In Praise of Cross-Border Grocery Shopping

Growing up in Canada, cross-border shopping meant going to huge big-box stores and stocking up on the latest cereals and snacks. People always came back from those trips proud of how much money they'd saved, and how many things they'd bought. My family never once took such a trip, though. Must have been something having to do with the fact that my parents grew up on the other side of the Iron Curtain. That and a certain distrust they had for the ways of our neighbors to the south. This weekend, though, found me crossing the border to go out for brunch, stroll around, and, yes, pick up a few groceries in Burlington, Vermont. I have to say, it was not without a pang of guilt that I did so. And I certainly didn't tell my parents. So what do they have that we don't have? What would prompt someone like myself to give in to this most Canadian of pastimes?

For one, an amazing selection of Anglo-American-style cheeses. Milk in glass bottles. Artisanal flour. Butter. And, yes, a few snacks that we can't get up here. (Peanut-butter flavoured Chex anyone?)

When it came to cheese, I stocked up on two tried and true brands: Jasper Hill Farm's Bayley Hazen Blue, and Grafton Village's 5-Star Cheddar. In addition to these, I threw in another Jasper Hill cheese, their Constant Bliss [which, contrary to what you might think, is not named after a state of being, but rather after a soldier who guarded the Bayley Hazen road in 1781 and died there alongside his compatriot, Moses Sleeper], and Shelburne Farm's 3-Year Cheddar. All of these cheeses have blown our minds. The cheddars especially are unlike anything we can find up here. Anthony says he hasn't tasted such cheeses since living in England.

When I saw a shelf of milk in glass bottles, I knew I had to bring some home. I chose the whole milk, thinking it was the most versatile, and we've enjoyed it solo, as well as with our tea and coffee. I regret not picking up some cream, though. And maybe even some chocolate milk. Next time.

One of my missions on this trip down to America was to find some King Arthur flour. And find it I did. Every store seemed to have their entire line of flours. (Vermont being King Arthur's home state, I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised.) I chose the traditional whole wheat, as I had no whole wheat flour at home. Thank God I did, because on the back of the package they'd printed a recipe for whole wheat bread, which looked so good that I made it less than 24 hours after returning. I can't tell you how glad I am that I did. It's the best loaf of whole wheat bread I've ever had. It's also easy to make: start to finish in less than 3 hours (!). Perfect for a Saturday afternoon. Even perfect for a Monday afternoon. This bread is so good, so naturally sweet (partly from the honey, but also partly from the flour itself), all you need on it (all you want on it) is some butter. Vermont butter, if possible.

King Arthur Flour's Classic Whole Wheat Bread

3 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1 1/3 cups water
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1/4 cup honey, molasses or maple syrup (I used honey)
1/4 cup nonfat dried milk
1 1/4 tsp. salt
2 1/2 tsp. instant yeast

Mix all of your ingredients together until the dough forms a ball. Turn out onto an oiled surface and knead with oiled hands until dough is smooth. Place in an oiled bowl, cover, and let rise 1 hour. Place on an oiled surface and shape into a loaf. Cover and let rise 1 hour. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Bake the loaf for 20 min. then tent with foil and bake another 20 min. Let it cool on a rack and enjoy with butter and honey.

In one of Burlington's used book stores, I found a re-issue of Wallace Nutting's 1922 classic Vermont Beautiful. A picture book with prose, it is one in a series he did on the American East which includes New Hampshire Beautiful, Maine Beautiful, Connecticut Beautiful, Virginia Beautiful, Massachusetts Beautiful, Pennsylvania Beautiful, and New York Beautiful that I have slowly been collecting for a number of years now. I snatched it up, of course, and came across a passage in it which I thought fitting somehow and which is worth quoting at length.

...the farmer, more than eighty years old, has drawn off to one side, waiting for the "auto" to pass. The old and the new generations have clashed very sharply in our age. The patient oxen, long the willing helpers of the farmer, useful all their lives and useful in their deaths, must now stand to one side... Perhaps the "auto" will pass for good. The demand for fuel in all forms is beginning to sharpen until we may all take to the woods and chop our own and let the "auto" go. The sources of coal and oil supply have only to become a little less, and civilization's wheel will take another turn; the rural life will be a necessity, the oxen will come back.

I haven't seen any oxen teams on any of my recent trips to Vermont, and "civilization's wheel" may not have taken the turn Nutting expected, but all across The Green Mountain State you find signs that people haven't completely let go of the old world. Let's hope they hold on a little bit longer.

m

chez les Nordiques, pt. 1

With not one but two tests currently underway at "...an endless banquet" it's starting to be like Canada's Test Kitchen around here or something. Okay, not exactly, but this time of year that's the rhythm a lot of us get into in this part of the world: a lot more experimentation in the kitchen, a lot more staying in and reading--that kind of thing.

