Week 6 :: Main (O, Pahhhsta)

If you are a student at Simon Fraser University, or simply a resident of North Burnaby, or a pasta-enthusiast, or of Italian descent, or a lover of leftovers, or frugal, then the chances that you've eaten at Anton's Pasta Bar are rather high. This past Thursday, in the regular tradition of my group of rag-tag theatre-school colleagues, I ventured over to Hastings to indulge in what can only be described as a very unique gastronomical experience. Anton's has a definite air of cultural mystique surrounding it; the lines that swell outside the small restaurant from 4 PM onwards draw consistent attention from passersby; the tiny foyer, always crammed with eager patrons, forces alliances between hungry strangers. And then, of course, there's that white styrofoam box.

The white styrofoam box for leftover pasta, always protected from the elements in its rainslicker/clear plastic bag, is perhaps the most enduring legacy of Anton's, whose servings of pasta (while obscene in their carbohydrate content) are awe-inspiring and immense. Years ago, they used to give pens to customers who were able to consume an entire dinner plate of pasta in one sitting; but recessions come and go, and novelty wears off, and yet the urban legend, the enduring heroic drama of eating those last few bites of penne all' arrabiatta or what have you, still draws cheers from one's fellow diners.

Let it be noted, if only to stave off my own paranoia about gluttony, that I have never managed to eat more than an eighth of a dish at Anton's. Granted, I have generally supplemented my consumption of pasta with a side of garlic bread as well as a dessert of some sort, so I have always left the premises feeling adequately stuffed.

I have, however, eaten leftovers for three days following a visit to Anton's, and this week was no different. Is there anything more decadent than heating up a bowl of pasta for breakfast, when the flavours have further married themselves within the dish overnight as the pasta nestled in its small synthetic cocoon? And it's not really just the overabundance of food that's so marvelous, the ease of simply re-heating, re-heating, and re-heating. Leftovers, at least in my experience, always carry with them the joy of the original meal itself; they seem to to preserve, in some mystical reliquary fashion, the laughter and the delight of an evening out with friends. And since dining out is (at least in my opinion) something that ought to be sacred and not done too often lest it lose its glamour, anything that allows those few hours of companionship to be re-visited and enjoyed once more is a blessing.

There was a bit of sadness yesterday afternoon as I defrosted the last of my pasta, looking wistfully into the light of the microwave oven, eagerly waiting for the last remnants of my little suburban pilgrimage. There's no prolonged despair, however; given that Anton's is a mere 25 minute drive from my house.

Anyone want to go for pasta?

Week 6 :: Pre-Main

Off to Anton's Pasta Bar in Burnaby this evening. After several years of eating there, I assume it's time to write a lonnnnnng post about how delicious the food is, but how choked I am that they don't give out pens anymore if you finish an entire dinner plate.

I may, however, just get a salad. God, I'm so predictable.

Week 6 :: Appetizer (The Martyrdom of Pie)

I'm a bit of a sucker for the martyrdom of the D-I-Y movement, especially when it comes to foodstuffs that permit one to be an overzealous braggadocio when dishing out portions: for a meringue, for instance, "I whipped these egg whites by HAND. For hours. That's why one of my biceps is quite obviously larger than the other;" or for pasta, "That's freshly made ravioli; I crimped each piece of pasta INDIVIDUALLY;" or, for pie, "I made that pie crust myself. I worked the cold, cold butter into the dough, coercing it to blend harmoniously with the flour, after which I added ice water and kneaded the whole thing into doughy submission. I rolled out the dough to a perfect thickness, draped it elegantly in the ceramic pie plate, and delicately trimmed and crimped the edges."

I'm not such a food snob, however, that I will blacklist anyone for using a pre-made pie crust (or filling, for that matter). The good folks over at Tenderflake surely do know how to get all that delicious airiness into their crusts, and to be honest, I am often so distracted by the scent of caramelizing apples or bubbling cherries that I scarcely notice the odd perfection of the crust's fluting.

But now I come to my dilemma. This week, as I tried a new pie crust recipe for my quiche, I realized that I was now in possession of the "food processor" that the recipe called for. It's a small processor with a 4-cup capacity, and I wasn't honestly expecting much from it. After dumping in the flour and the cubes of cold butter, I pulsed it as directed, and much to my amazement, the butter distributed itself wonderfully and evenly throughout the flour. I eagerly added a few tablespoons of ice water, pulsed again, and lo and behold, a perfectly textured pie crust dough, ready to be rolled out on the counter with some flour.

I had a moment of looking frantically around the kitchen, thinking to myself with a note of horror, "I didn't...make this...by...hand" (as if this were some sort of really ideologically-laden impasse to get through, of course), and the twinges of guilt that I felt for having saved so much time and energy. Will my pseudo-martyrdom never cease, or is this just what happens when a former Catholic cooks in the kitchen? (5 points for my alliterations right there).

O, heavens! All I want to do this morning is bake a pie with my lovely food processor...oh the temptation of ease and modernity!

Week 5 :: Recipe Links

Oh, deario. This has been the first week that I have used recipes in my cooking, and so I feel that I really ought to post links to the deliciously simple pie crust/quiche and blueberry buckle recipes (tried, tested, and true, folks).

