stoned Dutch dude defending us from the Taliban! Maybe he can write a nice cartoon of Mohammed while he's at it.

Hey, Dutch pilot slams on the emergency brakes landing on a runway! Co-pilot says "Wow, this runway sure was short!" Pilot says "Yeah, but it sure is wide!"

The Microwave

Ever since I witnessed my first microwave oven, probably in or around 1978, I've had a dubious romance with them. Back then, of course, the sheer novelty of just having one was like having Frank Sinatra sing in person in your living room.

Now, it's more like a kitchen tool, like a blender. But just think of what you would have to do without a microwave! It really does come in at the top of my list of "most useful inventions by humanity," right up there with electricity and the light bulb.

But, like everything, the raw talent isn't enough. You have to parse it. But first, you have to understand it. Did you know, for example, that there is no "medium" with a microwave oven? A microwave oven can not do anything except deliver bursts on maximum. That's the nature of microwaves. "Medium" is merely less bursts of maximum x time frame.

Did you know that an ant can escape being microwaved to death? Yes. There are things called standing waves and if the ant just manages to stay between them, it will come out completely unscathed.

But what interests me most is just how to reheat food to its maximum potential. Obviously, microwaving anything with dough in it is going to end up a rubbery mess . . . unless you know what you're doing! In fact, using the microwave properly is a somehwat arcane art, much like using a good kitchen knife. In the right hands, a microwave can be a seriously handy kitchen tool. In the wrong hands, it can be Dinner Disaster.

The decision whether to reheat in the toaster oven or the microwave can make or break dinner. And we don't want to break dinner.

I think it's time that any serious cook come to an understanding with the microwave, much as we have with our toasters and nonstick frypans, and in the light of this understanding, stop massacring our food due to a total misunderstanding of the science.

I know that now, my reheated Chinese leftovers never suffer, because I have a good relationship with my microwave. And you should, too.

Indian Food in Montreal

Recently (well, my faithful flock will know only too well, as I've beaten the subject to death) I've been involved in the question of Indian restaurants in Montreal. Brigitte is bursting at the seams sick of it, and refuses, for example, to go try a new place on Côte des Neiges. I mean, sometimes the overwhelming smell of tandoori and cumin gradually pervades your clothes after a while and you tend to want anything, anything that doesn't smell of curry.

So I can see her point.

But do you know what? "Indian food" is a completely artificial construct. People in India just simply DO NOT EAT THIS FOOD. It's like "Japanese Food." Almost nobody in Japan actually eats what we think of as "Japanese food" on a daily basis, and neither do the Indians eat "Indian food".

You'd be blown away, and probably not too much inclined, to eat the actual food these people eat. Nope, curry isn't among any of the daily dishes. The Japanese rarely eat sushi. "Teriyaki" is not a word that many Japanese would understand. "Tandoor" is a concept that most Indians would gaze in astonishment about. "What is tandoor?"

So trying to find anything approaching an authentic Indian restaurant in Montreal would be like searching for water on the moon.

Why I Love Montreal in February at 7 a.m.

Come On Down to Devi!

Yesterday I was privileged again to take photos of Devi's food; in this case, only three dishes: Tandoori chicken, lamb chops and biriyani. I had my new light box and the shoot went very well. Why don't you get down there soon and join me? I'll shoot you too.

Lamb chops

Tandoori chicken

Chicken biriyani

Them Japs . . . Such Cards

I know I'm cemented to the Japanese for life because my son is half Japanese. But it doesn't mean I have to like them. With all the bullshit with the economy and the scandals and upheavals in Japan, these idiots choose to focus on this shit.

Don't people have anything better to do? Maybe a particularly creative suicide bomb plot? It's amazing how, as the world's economy/environment/standard of living plummets, there is still no shortage of clowns willing to add another anchor to the sinking ship.

Fat

You know, there's only one thing worse than seeing an old friend and thinking, "Gee, he got fat."

It's seeing an old friend and thinking "God, he got thin." I think I prefer the former.

Cemeteries

I love cemeteries. They're always quiet places. But unlike, say, a hilltop in the country, you feel surrounded with people. The names. The dates. You wonder, "What was this person's life like?"