Now, speaking of northern climes and life in the Hyperborean Metropolis--as Montreal used to proudly hail itself--coverage of Montreal often focuses attention on how "European" Montreal is. Gourmet's new special issue on Montreal, with one of its coverlines boldly proclaiming that Montreal is "North America's Most European City," is just the latest and most high-profile example. Oftentimes, however, such descriptions of Montreal and its European-ness are merely an almost knee-jerk reaction to things like the city's linguistic landscape, its overwhelmingly Catholic past, what remains of its stone architecture in the vicinity of the Old Port, and its high proportion of French restaurants, and what people fail to see is just how profoundly North American Montreal is. Of course, people have tended to have a similar reaction to New Orleans over the years, and in both cases this sense of European-ness is based on a failure to understand that the history of New France wasn't exactly a simple blip on the North American timeline. Montreal does have a lot of French restaurants--that's obvious--but as Gourmet rightly pointed out, the best of the lot draw from a vision that is at once global in outlook and passionately local, a vision certainly inspired by France, but one that is proudly North American (with an emphasis on the "North," perhaps). They're not museum pieces, they're not French restaurants in the generic sense (although there are certainly plenty of those around here as there are in most cities of the size and "sophistication" of Montreal), they're restaurants that are very much alive and are contributing to an ever-expanding sense of what cuisine--both French and North American--might mean. And while Gourmet didn't exactly dwell on Montreal's winters--it's pretty clear that the issue was drawn up and produced in the summer and fall of last year--its "Let it Snow" feature managed to capture the region's essentially Nordic character, something that profiles of the city generally overlook or elide (depending on whether they're produced by out-of-towners or locals). If the notion of terroir is crucial to understanding a region's cuisine, as the French certainly believe, than the Montreal region's unique terroir helps one understand how and why the culture here is distinctive, and why it's so different from that of France. In other words, Montreal's most European qualities might not actually be where people see them.

A case in point: gravlax.



As Alan Davidson has outlined, gravlax originated in Sweden in medieval times. The first references to the dish come in the way of surnames and are based on the Scandinavian custom of naming someone according to their profession or métier. The name itself combines the Swedish word for salmon with a word signifying burial, indicating the traditional manner used in the production of gravlax. Thus, records for one Olafuer Gravlax who lived in Jämtland back in 1348 suggest that gravlax was being manufactured in that region according to tradition--which involved burying the salmon, or other fish, in barrels or in holes in the ground, then letting it ferment--at least as far back as the mid-14th century. There were essentially two varieties of gravlax--one which was allowed to ferment for a matter of days, while the other was cured for months. The terms gravlax and surlax appear to have been interchangeable for both types, although "sour salmon" appears to have been the more appropriate descriptor for the long-cured variety. Of course, the modern process for making gravlax is much simpler and much less involved than either the short-cure or long-cure versions that were traditional--burial is unnecessary, and you need only cold-cure the salmon, or other fish, for 24-36 hours to get a good result.

Now, the fact that gravlax has become a featured item on menus around town [the photo above features a gravlax plate I recently had at Reservoir that consisted of Zubrowka-cured salmon, roasted potatoes, fresh greens, and Zubrowka-laced sour cream, just one of the many reasons we feel Reservoir is the city's best brunch spot at the moment], is not exactly unprecedented within the current North American dining scene. Gravlax has been having a bit of a revival among North America's top chefs in recent years, largely because of the freedom the dish affords--as the website for the Swedish Embassy in Washington, D.C. puts it, somewhat stiffly, "Gravlax... gives plenty of choices to follow your own preference of flavors... Have fun with it." The difference here is that salmon is native to the region and has been a staple ever since the region was first settled (in fact, salmon is certainly one of the reasons the region was settled in the first place), and that, similarly, the curing of salmon has been an important part of the culture here for hundreds and hundreds of years, long before Cartier charted the St. Lawrence. In other words, gravlax may not be native to the region--although, who knows, the Iroquois Nation may very well have had their own version of gravlax in addition to the smoked and wind-dried forms of curing they were using--but it fits in well with the local culture for exactly the same reasons that it took hold in the Scandinavian world. What makes things interesting is that this parallel culture of salmon fishing and salmon curing was first developed through the interaction (I'm being diplomatic) of non-Northern Europeans with indigenous peoples.

With all of this mind, I set about starting to experiment with gravlax myself just the other day. Inspired by my friend Caro's father's gravlax, and by Davidson's claim that "the preparation of gravlax is customarily one of the household duties allocated to men," I'd been wanting to try my hand at making some for quite some time. I also wanted to develop a recipe that would finally make good my Maldon salt promise. The results? You'll just have to be patient. I'm working on a 48-60 hour curing period.

aj

Note: the icicles photograph at the top wasn't taken this weekend, but it could have been.