Amusez-vous!

Week 5 :: Main (Un Repas, Non Pour Mon Papa)

Week 5 :: Three Short Pieces

I am rather distressed that I have been unable to write or cook in the past couple of weeks - a three-day bout of severe insomnia rendered me so sluggish and apathetic that it was a feat of strength to even leave the house to buy fresh produce. This past week, my mother has been visiting me as I graduated from my MA program, and so, with all the hoopla, doctor's appointments, and celebratory times with family, I have left the oven off, the spices untouched, the cutting boards and gleaming white dishes to rest in their nooks.

Nevertheless, I'm eager to get back to that which I love, and I'm armed with both delicious eaterly experiences and a lovely gift from a dear and wonderful friend who fully appreciates and understands my culinary philosophy.

1) The Solitude of Baking

First things first. My dear friend M. has been a supporter of my cooking adventures since the beginning, and has often sent me a quick message to inquire whether or not pictures of the day's dishes will be soon forthcoming. M. and I also have a mutual love for sushi and pineapple corers, the latter of which she brought over once on a visit, and seemed absolutely bowled over by my delight and fascination with a gadget that left a perfect pineapple-shell with dozens of perfectly shaped slices of fruit. More than that, however, she understands that I both love and detest being and eating alone, and that if I am to be achieving some level of comfort with my reclusivity, that I ought to at least be able to cook the dishes that are most commonly (although not necessarily) associated with eating with others. MFK Fisher writes in "A to Z: The Perfect Dinner," the last essay in her book An Alphabet For Gourmets, that

"perhaps the most limited, and at the same time most intricate, form of the perfect dinner is the kind eaten by one person."

And indeed, the food that I eat alone often takes strange forms; cooking a quarter-cup of dry macaroni for dinner, using the tiniest ramekins for individual apple crumbles. There are certain dishes, generally desserts, that are rarely made for one, namely pies, cakes, and cupcakes.

Fortunately, M., in her infinite wisdom, recognized my love for baked goods and has given me the wonderful gift of a small springform cake pan, an individual-sized ceramic pie plate, and a miniature cupcake-pan. And really, if, on a lazy Wednesday, I feel like baking a small Sacher torte to celebrate the banal achievement of having gotten out of bed, then should I not indulge myself? Or, perhaps, on a glorious Friday morning, I might be of the mind to make a quiche Lorraine, and wouldn't it be lovely to sit down to one of a perfectly solitary circumference? And on a miserable Monday, when the dreariness of life is almost too much to bear, mightn't it be comforting to make a batch of the tiniest cupcakes and revel in their disarmingly adorable perfection?

2) My Kingdom For A Salad

On Thursday night, a very small group of my family and friends went out to celebrate my having been formally awarded my Master's degree, and I, in my infinite love of Caesar salads, opted to re-visit Cru, a small but wonderfully intimate and ambient restaurant in Vancouver. I can't think of a more beautiful concoction: the salad itself is named the "Cellar Door Caesar," the first two nouns having been deemed (when, and by whom, I am uncertain) the most beautiful combination of words in the English language. The salad itself is an unusual take on one's regular Caesar, which is often a haphazard mess of torn Romaine, covered with bland Asiago (or even more unpalatable Parmesan), stale croutons, and dressing that is more reminiscent of an amateur, store-bought Ranch than anything else.

The Cellar Door Caesar begins with a heart of romaine, lightly grilled; the whole heart is then covered (not smothered) in a piquant dressing with a hearty dose of garlic, and generously topped with a blanket of wholly fragrant shredded Asiago. Placed beside the heart are four cubes of warm sourdough bread croutons, infused with butter and yet more garlic; when these little boxes of bread-heaven are pierced between your teeth, you can feel the warm butter ooze past your tongue and down your throat in what can only be described as one of the most pure articulations of decadence. Though my Epicurean rhetoric was not quite as elegant at the table on Thursday night, I did persuade all four of my dining partners to experience the salad. That's what I love about truly marvelous food; you are often surprised and absolutely captivated by dishes where the presentation and the eating of the food is as filled with drama and marvel as any good stage play. In Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home, Julia Child recalls having seen Caesar Cardini make his legendary salad in person in Tijuana:

"[We] were so excited when big jolly Caesar himself came to the table to make the salad, which had already been written up and talked about everywhere. And it was dramatic: I remember most clearly the eggs going in, and how he tossed the leaves so it looked like a wave turning over." (100)

If you find yourself on West Broadway any time soon--or if you care to make the pilgrimage out there--do go and eat the marvelous salad at Cru. It is rather reasonably priced, and I'm certain you shan't regret it. Do, of course, feel free to invite me along.

3) The Garden of Eating

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of attending a garden party at a dear friend's house. K. is my culinary mother. Having trained at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, her cooking is always simple and exquisite, and I have spent many an evening peering over her shoulder watching her make delicious red wine reductions, stuffed pastas, lovely salads, and so on. More than anything, I love that K's kitchen is triangulated with three entrances: one from the front hallway, one from the dining room, and one from the door that leads down to the garden itself. As such, the kitchen is always abuzz with the motion of comings and goings, and the various configurations of bodies and food that arise from such a marvelously orchestrated space. And so K's house, with its kitchen, garden, and wonderfully-sized dining room table, is a safe haven, a port in the storm.