And you mentally reassure them that someone is paying attention to them, someone is noticing their name, even if it's a stranger.

If I could somehow manage it, I'd put a short video into my headstone. Someone could come over and press "play" and there I'd be, telling them about my life. Telling them to have another drink on me (poured on me, that is) because regrettably, I can no longer drink. Maybe telling a couple of lawyer jokes. Telling them to come back the next day to have a picnic on my grave. To take pictures and post them on their blog. Wouldn't that be cool? I'd die really happy knowing that were the case. Sure beats twenty virgins.

My father and my brother are ashes now, but somehow I want to bring part of their ashes to Notre-dâme-des-Neiges cemetery and give them their own little plots, because they spent so much time here. Then I could go picnic and pour a little wine on their soil in the summer and maybe play some guitar. "Yo, Chris, Dad, this one's for me."

Me? I don't want to be ashes. I want to be whole, so the bugs have something to eat, so my remains give plants a chance to grow, so my atoms spread through the soil and enrich it and eventually end up in the pollen of a dandelion that flies miles away in the wind. Imagine my atoms flying to West Island!

Here's a photo of the cemetery that's across the street from my house, actually taken with a film SLR. That's where I want to go when I go. Click to enlarge.

Shrimp Primavera

Here is another Brigitte triumph: Linguine Primavera with Shrimp. But she won't let me disclose her recipes, so I'll have to reverse-engineer them.

I'm willing to bet that this involved cremini mushrooms, red peppers, onions, garlic and fresh tomatoes with lots of basil and topped with freshly sautéed shrimp in garlic butter. Yep, that's what I'd say it was.

Your Absolute Favorite Activity

Once we get beyond, say, thirty years old, we become somewhat set in our ways. We know what is good and what is not good (going clubbing and getting smashed is no longer interesting).

But, if the doc said "You have six months to live" and you said "I can't pay you, doc," and he said "Okay well, I'll give you another six months," well, what would you do?

I know what I'd do.

I'd think up a food project. I'd plot and research and plan an elaborate meal that I'd never made before. I'd lovingly go to a dozen markets to get the *exact*-right ingredients, no expense spared, and then spend two, three, even four days chop-chop-chopping, cut-cut-cutting, dice-dice-dicing, brining, slicing, basting, roasting, baking, what have you, while watching cooking shows and drinking good beer and later, good wine.

That's my idea of Paradise.

Committee for the Preservation of Abominable Snowpersons

I think it's an abomination in itself that this much-disparaged group should be so targeted in "popular culture" by so many. This historically reclusive group of native peoples should be recognized by the various governments under whose supervision they live; ie. Tibet, Nepal, N. India, parts of China and Upper Bhutan.

It's truly shameful that they are grouped with Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Chupacabra and the Lochness Monster. Cryptozooology is admittedly in its infancy but it doesn't mean that the offspring of these reportedly gentle creatures (see: Tintin in Tibet) don't deserve proper schooling and basic social needs.

Come on, people, buckle down and support the Yetis. Don't depend on the Chinese government. If you don't, who will?

And quit with the "men." They have to reproduce, don't they?

Food Weekend

It was a great food extravaganza this Valentine's weekend.

On Saturday I was relieved of (most) kitchen duties when Brigitte made her Moroccan feast: kuftas in pitas with tabouleh, hummous, trinah and chile-tomato dip, with crème brulée to finish. (I'll get the kufta recipe from Brigitte and post it here later). Pictionary with Arlette and Alex ensued!

The following evening I made my signature "Nick's Homemade Spicy Potato Chips" (recipe to follow) which we enjoyed with some delicious filet mignon.

From top left, clockwise: Tabouleh, (white wine!) chile-tomato, trinah

Kuftas

 

Kufta in pita . . . yum!

 Arlette brulées the crème! It was a gas.

 

 Nick's spicy homemade potato chips

Nick's Spicy Homemade Potato Chips

Ingredients

2 large russet potatoes, peeled

1 container duck fat (about 2 cups)

2-3 cups peanut oil

Cayenne

Ground cumin

Salt

Method

You are going to need a mandoline. Apart from being essential to making potato chips, this will prove useful in many tasks in the kitchen, including making fingertip chips.