The Brioche Tests, pt. 1

This year hasn't been much of a winter by Montreal standards. We haven't really had those extended periods of near-arctic -20˚ C weather that make wintering in Montreal so, well, exhilarating. We keep talking to the old-timers in our neighborhood, asking them if they've ever seen anything like it. They all seem to agree that the seasons are out of whack these days. Just how warm has it been? Well, it hasn't really been "warm", but we haven't really needed to put the heat into overdrive this year like we usually do. We've just been moving our portable space heater around the apartment when we need it, and sporadically at that. That being said, if you're feeling nostalgic, you could always bake yourself some bread. Sure, once the oven gets turned on you'll be able to benefit from the oven's ambient heat and you might even find your apartment overly warm, but up until you actually place that dough in the oven you're going to need to provide a nice, warm environment for you to be able to work the dough with ease and for the dough to rise properly. Anyone gives you guff, just tell them, "Step off. It's for the dough, man." The bill won't come for a while, your kitchen will get filled with an amazing aroma, and you'll be able to reminisce about those overheated winter days of yore.

There is nothing I like more than toasting a piece of brioche and eating it with butter and jam. The only thing that's better, perhaps, is a fresh brioche with butter, jam, coffee, and a couple of soft-boiled eggs. In either case, the problem is that I haven't found a brioche in Montreal that's to my liking. They're all too dry, too bready. When I want brioche, I don't want something with the flavor and consistency of white bread with a bit of butter in it. I want a croissant-like bread, something so decadent that when you butter it people might raise an eyebrow. I knew I'd have to make it myself. Probably a few times, just to be sure.

My first test is from Rose Levy Beranbaum's The Bread Bible. In her preamble she claimed that this brioche is "intensely buttery." She goes on to say that if you want even more butter, you can increase the amount from 4 oz. to 6 oz. I threw all caution into the wind and went for the 6 oz., blatantly breaking The First Rule of Recipe Testing--"Never do a variation if you haven't tried the standard."--in the process.

In most of her breads, Beranbaum uses a sponge, one that she ages anywhere from 1 1/2 to 24 hours. This ending up drawing out the process of making this loaf over three days, but not much time was spent actually working on it. While the dough was rising, you could smell the butteriness in the air, but that was nothing compared to when I actually baked it. The house was thick with the rich smell of butter. When I removed the loaf from the oven, it took all my willpower not to tear into it. Willpower, and the thought of burning my hands and mouth as I devoured it greedily in the kitchen alone. And the guilt and remorse that would inevitably follow. Beranbaum warns that you must let the loaf rest at least 2 hours after baking or you will somehow ruin it. Probably because it would collapse, or something. I didn't want to find out, so I left it to cool on a rack.

Rose Levy Beranbaum's Brioche

[sponge]

2 tbsp water, at room temperature
1 tbsp sugar
1/4 tsp instant yeast
1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1 large egg

Mix the above in a bowl with a whisk until smooth.

[dough]

1 cup + 1 1/2 tbsp flour
2 tbsp sugar
1 1/4 tsp instant yeast
1/2 tsp salt

2 large eggs, cold
4 oz. unsalted butter, very soft * (or 6 oz. for the butter-crazed)

Mix the flour, sugar, salt and yeast together, then sprinkle it over the sponge. Wrap with plastic wrap and let sit 1/2-2 hours. (Or 1 hours, then move it into the fridge for up to 24 hours. Remove it from the fridge 1 hour before you want to continue with the dough.)

Put the dough into the bowl of a mixer, add the 2 eggs and mix with the hook on low speed. When it is smooth, raise the speed to medium and beat 2 min. Scrape down the sides and beat for 5 min. more. Add the butter a spoonful at a time, letting it get mixed it before adding more. (This took a while for me since I have no microwave to soften my butter. See note *.) The dough will be shiny and sticky. Place it in an oiled bowl, oil the top, cover with plastic wrap and let rise until doubled, about 2 hours. Place it in the fridge and chill it 1 hour. Deflate the dough and return it to the fridge for another hour. Place the dough on a well-floured surface and press it into a rectangle. Fold it twice, as if it was a letter, then fold it again. Round the corners and dust it lightly. Wrap it in plastic wrap and place in a bag. Chill it in the fridge 6-24 hours. At this point, you might as well leave it overnight and finish it the next day.

Remove the dough from the fridge and shape it into a loaf. Place it in a greased brioche mold and cover with plastic wrap. Let rise until the dough reaches the top of the pan, about 2 hours.

Preheat the oven to 350°F 30 min. before baking. Place a baking stone or a sheet on the lowest rack. Glaze the loaf with 1 egg yolk mixed with 1 tsp. milk. Bake 35-40 min., or until the interior of the loaf reaches 190°F. Let it cool 10 min. in the mold, then place on a rack and cool 2 hours.

* I must be one of the only people in the world without a microwave. I left my butter out all night but it was still hard-ish in the morning. I ended up having to squeeze it in my hands to soften it. Not the best method, but it worked.



The result was a brioche better than any either of us had ever had--anywhere. Light, rich, sumptuous--buttering it was out of the question, even for me. It had a delicate crumb, and kept perfectly fine on the counter, cut side down, until the next morning when we finished it for breakfast. This will definitely be a hard act for brioche #2 to follow.

