Week 8 :: Appetizer (The Fidelity of the Roll)

I consume Japanese food more frequently than I had ever imagined I would. I never tire of the cornucopia of options available at any given time; the subtle differences in maki rolling techniques; the surprising delicacy of nigiri; the comfort of gyoza; the refreshing tang of sunomono; the soulfully healthy and tantalizing mouthfuls of goma-ae.

At this point, I can't count the number of places I've gone to eat sushi since the year began - there are three wonderful restaurants in downtown Port Coquitlam alone (Koi, Sushi Café, Asahi); Sake Maki and Isshin Sushi on Commercial Drive; L A Sushi and Take Sushi in Burnaby...the list includes more, I'm sure...and I've yet to go to the much-adored Toshi's on Main Street.

What I love the most, however, is going to a sushi restaurant with a new friend in a new part of town. There is a staunch fidelity to one's local, oft-frequented sushi nook that makes even the most novice sushi eater puff up with pride when they bring you into their homebase. I love when they eagerly point out the restaurant's signature rolls, or comment on the buttery smoothness of the sashimi, or rave about the quaint décor, or this, or that.

It's heartwarming to see the prescence of that kind of loyalty in an age where the price of many restaurants excludes the possibility of frequent eatership - and the dull quality of fast-food restaurants does not make one generally proud or excited to be frequenting those sorts of places. And there's a certain sadness, too, when you move away...or when a sushi restaurant closes...there's a sense of grief for the familiarity that you treasured, the sort of lingering sense of comfort that you derived even if you popped in only briefly to pick up some take-out.

But for now, given that I am staying put, I can't wait to re-visit some of my favourite places in the next few weeks, with that sense of homecoming that envelops you after you've been away for a little while.

Arigato!

Week 7 :: Dessert (A Culinary Soundtrack)

It's rare that I cook without listening to music. I admit, rather shamefully, that I had gotten into a bad habit of cooking whilst watching television, something that makes me feel as though I am not being mindful of what it is that I am doing. That aside, music of some sort generally comprises a significant portion of the little ambiance that I try to create in my kitchen each week.

Different tasks require different soundtracks, as is to be expected. You cannot whip your egg whites into submission if a calm Mozart sonata is playing; nor can you coax a hollandaise sauce into its delicate balance if you are aggravating it with some frenzied Rachmaninoff. Sometimes, of course, cooking requires silence, but since I do not feel like engaging in a musical debate about the merits of John Cage's 4'33", let us continue with the aforementioned proposition that food is best cooked with some sort of appropriately matched music.

In my own haphazard logic, I find it more appropriate to match my music to the techniques that I am using the most, rather than to each ingredient. This week, as evidenced by the stuffing, the chicken, and the cake, baking featured rather prominently.

Although baking appears to be one of those cooking techniques that affords you the convenience of "setting it and forgetting it," it really requires, when you are baking multiple things at once in an oven of constant temperature, a keen eye and a subtle intuition into the rising and falling of the dishes in the oven. The foil cover on the stuffing swells to make its own convection cocoon; the cake breathes deeply and puffs out its chocolate bouffant; the chicken hisses and bubbles, shuddering slightly as it nestles itself in a warm foil jacket.

The delicate interplay of intensity and delicacy that is inherent to baking requires music that is similarly structured. As such, I've chosen to match Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A Major (K622 - Adagio) to this meal. The strings and clarinet begin together quietly, as the meal adjusts to the warmth of the oven; then the strings sweep, gaining intensity, revealing the melodious potentiality of the clarinet, who then ventures out on its own in short bursts, constantly supported and reinforced by the lines of the strings. At 1'59," the clarinet triumphs, just like that moment when one finally notices the cake batter rising unexpectedly and grandly, with all the pomp and circumstance of any French emperor.

The strings and clarinet exchange breaths, until 4'59," when the strings swell gloriously, preparing the meal for the final delicate caramelizations and the quiet crispnesses that manifest themselves. At 6'00," the dishes are pulled gently from their warm cavern, and they let out several small, content sighs as they prepare to cool on the counter.

Week 7 :: Main (Christmas in July)

Week 7 :: Interlude

Things are rather hectic over here at the moment, and, unfortunately, I have been rather remiss in getting any sort of cooking done. I have, however, been writing presentations and paper proposals, so my absence in the kitchen has not been in lieu of mere shilly-shallying.

I have, however, in the past week, eaten two delicious brunches in Vancouver, and so will be posting thoughts about those really rather soon. If I can't find the time to cook, well, I'm more than happy to let others do it for me.

The unseasonably chilly weather is inspiring me to plan a "Christmas in July" meal, which I shall be cooking this Tuesday, if all goes well. Trying to add a Southern twist to it; research, research!

much love,
LPG

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!