Adjust blade to about 1.5 mm cutting width -- too thick and the chips will be soggy, too thin and they'll be too crispy -- and slice the two potatoes, holding them at approximately 45 degrees so that the chips will mostly be medium diameter as opposed to lengthwise, where they would be too long, or vertically, where they would be too small.

Dissolve about three tablespoons of sugar in some hot water, add to a bowl, add ice water and soak the chips for about half an hour.

In a medium saucepan,  heat the oil and duck fat on medium heat. You want about 1/2 - 3/4" depth.

When the chips have soaked for 30 minutes, drain and rinse in cold water. With layers of paper towels, dry all the chips.

When a drop of water causes the oil to sizzle vigorously, add the potatoes in batches, making sure not to crowd the pan. Stir frequently to separate the chips. Cook each batch for about four minutes, then remove with a spider and set aside in a bowl. There is no need to remove stray oil from them at the moment.

When all the potatoes are done, reduce the oil temperature to minimum and let the potatoes come to room temperature, about 20 minutes.

When the potatoes are cool, increase the oil to medium, and when the water-drop test tells you it's ready, repeat the previous step with batches of chips. Stir frequently and do not leave unattended. When the edges of the chips start to become golden brown, about 4-5 minutes, remove with the spider to a basket lined with paper towels. Cover each batch with a paper towel to keep warm/soak up excess oil.

When all the batches are done -- the chips should be just on the verge of crispy, with some still bendable -- remove all but the bottom layer of paper towels and sprinkle liberally with cayenne, cumin and salt. Serve with mayonnaise or your favorite dip.

Get This While It Lasts!

Please bid on my latest eBay auction!

Ah Feels Me a Rant a-Comin' On

Sorry. I just can't help it sometimes. Today's rant is Bad Writing.

How many ways can writing be bad? A million. That's why good writers are good; because so many writers are bad. Bad writing can be boring. That's a major crime. Bad writing can be interesting, but badly written. In other words, a fascinating tale poorly told, like someone telling a great joke badly. "Okay, a penguin goes into a bar. Bartender says . . . no wait -- TWO penguins go into a bar."

Bad writing can be just the result of an incomplete grasp of basic grammatical rules, or it can just be an insensitivity to the rhythm of words and sentences, pauses and line breaks. Like someone who learned to play trumpet but has a tin ear.

Bad writing can be affectative, in the Ernest-Hemingway or Stephen-King tightly-mannered prose sense. In their hands, it works, but in most others' it doesn't.

But the worst writing of all is when someone TRIES to sound like a good writer, but fails. Witness this ludicrous attempt at trying to sound erudite, and analyse just why it so badly fails:

"Kyoto is embraced with the beauty of Japan’s past. History is preserved in the city’s old buildings, valued temples and scenes of traditional life that still roam the narrow streets. (Can you just picture a scene or a temple roaming the narrow streets? What exactly does a scene look like? Is it tall, or is it short? Does it walk quickly, or does it slink along? Oh wait, no, I get it -- HISTORY is roaming the narrow streets. Him and Temple and Scene, out for a rumble. Watch out, World! The boys are back in town! -ed.)

"Going to Japan we had no wants of trinkets, souvenirs, or other little nick-knacks to bring home. We only desired for the experience of Japan’s modern savvy and its treasured past, and to acquire two things.  In Kyoto we would experience a bit of Japan’s past and find the first of our two treasures;  a knife crafted in Japan." (Ahh, the denoument of the paragraph. How subtle, how lilting . . . how . . . mangled. -ed.)

This is the product of an American education? Believe it or not, this is not the writing of a sixth-grader, but of a fully-formed adult.

The worst transgression of all, though, is the "typo." This is a euphemism for "I never DID know what an apostrophe or punctuation was all about." Its all about it's isn't it? Like my typo's?