Oh, yeah. As I was preparing the brioche yesterday it was as if the cats could tell something really decadent was happening: they went into their signature "Could we be any happier?" pose (actually, I think this one was one of their "Could we be any happier?"/"Could you please get that camera out of here?" poses).



You should have seen the pose I struck after I had my first bite of that brioche.

m

The things people will do...

There I was, sitting at work, minding my own business, reading my daily assortment of e-mail, when I got tipped off to some very strange Montreal food news indeed by one of our loyal readers. Remember Simcha's? Well, it seems some folks got permission from Simcha Leibovich's niece to shoot a video inside the now-abandoned premises of the once-great Plateau grocery. The idea was to celebrate the man (and Fanny, too, presumably) by shooting a documentary/homage/"posthumous pickle party" on-site. The gathering ended with the assembled party liberating a barrel of Simcha's legendary pickles and triumphantly rolling it across the street to Restaurant The Main...



You know how these things are.

At the time that this news was first reported, the idea was that Simcha's finest would be available off-menu to anyone who asked. While they lasted, those in the know could have a Simcha's with their smoked meat instead of one of The Main's standard run-of-the-mill dill pickles. Readers/Simcha's fanatics were urged to hurry on down to "experience the last batch." Problem is, when people did start to go on down they were told that Simcha's pickles were, in fact, not available. When they asked why, the line they got was that the barrel was being donated to local benevolent organization Sun Youth (?). When this unfortunate news came over the wire, readers/Simcha's fanatics were instructed to "speak to Peter." Hopefully he would sort things out, we were told. Intrigued by the intrigue, I passed by The Main on my way home from work. I wasn't going to miss out on my chance, no matter how remote. When I went in I was happy to see my favorite waitress was there--the one who often works the late shift with the Shawinigan Red hair. I took her presence to be a good omen. I asked her about Simcha's pickles and she gave me an uncharacteristic exasperated air. It was clear she'd been asked about them a few times already. Not wanting to break the bad news to me herself, she deferred to the smoked meat jockey behind the counter. He confirmed that awful rumor: the owner had decided to donate the barrel of pickles to charity (??). The barrel was due to be delivered to Sun Youth. When I asked him why, he told me he wasn't sure.

An untimely death. A late-night posthumous pickle party. A moonlight barrel-rolling procession. A clandestine magic pickle sale. A mysterious and inexplicable charitable donation. This town is truly bizarre sometimes.

My copy of Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase & Fable has the following definition for the listing "Relic, Christian": "The corpse of a saint, or any part thereof; any part of his clothing; or anything ultimately connected with him" (my emphasis). Montreal is not the city it was 45 years ago or so. Post-Quiet Revolution, we find our saints and our relics in the most unlikely of places.

aj

p.s.--Finding this a little hard to believe? You can read the abovementioned thread here. Or you can just go to The Main and ask for "Simcha's pickles." One look will say it all.

Lazy Monday

All right, maybe "Lazy Monday Night" would have been more appropriate, but it just didn't have the same ring to it.



Ever since our friend Jesper posted a comment on the subject a couple of weeks back, we’ve been obsessed with preparing a dish utilizing the "laziest simmer" imaginable. We haven’t gotten around to making such a dish yet, but today we felt like cooking something nice for dinner, so we leafed through a couple of the cookbooks we’ve had kicking around in recent weeks, before finally settling on a recipe that made use of a fairly lazy simmer (a fairly lazy simmer for a work night, at least). The book we turned to was Tom Colicchio’s Think Like a Chef, which is yet another one of the books we’ve had on loan from our friend Étienne for an ungodly amount of time now, and which, apparently, is among his favorite cookbooks. And the recipe we turned to was Colicchio’s Slow-Braised Chicken with Artichokes. We’ve really enjoyed reading Think Like a Chef. It’s organized in a manner I’d never encountered before, with sections entitled Techniques, Studies, Trilogies, Component Cooking, and A Few Favorites, and while the book as a whole is very attractive indeed, chock-full of tempting recipes of all sorts, we’ve been particularly intrigued by the Studies and Trilogies sections, which involve thinking creatively with particular foundational ingredients or particular combinations of ingredients, encouraging you to develop a repertoire with these set ingredients. We made a few minor changes to Colicchio’s Slow-Braised Chicken—out of necessity more than anything else—just enough to warrant a slight name change, but we really liked the looks of the recipe so we tried to stay as true to it as possible. Here goes:

Lazily Braised Chicken with Artichokes

2 tbsp olive oil
salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 chicken legs
4 chicken thighs
1 large yellow onion, peeled and cut into eighths
3 carrots, peeled and cut into fourths
3 celery stalks, peeled and cut into fourths
4 garlic cloves, peeled
4 sprigs of fresh thyme plus additional for garnish
1/4 cup Italian parsley, minced
1 1/4 cups chicken stock
4 braised artichokes (recipe follows)
2 tbsp unsalted butter

Preheat your oven to 350° F. Heat the oil in a large ovenproof skillet (we used our large cast-iron pan) over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Salt and pepper the chicken on both sides, then brown the chicken, about 7 minutes per side. We were able to do this in one batch because our pan is plenty big enough, but you may have to do this in batches. When your chicken pieces have been browned, transfer them to a plate.