Yesterday, there were about a dozen of us--perhaps more or less--lounging on chairs in the sunny garden, bedecked in our very best neo-Victorian steampunk couture, drinking wine and other alcoholic beverages, munching on hors d'oeuvres, delicious strawberry tarts, crackers with Brie and Havarti, and feeding each other grapes. I really can't think of anything more marvelous and intimate than sharing food, and there's something so exquisitely sensual about having grapes dangled in front of your mouth, and eating them sans mains.

I am infinitely grateful to be blessed with such a wonderful group of friends, and to have a second home to visit, knowing that I can always stop by to enjoy some wonderful delicacy, or just a perfectly-brewed cuppa.

As I prepare to dive back into cooking this week--today, in fact--I do so with renewed optimism and a cleansed and invigorated palate. If only I could guarantee that I won't muddle the goat cheese cheesecakes I'm supposed to be making today...

Week 4 :: Appetizer (Love/L'Oeuf)

Ever wonder why they call "zero," in the sport of tennis, "love?" Well, zeros tend to look like eggs...and in French, "the egg" translates to "l'oeuf." And then some linguistic magic (mispronunciation) happens, and there you go. The egg becomes love.

But eggs aren't loved in my house. Or mouth.

I really, really, profoundly dislike eggs, and I have since I was a child. A few years ago, it got to a point where I made my mother--who enjoys egg whites with a passion--cook eggs only after I had left the house, because the mere smell of once-potential chicken fetuses sizzling away on a stove made me nauseous. Despite my hatred for them, I think they're fascinating gooey weird things. Baking with eggs is always fun, because you get to perform that slightly daring task of separating eggs, and if you can manage to both crack the egg and separate the whites and yolks singlehandedly, then you're clearly a culinary acrobat and should probably come over to my house to show me how to do that.

What I've realized, though, is that if I am ever to foster love for l'oeuf, I am going to have to be a seriously picky eater. None of this store-bought stuff, no eggs with oddly Technicolor yolks. I know enough about eggs to know that in a really delicious fresh egg, the yolk ought to nearly marigold in colour.

I'm not really brave enough to go to the farmer's market this Wednesday and cook eggs in their myriad forms--hard-boiled, over-easy, scrambled, poached--but I think I actually just may take a look at the Egg chapter in Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home...without gagging.

Week 3 :: Dessert (The Burden of Choice)

One of my most loved tasks is grocery shopping. There's nothing more beautiful than artfully arranged heaps of fresh produce, brightly labelled tins and packages gleaming from their neat rows, and stoic meats and cheeses resting in their refrigerated nests. But I seem to find myself in a state of panicked frenzy whenever I am in a grocery store; faced with the prospect of so many things to eat, I often suddenly feel as though I'd like to rip open packages and just cram my mouth full of chips, candy, grains, meats, cheeses, soups, and so on. That excitement soon turns to panic as I look at nutritional information, agonize over the morality of eating too much saturated fat, and wonder if it's really best for me to blow my food budget on something that I will likely end up throwing away later. Since I live alone, I often have the fleeting thought that perhaps it would simply be easier to subsist on oatmeal, apples, and diet sodas, instead of having to face the burden of choice in the supermarket. It's a slow process to learn to make choices, and to feel confident in having made them. Making the choice to nourish my body as well as I can; that's perhaps the hardest choice that I've had to make thus far. I don't know when I came to the conclusion that it would be better--albeit not easier--for me to make healthy decisions regarding food. Progress, progress...

Week 3 :: Main (Go East, Young Woman)

Week 3 :: Appetizer (Mon Cher Croque-Monsieur)

When I was staying at my uncle's house in Austria nearly seven years ago, one of my favourite things to eat for lunch was "ein Toast," another name for what the French call a "croque-monsieur," a gorgeously simple but beautifully comforting grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich. One of the most delicious croque-monsieurs I ever ate was at an Austrian train station café in 2007: when you're abroad, especially while you are in transit, there's something really quite wonderful about knowing that the ultimate comfort food (and rather nutritionally balanced, given the bread/cheese/meat combination) is readily available to you.

But the croque-monsieur is about much more than grilled cheese. There's something decadent about eating light but flavourful Prosciutto di Parma and sharp and bubbly Gruyère harmoniously grilled between two thick slices of sourdough bread; the elegance of the finely selected ingredients turns a simple sandwich into a gourmet delight.

Ingredients aside--there are days when any sliced bread, ham, and even processed cheddar cheese will do, and indeed, have a sense of simplicity to them--the most heartwarming part of making a grilled cheese sandwich (ham or no ham) is discovering the little bubbles of cheese that have flowed over onto the hot grill or pan and are nearly burnt to a delicate crispness. That's something you can't choreograph--the dollops of cheese must spill over randomly and of their own volition, decorating the border of your sandwich as if it were one Pollock's haphazard canvases.