Don't mistake me. Errors in grammar, spelling and punctuation can be corrected -- that's what editors are for. I'm sure Hemingway couldn't spell "Chihuhaua" to save his life (I'm actually surprised I could first time around) -- but if one is not aware of how bad one's writing is, one should just stay away from keyboards.

But possibly the worst of the worst writing is rambling.

Guilty as charged!

I'm Glad I Didn't Throw it Away

My ancient Foodsaver, that is.

I bought mine in the Pleistocene era -- obviously they're so much better now. But it does its job. I bought an entire filet of beef at Costco today for CDN $45 and it yielded THIRTEEN 1.25-inch steaks. If I bought those at my local butcher I would have paid about $130.

So you cut it yourself. That is the reward! Two inches thick? Go for it. But then you have to preserve the whole thing so you won't be eating steak every day for a month. Enter Foodsaver.

Also, check out my bargain 24 LARGE chicken thighs at only $25.00. Christ, I buy that at Metro, it's $40, easy.

Foodsavered! They'll last at least a year.

Bona-Fide Food Photog!

I just received my lightbox! Now I can take truly good pics of my food! Or your food, for that matter!

I was so excited, I grabbed the first food item I could out of the fridge, which happens to be Nick's Ultra Garlic Bread, that I made last night and haven't baked yet. (I'll use the new box to shoot the bread once it's baked and provide the recipe).

Pretty cool, huh? I messed with it in Photoshop and gave it a fake Gourmet Blur (that's what I call that narrow-depth-of-field look that their photographers loved) in Photoshop, but nice! Now I don't have to film my food on the kitchen stove any more.

 

Here's a pic I took of one of Brigitte's vases. The box has no fill card (something that bounces the light onto the other side of side of the object). Below is with the fill card:

And here is the complete setup:

Now if I can only get Molly the goat to stand still long enough I'll take a picture of her! And all my guitars and GI Joes and, and, and!

And remember Valentine's Day is Sunday!

Nick's Killer Garlic Bread

Sign Me Up, PETA!

Who knew you could buy a Hartebeest rug -- four feet by five feet -- in this day and age,from the plains of Africa, no less, for less than I'd pay for a cowskin rug at my local hardware store?

Or an African lion rug for only $3500 (free shipping!)? I remember when I was a kid in Kenya they had a tiger skin on sale in some shop for the then-impossible (to me at least) price of $200.

The Muppets: The Dark Truth Revealed At a Bar After Work

Adolf Hitler: Respected Author

"Historians in Germany are demanding that the country's ban on publishing Hitler's 'Mein Kampf' be lifted, to prevent it becoming a new propaganda tool for modern extremists. Publication of the two volume treatise, which Hitler dictated in the 1920s, has long been outlawed in Germany.  But anyone will be able to issue an edition in 2015, when copyright lapses 70 years after Hitler's death."

Hitler still has a copyright?

Dog

Today our friend who owns a small dog and six cats alerted us to the availability of a six-month old toy poodle. Completely free, with all vaccinations etc.

Well, let me say that it was a temptation. The cuteness factor is + plus + = >. It was a foregone conclusion, right?

But then I got to thinking . . . walks . . . every day. Rain or sleet or shine. Arguments over who should walk the dog this time. Bath . . . every week. See previous sentence. Vet bills. Accidents. Small, dependent animal that can't communicate beyond . . . barking.

It came down to the wire, even to the point that I had a name for this dog: "Blackie."  But when I actually had to make the decision, I thought for a moment and said . . . "Nah."

Bug!

Can any of you amateur entomologists tell me what this critter is? We find about one a day in our living room. We're on the 8th floor, there are no windows open, so I can't explain how they're getting in. Its actual size is about one cm/1/2 inch. Some people think it's a flying ant, but I have my doubts.

Oh, it has six legs.

Project: Gorgonzola Burgers!

Kosher ground beef mixed with hot Italian sausage (an oxymoron if I ever saw one!) with a little pocket of Gorgonzola hiding in the center of each one, applewood-smoked bacon, caramelised onions, crisp baby greens in vinaigrette, special sauce and artisanal Kaiser rolls . . . what could go wrong?

Update at 11.

Fun With Nazis

"You're under arrest, slimeball! Irrigation for you!"