Pour off some of the fat, leaving just enough to coat the skillet (you’ll need about 2 tbsp worth to do this). Add the onion, carrots, celery, and a little salt. Cook over medium heat, stirring from time to time, until the vegetables soften and begin to brown, about 15 minutes. Add the garlic and half of the herbs and cook for 3 to 5 minutes more. Arrange the chicken in the skillet, skin-side up, on top of the vegetables.

Add enough stock to come up to but not over the chicken and bring it to a simmer on top of the stove. Transfer the skillet to the oven and simmer lazily, uncovered, for 1 1/2 hours, adding more stock if the pan begins to look dry.

[Note: here, if you’re not still busy with the Braised Artichokes, you’ve got a while to relax. In fact, you’ve got just enough time to bust out some wine, some crackers and cheese, and do some reading. We know. We tried it.]

Add the artichokes, the remaining herbs, and the butter. Cook for another 15 minutes, basting the chicken frequently. When the chicken is done it will be very tender and well browned, and the braising liquid will have thickened. Serve the chicken with the braising liquid and vegetables, along with rice or greens or some other side dish, and garnish with additional fresh herbs.

Serves 4

Artichokes Braised in Olive Oil and White Wine

3 lemons
8 large artichokes
1 medium yellow onion, peeled
2 small leeks, rinsed, tops trimmed, green outer leaves discarded, and chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
2 small carrots, peeled
2 slices of bacon (optional)
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
salt
4 garlic cloves, peeled
freshly ground black pepper
2 bay leaves
4 sprigs of fresh tarragon
4 sprigs of fresh thyme
1 3/4 cups dry white wine

Combine the juice of 2 1/2 of the lemons and 2 quarts of water in a large bowl. Trim each artichoke, removing the stem, leaves, and choke and rubbing from time to time with the remaining half lemon (to keep them from turning brown). Set the trimmed artichoke bottoms aside in the lemon water.

Cut the onion lengthwise then slice it thinly. Quarter the leeks lengthwise then cut them into thin strips 2 inches long. Thinly slice the celery and carrots.

Render the bacon for 2-3 minutes over medium heat, then add 1/4 cup of the oil. [If you’re not using bacon, just use the full amount of oil and heat it over medium heat.] Add the onion, leeks, celery, and carrots to the pot. Season them with salt, then reduce the heat to medium-low and slowly cook the vegetables, stirring from time to time, until they are tender but not brown, about 20 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for another minute.

Drain the artichokes and add them to the pot. Add a little more salt and pepper, enough olive oil to coat the artichokes (roughly 2 tbsp), the bay leaves, and half the tarragon and thyme. Mix gently and arrange the artichokes in a single layer. Pour in the wine and enough water to cover the artichokes, about 2 cups, and bring to a simmer. Partially cover the pot, reduce the heat, and gently simmer until the artichokes can be easily pierced with a knife, about 30 minutes.

Chop the remaining tarragon and thyme coarsely. Add the herbs to the artichokes and remove the pot from the heat. Allow artichokes to cook slowly in the braising liquid, then garnish with the aromatic vegetables (the carrots, leeks, etc.) and some additional herbs.

[Note: there’s no reason to discard the artichoke leaves entirely when you prepare your chokes. Do what we did. Put a bunch of the nicest leaves aside and steam them while you finish preparing the Braised Artichokes. When they’ve steamed to the point that they’re just tender, serve them with some mayonnaise as a dipping sauce. There’s no better snack while you’re lazily braising that chicken.]

These artichokes can be used in a variety of ways. They can be served as an appetizer or accompanying dish, either at room temperature, chilled, or warmed. They can also form a foundation for a dish such as the Slow-Braised Chicken recipe above, or anyone of a number of other dishes Colicchio lists: from Artichoke Vinaigrette, to Quick-Braised Striped Bass with Artichokes and Zucchini, to Artichoke and Tomato Gratin. Finally, Colicchio recommends using the braising liquid with imagination to make other dishes.

Vegetarians, omit the bacon and you have yourselves a delicate and wonderfully balanced side which is also ideal as a base for stews and pasta dishes (again, think Mediterranean), such as the Orecchiette with Artichokes, Cabbage, and Cranberry Beans included by Colicchio.

One last thing: you can use the same basic method outlined above to braise a whole host of other “white vegetables,” such as cauliflower, endive, fennel, or white asparagus instead of the artichokes. Colicchio urges his readers to stick to these white vegetables, though, “as green vegetables will turn brown.”