Food Porn Restaurants

I think I can safely say that Montreal has never, and probably WILL never, fall into the pit of food-porn merchandising.

That is, when a menu item is dotted with with almost aggressive name-dropping as to the provenance of the produce. What the fuck do I care that the bib lettuce came from the Wilson Family ranch? WHAT THE FUCK DO I CARE?

The writers of these menus seem to have perfected food-porn writing to a high art. But it gets REALLY TIRESOME. Just get a load of this one. I mean, as if "willis ranch pork spareribs" means a single goddamn thing to me? How's about "Berchtesgaden Family Farm Prime Lampshade Wienerschnitzel"? What drugs do these people smoke? How's about capitalizing your menu items? DO . . . YOU . . . A-SPEAK . . . DA . . . INGLIS? It's just completely out of control.

I mean, hey, I got it when you said "Hi, I'm Jason, and I'll be your server tonight! Could I interest you in our specials . . ."

Fuck, man, it's fucking FOOD, not a litany of farming business-card names.

As usual, the major perpetrator of this nonsense is California. California should be lined up against a wall and shot, if only for its pretentious food-mongering.

It's great that I KNOW this will never happen to Montreal. You know that your wallet is in trouble when you see this pretentious bullshit. And I am certainly glad that I don't have the misfortune of owning SanFranciscoFood.com.

Oh, and LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING PRICES.

Nicken Pot Pie (With Kind Regards to Knatolee's Hens)

I'm sorry the photo isn't as appetizing as it should have been, but the results were most assuredly delicious! The ingredient list seems long (I should just draft a disclaimer to put in all my recipes, beginning with "the ingredient list seems long, but . . .") BUT have a few beers and a couple of glasses of wine and you'll be cooking in no time! Here we go:

Nicken Pot Pie

Ingredients

Pastry:

You should use commercial pastry dough (NOT Pillsbury) or pâte feuilleté (puff pastry). Making your own is simply too time-consuming. I got mine from Quality Kosher on Victoria.

Filling:

1 1/2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken thighs
1 can chicken broth, with water added to equal 2 cups (or use 2 cups homemade chicken broth)
1 1/2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large onion, chopped fine
3 medium carrots, peeled and cut crosswise 1/4-inch thick
2 small ribs celery, cut crosswise 1/4-inch thick
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup crème fraîche mixed with 1/2 cup water
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
3 tablespoons dry sherry
3/4 cup frozen peas, thawed
3 tablespoons minced fresh parsley leaves

Method

For Pie Filling: Adjust oven rack to low-center position; heat oven to 400 degrees. Put chicken and broth in small Dutch oven or soup kettle over medium heat. Cover, bring to simmer; simmer until chicken is just done, 8 to 10 minutes. Transfer meat to large bowl, reserving broth in measuring cup.

Increase heat to medium-high; heat oil in now-empty pan. Add onions, carrots, and celery; sauté until just tender, about 5 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper. While vegetables are sautéing, shred meat into bite-sized pieces. Transfer cooked vegetables to bowl with chicken; set aside.

Heat butter over medium heat in again-empty skillet. When foaming subsides, add flour; cook about 1 minute. Whisk in chicken broth, crème fraîche mixture, any accumulated chicken juices, and thyme. Bring to simmer, then continue to simmer until sauce fully thickens, about 1 minute. Season to taste with salt and pepper; stir in sherry.

Pour sauce over chicken mixture; stir to combine. Stir in peas and parsley. Adjust seasonings. (Can be covered and refrigerated overnight; reheat before topping with pastry.)

Assembly

Roll dough on floured surface to approximate 15-by-11-inch rectangle, about 1/8-inch thick. If making individual pies, roll dough 1/8-inch thick and cut 6 dough rounds about one inch larger than pan circumference.

Pour chicken mixture into 13-by-9-inch pan or any shallow baking dish of similar size. Lay dough over pot pie filling, trimming dough to 1/2 inch of pan lip. Tuck overhanging dough back under itself so folded edge is flush with lip. Flute edges all around. Or don't trim dough and simply tuck overhanging dough into pan side. Crimp down in an attractive pattern with a fork around the lid. Cut at least four 1-inch vent holes in large pot pie or one 1-inch vent hole in smaller pies.