How did it all turn out? We loved the braised artichokes. Michelle was able to score some particularly nice artichokes from the restaurant, so we had ideal specimens to work with. Once you got past preparing the artichokes, which took a bit of time for novices like ourselves, the recipe was very manageable, even for a Monday night. And the Mediterranean feel of the final dish was just what the doctor ordered. I can’t wait until the artichokes flood the markets again later this year. This time we’ll be even more ready than ever. The chicken was flat-out fabulous. Everything turned out exactly according to plan, the vegetables were quite literally like candy (especially those carrots), and the chicken that resulted was succulent, juicy, perfectly seasoned, and literally falling off the bone, with a crispy, flavorful skin we haven’t seen since we visited the legendary Zuni Café in San Francisco this past summer. Very highly recommended.

aj

illustration: Artichaut Breton by Eduardo Ruiz, 1969

Hot off the presses!

Well, last year, "we" (Montreal, that is) were the darlings of the music world, with highly sensationalistic, attention-grabbing dispatches on the "Montreal music scene" showing up everywhere from Spin, to The New York Times, to CBC television's "The National"*. Is this our year to be the darlings of the culinary world? For only the sixth time in their history, Gourmet has devoted an issue to a single city, and that city, dear readers, is Montreal. While last year's music scene stories, by and large, were ridiculous (riddled with mistakes, misrepresentations, and even bald-faced lies), I'm happy to report that Gourmet's special issue is a well-balanced and thorough, if a bit glowing, portrait of Montreal and its food culture ca. 2006.**

What prompted this issue? Well, as Ruth Reichl explains, while devoting issues to Paris, Rome, San Francisco, New York, and London (the past laureates) was a great experience for all involved (how could it not be?), there was a sense of excitement to exploring Montreal that the staff at Gourmet hadn't felt before, much of which had to do with exploring a city on the move that was peripheral to the Grand Tour. "Everybody knows that those other cities are great places to visit," she writes, "you have a good idea what you'll find there. But Montreal... feels like a discovery. You won't be surprised to learn that each of us returned determined to convince our friends they had to go to Montreal."

What can you expect inside? Among other things, you'll find...
• write-ups on Jewish Montreal, Mile End, Old Montreal, Atwater and Jean-Talon Market, the Plateau, and, yes, even Montreal's music scene.
• an overview of the French-ness that underlies so many of the city's finest restaurants
• a nice story on Elena Faita, of Quincaillerie Dante fame
• and a very well-deserved feature on Martin Picard and his truly exceptional Au Pied de Cochon, for (as we've mentioned here before) no other restaurant captures what's exciting and unique about Montreal's contemporary food culture more effortlessly

Anything we would have done differently? Well, you'll just have to compare Gourmet's account of Montreal with ours and draw your own conclusions...

aj


*True to form, the CBC had the nerve to turn on the unconverted to the dynamism and energy of Montreal's Anglo music-making youthquake at the same time that they were busily slashing support for Montreal-based English-language music programming.

**I'm also happy to report that "...an endless banquet" received a very generous mention.

to the Lachine Canal and back (by way of Cluny)

We've been huge fans of Titanic for years now. We started going there on our lunch breaks five years ago or so when we were both working downtown, and our memories of a string of lunchtime get-togethers that we had with our friends D & S are among the fondest we have. There was something about beating a hasty exit from work, hopping on our bikes, having that death-defying ride down Beaver Hall, that nice summer weather (in my memories, it was always summer), then meeting up with our late-rising colleagues, that spelled freedom. Then there was the food. Always fresh, always thoughtful, always delicious--a perfect antidote to the poor fare that dominates downtown. I appreciated the atmosphere, too: bustling. Given our affection for Titanic, you would have thought that we would have run when they started serving breakfast, lunch, and the occasional dinner (two nights a week) at their latest creation, Cluny, when it opened a few years ago. In fact, today was our very first visit. We were on our way back downtown after paying a visit to the truly amazing St-Armand paper works, purveyors of the finest handmade papers, the imprint under which master papermaker David Carruthers has been operating since 1979,

before:


after:


when we decided, "why not have a truly amazing lunch?" We thought about going to Titanic, then decided it was time we paid Cluny a visit, especially because its setting--inside the post-industrial splendor of the Darling Foundry Building--seemed like the perfect way of following up our visit to the banks of the Lachine Canal, the cradle of Canadian industry.

The setting was perfect--high ceilings, massive windows letting in some much-needed sunlight, and counter service from behind a big, beautiful counter--and the food was right on the mark. My associates--Michelle and K--were less crazy about the concept--something one might call cafeteria-nouveau--which involves trays and a fair amount of self-service, but I like it. Along with the communal and semi-communal tables, it makes for an unfussy ambiance. [For the record, Titanic, too, has adopted this system over the last year, but I prefer the way it works at Cluny. It just fits better with the layout of the place.] I had a panini caprese with a hearty potato salad (complete with corn niblets and cornichons), while Michelle and K had the special of the day, chicken à la Mexicaine, roasted beets, a romaine salad, and a hot flour tortilla. We finished things off with three Café Union espressos (yes!) and an order of the drop-dead gorgeous braised pear and crab apple combo.



The crab apple we had wasn't at its prime, but the pear sure was, and the rest of our spread was just we needed on a blustery winter day.

The sun may have been shining, but we knew we were in for another wild ride as soon as we got back out on the sidewalk (the wind was gusting up to 110 km/h today), so before we braved the streets again we bundled up and braced ourselves.



We'll be back, Cluny. We're sorry it took us so long to visit.

Papeterie St-Armand, 3700 St-Patrick, (514) 931-8338 [note: the St-Armand paper works are only open to the public on Fridays]

Cluny, 257 Prince St. (corner of Ottawa), (514) 866-1213

aj

The Hungarian New Wave Starts at Home

Just as Montreal was once a respectable city for rye bread, it was also once an important hub for Canada’s Hungarian immigrant population and, as a result, a city with its fair share of Hungarian restaurants, delis, and bakeries. It goes without saying that the virtual disappearance of these two aspects of Montreal’s former food culture is no mere coincidence. Again, it’s not that you can’t find Hungarian food in Montreal—one of the city’s best boucheries/charcuteries is the venerable Charcuterie Hongroise, which has been selling their exceptional sausages, smoked bacon, and other specialties on the Main for some 50 years now. When it comes to actual sit-down restaurants, the metro area has a few, but it’s safe to say that there isn’t a whole lot of competition in this department anymore. Gone are the days when Hungarian establishments were clustered along a good portion of St. Laurent Blvd., gone are the days when Hungarian-continental restaurants like Pam Pam (my parents’ favorite) graced the city’s downtown dining scene. When it comes to Hungarian restaurants and their dwindling numbers, though, it strikes me that Montreal isn’t alone among North American cities. It might just be my imagination, but it seems to me that Hungarian restaurants were much more of a fixture 20-30 years ago (maybe it’s just because I was spending so much more time in the Goulash Belt back then). What happened? Did tastes just shift away from Hungarian, and, if so, why? Did the clichéd trappings of your average Hungarian restaurant—the mandatory ersatz beef goulash, the strolling gypsy violins, etc.—finally suffocate the cuisine? One would have thought that the fall of the Iron Curtain might have triggered a new wave of Hungarian restaurants across North America. Maybe it has elsewhere, but if it has I haven’t read anything about it. It certainly hasn’t in Montreal. If ever there was a cuisine just begging to be revisited and revitalized it was Hungarian cuisine. We’re constantly being told how young and brash and exciting a city Budapest is (and those of us who’ve been there know that it is). I say, bring on the Hungarian New Wave!

In the meantime, you’ll have to take matters into your own hands as we did the other night. Disappointed by the last “chicken paprikash” I had in a restaurant, and having been eager to experiment with some of the Hungarian recipes we had at home, I went out to the store to get a fresh tin of hot Hungarian paprika, Pride of Szeged brand, and we rolled up our sleeves and got to work.

Now the recipe I chose came from Saveur’s special issue of Food for the Holidays (Winter 2004), and it came under the unpretentious and somewhat vague title Paprika Chicken. The write-up mentioned only that it was a “home-style version of an iconic Hungarian dish,” but it didn’t specify which dish in particular. You see, things get a bit complicated when it comes to those dishes that have become know as the classics of Hungarian cuisine. First off, the Hungarian equivalent to the Anglicism “goulash” has nothing to do with stew, it’s the word for cattle driver (gulyás). This word, in turn, is associated with a soup (not a stew) called gulyás leves, meaning “soup of the cattle driver” or “soup of the cowboy,” a soup that bears little resemblance to “Hungarian goulash.” What is known internationally as “Hungarian goulash” is known in the motherland as either pïrkïlt or paprikás. Now, Hungarian cattlemen, shepherds, and pig herders had been making dishes involving cubes of meat, onions and spices (like “Hungarian goulash”) for at least 150-300 years before the arrival of paprika, and one common version involved roasting the meat over an open fire until it reached the point just prior to burning, acquiring a slightly burned surface (the quality of which became known as pïrkïl). According to Alan Davidson, although paprika was mentioned in a Hungarian dictionary as early as 1604—not too long after its ancestor pepper (Capsicum Annuum) was brought to Europe from the New World—it was not until the early 19th century that paprika took hold in Hungary (by way of Turkey and Bulgaria) and that the Hungarian people reinvented their cuisine, practically eliminating the use of ginger and black pepper in the process. When they experimented with this new spice, Hungarians discovered they could use it to reach the point of pïrkïl, flavor-wise, without actually burning the meat, and that, in fact, they preferred this variation to most ways of cooking meat that had preceded it. This new dish became known as pïrkïlt, paprikás if sour cream had been added to it, it was used to cook beef along with veal, pork, rabbit, and poultry, and it quickly became the national dish, the dish that vaulted paprika to the status of “national condiment.” What does this all mean? Well, I guess it means that the dish we made was in actuality a pïrkïlt because although sour cream is listed, it only appears in the form of a dollop alongside the dish. That being the case, you can understand why Saveur might have fudged the name a bit (in fact, some of you out there might be wishing that I had, too).