Bake until pastry is golden brown and filling is bubbly, 30 minutes for large pies and 20 to 25 minutes for smaller pies. Serve hot.

Note: There was a fair amount of sauce and pastry dough left over, so Brigitte added some more chicken to the sauce and instead of doing individual ramekins, somehow made a chicken pot ROLL! I'm not quite sure how she did it, but it was fantastic! I'll try to find out and post with pics next time she makes it.

Murgh Makhani (Butter Chicken)

Is this not insanely tasty-looking, my flock? Well, rest assured that it's one of the best curries I've ever made, and I've probably made over 3,000 in my lifetime. This is the ULTIMATE Butter Chicken!

Here's how it went down: I was heavily inspired after being at Devi yesterday so I arbitrarily decided to make Butter Chicken. Good move!

I found a base recipe that looked pretty good and I modified it, as I am Wont To Do.

Here's a shot of the recipe and my chicken scratch alterations:



I basically just upped everything up a notch but kept the framework intact. You'll need an immersion blender or a standing blender for the sauce. N.B.: BRINE THE CHICKEN, always brine the chicken!

Then proceed as follows. The ingredient list may look long but at most the whole thing will take about two hours:

Ingredients

Chicken
2 teaspoons grated ginger
4 teaspoons minced or pureed garlic
Salt to taste
2 teaspoons cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 lbs. boneless skinless chicken thighs, brined for 30 minutes, patted dry and cut into 1 inch pieces
3/4 cup crème fraîche
1 tablespoon Garam Masala

Sauce
4 cups chopped fresh tomatoes
4 teaspoons grated ginger
4 teaspoons minced garlic
4 green cardamom pods
4 cloves
2 bay leaves
1 cup chicken stock
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/4 cup (about 2 heaping tablespoons) cold unsalted butter, diced
4 teaspoons. grated ginger
1/3 cup whipping cream

To Finish
2 tsp. Garam Masala
4 tsp. brown sugar
1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro
Whipped cream

Method

Chicken
Combine ginger, garlic, salt, cayenne and lemon juice in a large bowl. Add chicken and toss to coat. Let chicken marinate for 20 minutes at room temperature. Add yogurt and Garam Masala and let marinate for 20 minutes longer.

Preheat oven to 450. Place chicken on a rack over a roasting pan (or baking pan) and roast for 15-20 minutes until cooked through. Reserve.

Sauce
Combine tomatoes, ginger, garlic, cardamom, cloves, bay leaves and chicken stock in a large saucepan over medium-high heat and bring to boil. Turn heat to medium-low and simmer for 25 minutes or until tomatoes have completely broken down. Remove whole spices. Puree in a blender (or use an immersion blender).

Bring sauce to a boil. Add cayenne and simmer until sauce begins to thicken, about 5 minutes. Gradually whisk in butter. Add the chicken and any juice and simmer for 5 minutes. Add (1 tsp.) ginger and cream and simmer another 5 minutes. Taste and adjust spiciness by adding up to 3/4 tsp. more cayenne. Stir in Garam Masala and sugar and season with salt and pepper to taste.

With spoon, drizzle whipped cream in swirls over each portion, garnish with cilantro, and serve over rice or naan bread.

Mission: Unprofitable

Here's the deal: come up with any combination resembling "Mission: Impossible." The only rules are that you have to start with "Mission." the rules for the second are that it must end in a final "l" sound, ie. it can't be a word like "ludicrous," but it would be nice if it also begins with an "im" (as in "impractical.")

But then you have to give a one-line synopsis of the plot!

I shall start:

"Mission: Reprehensible." The team volunteers for an impossible task: educate Sarah Palin.

"Mission: Undrinkable." The team volunteers to sample various beers made by Anheuser Busch.

Go to it, Jims and Rollins!

The Airlines' New Scheme to Create More Capacity . . .

. . . seems doomed to failure.