What’s important here is that the dish is a stunner. Simmer down that sauce and it turns into a thing of beauty even though it doesn’t involve a roux in any way, shape, or form (I was a bit surprised). The mix of paprika powders gives the dish an impressive depth, of course, and feel free to play around with the ratio a bit if you prefer your dishes a little spicier, but the real surprise was the effect of the green pepper, which gave the sauce a subtle flavor that I’d never been able to place before. It’s traditional to serve this dish with spätzle-like dumplings (what my Baba used to call by the Slovak word halusky), but almost as classic is the combo with egg noodles, and that’s the path we followed this time around. Lastly, that sour cream/milk mixture might seem a bit arbitrary, but it was worth doing—it improved the consistency and mellowed it out considerably.

Without any further ado:

Paprika Chicken

1/4 cup vegetable oil
3 medium yellow onions, peeled and finely chopped
3 cloves of garlic, crushed then peeled
2 tsp sweet Hungarian paprika
1/2 tsp hot Hungarian paprika
3 fresh or canned plum tomatoes (given the season, I used canned tomatoes)
2 green bell peppers, cored, seeded, and diced finely, or, preferably, some other tastier green peppers (like Cubanelles or Italian fryers), treated in the same way
2 tsp salt
1 cup water
2 3.5-lb chickens, rinsed and cut into 4 pieces each
1/2 cup sour cream
2 tbsp milk

Heat the oil in large pot over medium heat. Add onions and cook until golden, about 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium-low, add garlic, the sweet and hot paprika, tomatoes, bell pepper, salt, and 1 cup of water and stir well. Add the chicken, cover, and simmer until tender, about 45 minutes, turning chicken once about halfway through (and possibly rearranging the pieces to ensure that they get evenly cooked, as I did). Remove the chicken pieces from the pot and set them aside.

Strain the sauce through a fine strainer into a bowl, making sure to press down on the vegetables to squeeze every last drop of liquid out of them. Discard the vegetable solids. Return the sauce to the pot, increase the heat to medium, and simmer until the sauce has thickened, about 20-30 minutes. Meanwhile, when the chicken is cool enough to handle, remove and discard the skin and bones, keeping the breasts and thighs intact (to be honest, we weren’t that methodical about this step—we didn’t care if it resulted in a somewhat messier meal, we were all friends and family). Return chicken to the pot, reduce heat to low, and keep warm, tossing the chicken in the sauce so that it gets coated evenly.

Mix the sour cream and the milk together in a small bowl and set aside.

Serve the chicken pieces with egg noodles, a ladle full of that amazing sauce, and a dollop of the sour cream/milk mixture. Bread and salad is all you need to make a meal of this.

Serves 4 to 6.

By the way, we’re compiling variations on traditional Hungarian pïrkïlt and paprikás dishes. We’d be ecstatic if any you out there would send us your home recipes.

aj

Andrew Dalby, Dangerous Tastes: The Story of Spices
Alan Davidson, The Penguin Companion to Food

From Finland with Love

Know anyone who's heading to Finland anytime soon? Be nice to them. Maybe they'll bring you back some of that lovely Finnish design work. If you've been really good, who knows, maybe they'll bring you back one of those unbelievable iittala casseroles we're so fond of.

Otherwise, there's always this handsome set of Finnish recipe magnets. Heavy-duty, tasteful matte finish, nice colors, an ultra-minimalist approach to the recipe, and just look at that font! Brilliant. We've always had our good reasons for going to the fridge. Ever since our friends G & S got us this set of magnets, we've had 6 more. Of course, whenever I look at these, they also make me rue the fact that there's so little good design in this part of the world. Montreal prides itself on its good design and it's not without its gems, but, unfortunately, most of them date back about 40 years (those crazy mosaics and lightboxes that grace the walls of some of our Métro stations come to mind).

Anyway, back to the magnets. If only we knew Finnish. Or, rather, if only Babelfish knew Finnish. I did manage to decipher the red one, though:

lettutaikina = crêpe batter
2 munaa = 2 eggs
5 dl maitoa = 5 dl milk
2 dl jauhoja = 2 dl flour
1.5 tl suolaa = 1.5 tl (tsp) salt
1 rkl voita = 1 rkl (tbsp) butter (melted, presumably)

Perfect for Pancake Day (February 28 this year).

I wish I could tell you exactly where to tell your friends to go and purchase them, but I can't. Maybe G or S can fill us in on the details.

Worst comes to worst, your friends could always bring you back some salmiakki.

That is, assuming you know someone who's going to Finland.

aj

Top Ten #6

1. Le Samouraï, dir. Melville

2. "Saturday afternoon bread"

3. cranberry mostarda and making mustard from scratch

4. Ris Paul Ric, Purple Blaze

5. Maldon salt

6. Caché, dir. Haneke

7. Seville orange and whisky marmalade



8. Le Paysan de Paris, Aragon

9. Simple Cooking, ed. John Thorne

10. dinner for two

02/14/06