Blood, Photography and Indian Food

A couple of weeks ago I must have bashed my right elbow against something, probably a door frame and probably in a stupor on my way to the bathroom at 4 a.m., because in the past week it really started to hurt. (Don’t worry, this definitely gets weirder). Even now, maybe three weeks later, lifting anything makes my elbow scream.

So I did what I always do. I took three aspirin a few days ago, and then I took another three the day before yesterday. (I don’t trust Tylenol, Advil, et. al. I like my aspirin and it never bothers my stomach).

The pain went away. But then last night, as I was watching some dumb TV show, I sneezed, hard. And I reached for the Kleenex as usual as it began to drip, but this time it was blood. Bright arterial blood. Drip, drip, drip. Not quite a torrent, but it wouldn’t stop. No doubt all that aspirin had conned all the platelets into going to a bar and then sleeping it off, because they sure were absent. It was ice compresses and nose pinch for about an hour until it finally stopped.

Well, that was fun, said I. Hope that’s the end of that.

I got about three hours sleep, because this morning Brigitte and I were due to do our first-ever photo shoot. Yes, you read it right. About a week ago, the owner of Devi, a posh Indian place on Crescent (which I reviewed a while back) needed some photos for his food, and had liked the ones I did for the review. So at seven I was up, poring through my Digital Rebel manual, setting up fake shots and trying to get that “Gourmet” magazine food-porn thang. Trying to figure out what “aperture” and “bracketing” were dilly-dallying about.

At any rate, at 11 or so Brigitte and I showed up at Devi on a sunny, cold winter’s day and I set up my stuff. Brigitte brought a bunch of props, like placemats and cool white plates and cool cutlery. Hell, we’ve never done this before! But we acted like a veteran team. I brought my laptop so I could check the “rushes”, so to speak, and my tripod, and we set up near the window. The light wasn’t that great, but it was all we had, and although I built a makeshift light box this morning I decided not to use it because it looked too silly.

So we set up and I did a few lighting test shots and then the food started to come out. I’d gotten into about three of the fifteen or so dishes we had to do when I felt an enormous sneeze coming on. You can guess the rest. I had to do at least three dishes one-handed, pinching my nose with tissues and an ice cube stuffed up it so blood wouldn’t get anywhere while the horrified owner looked on. It’s hard to operate a camera on a tripod with one hand; this is now an established fact.

Luckily, my camera ran out of battery and I’d forgotten my spare, so Brigitte had to drive home and get it, so I was off the hook for the half hour the bleeding took to stop.

But the prop wine and beer flowed and we finished up and I've just spent two hours editing the 115-or-so photos, and I was amazed at how well they turned out.

By the way, if you’ve never been to Devi, the owner, name of Praveen, is a super guy and he needs customers. The place isn’t as expensive as it appears to be and it’s spectacular food. Tell him I sent you and I bet you he’ll comp you something or other!

Anyway, here are some of the pics that my bleeding nose allowed to be taken:


Samosas!

Butter Chicken!

Whole Fish!

Dunno!

Dunno again, but looks great!
Tandoori chicken! (In there somewhere)

Shrimpies!

$12 lunch special!

Devi dessert with mango lassi!

Learn a New Language!

Here are some phrases everyone should learn when going abroad.

She Even Snores!

Hmm . . . I'd think twice about "doing" (as some wiseass CNN commentator remarked, "I'd do her") something that looks like Joan Rivers (and probably talks like her). But she might make an entertaining dinner companion when you have guests. No doubt much hilarity would ensue.

Hey, you could take her to restaurants and enjoy the look on the waiters' faces! (wheelchair/feed tube not included). You could explain her as "paralyzed from the feet up."

"And what will it be for you, ma'am?"

"Whaddo I look like, chopped liver? I'll have the chopped liver. Morty, you wanna pass the salt? These knishes need some salt. And what kind of place is this anyway? You got pictures of angels on the walls. Where's a picture of a rabbi? It's racism, that's what it is. Call my publicist and tell him not to book here any more."

I can picture it all now!

Uhh, Why Do I Have Trouble . . .

. . . believing these are Michael Jackson's kids? Do they have vitiligo too?