I had dinner at American Craft tonight. I promise this isn't a restaurant review but it's going to sound an awful lot like a restaurant review.
I've been waiting for this place to open. Found out about it in a Beer Advocate link on Twitter, with the restaurant-to-be billing itself as "a full service restaurant and bar celebrating the best of artisanal American cuisine" helmed by a chef who has "a strong commitment and dedication to local products and ingredients and will source as many items as he can items being sourced from local Massachusetts farms". Cool! Sign me up!
I was pleased to see on the menu that they have two of my three litmus tests for are-you-a-good-chef: Burgers, and Roast Chicken. (Missing: Fried egg.) If a chef can take something so mind-numbingly basic as a hamburger or roasted whole chicken or a fried egg, and can nail the preparation so spot-on that the simple becomes sublime -- well, then that there is a good chef.
If it's on the menu then I add a fourth challenge: The Reuben. The reuben is a sandwich that's so taken for granted it's almost impossible to find a good one. I think people have forgotten why a reuben exists. It's a house of cards ready to fall apart but it doesn't. It's about precarious balance. It's about taking a lean meat -- corned beef -- and adding more fat -- dressing, cheese -- then cutting through the fat with a tangy bite -- sauerkraut, rye. The textures should be a meld of crunchy-chewy-creamy. The sandwich should not ever under any circumstances leave you anything less than full-up to the brim. It's a hefty meal.
I was excited to see a reuben on the American Craft menu. But wait... huh? They spelled it "Rueben". That can't be right... (googled it)... nope, it's not right. Reuben. R-E-U-B-E-N. Reuben! Unfortunately this starts me off on the wrong foot. It shouldn't matter -- and I'm not quite sure why it matters SO much to me -- but it does. If you're going to call your take on it "Classic", well gosh darn it the least you can do is to spell it right!
Enough already, let's eat. So I get to American Craft on opening night. Tonight. I like the space. It's laid out well, the chi flows. Two bars. I plopped myself down at the one with the long line of taps & the beer menu chalkboard rising high above. Yes, please! I knew I was going to try the reuben so I ordered a beer I thought would complement the meal. Pretty Things! A local brew I've followed on Twitter but I hadn't ever tried yet. Let's have a pint of the St. Botolph's Town rustic brown ale. I really don't know the style but I'm taking an educated guess that it'll cut through the richest parts of the reuben to bring out more of the tang. I think I was right b/c the St. Botolph's has this interesting hop bitter that's... mellow? Like something that you think will be sharp then it rounds out smoothly at the end.
I'll never know if St. Botolph's pairs well with a reuben because the American Craft "Rueben" ain't no reuben. It's a good sandwich, sure. And hefty, absolutely! Basically it's a mound of corned beef on rye with some melted swiss. The Russian dressing & sauerkraut are nearly imperceptible. The bread is a light rye, not the signature pumpernickel, and it begs to be grilled rather than toasted. All the components are there but the whole is less than the sum of its parts.
For the record, the fries are awesome. French fries need to get on my litmus test list because it's hard to find awesome fries. They nailed these spot-on. Crisp on the out, tender on the in, flavorful all around with a just-right sprinkle of salt. I would have loved a side of mayo for dipping (that's just me) but the ketchup was really good. I don't know if it's house-made. Typically I find that mass-market ketchup is much too salty, house-made is too tomato-y, so I never bother. This one was just right and I plowed through it.
Back to the reuben.
Let's take some contrasting cases-in-point from a couple of my favorite Toronto restaurants.
Beer Bistro: Duck Confit Reuben. That's right, you heard me. Duck Confit Reuben. This is from the folks who bring us the fabulous this-shouldn't-work-but-it-does Duck Confit Corn Dogs. That's another story. In spite of the everything-wrong-about-it sound of it, I would absolutely call this a reuben. The duck confit acts as cured meat and rich dressing all rolled into one. Brilliant! Unfortunately the whole was also less than the sum of the parts -- literally. The presentation was utterly confusing and I had NO IDEA how to eat it. The duck confit and cheese were sandwiched together by thin pumpernickel toasts nested on top of braised tart red cabbage. Do I pick it up? If so, where does the cabbage go, and HOW? Nope that doesn't work. Do I eat it with fork and knife? The bread is too crisp and collapses in a crumbled mess. Nope! That doesn't work, either. I'm telling you, it was maddening. The flavors and textures were all PERFECT and I couldn't get it all in one bite. The composition was (for me) a failure.
Hoof Cafe: Schnitzel. This is something that's not billed as a reuben but I'd absolutely call it a reuben. The components are all there and meld together perfectly. The fried tongue acts both as cured meat and a substitute for the crunch of toasted bread. It's dressed with a whole-mustard creme fraiche that acts as cheese, dressing and sauerkraut all rolled into one. The only questionable aspect here is the bread which is a complete fail as a sandwich bread and a total win in the flavor/texture department. It's a house-made no-knead bread that disintegrates two bites in but remains an integral component with its chewy texture and slightly sour-yeasty taste. OK, I'm biased toward the Hoof Cafe. Trust me on this, though, the schnitzel is really a reuben.
But really. What's the best truly classic reuben? Let me start hitting up the many Jewish delis here in the Boston area and I'll find out. Or maybe I'll go to NYC on this quest. Stay tuned.
Back to American Craft.
I suspect that American Craft is one of those that's a great brew pub with good (not great) food. I'll give it another shot and take my son there for a dueling-burgers night. If they do a good burger I'll call it a righteous eatery. Jury's still out on that. It's definitely a fabulous bar and I hope it lives long and prospers.
Post script: Pretty Things beer! Omigosh! SO GOOD! In addition to the St. Botolph's, I had the Baby Tree (belgian quad -- no idea what this is) which was like a sour-cherry cordial with a bit of fizz and I know this sounds awful but it's GOOD! Very unique. I feel like it would go awesome with food but I couldn't quite figure out what would be best. Maybe a piquant aged sheeps-milk cheese? Try some and let me know.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
"Oh my god that's good beer!"
Yesterday was the Super Bowl. Congratulations, Saints!!! I'm not much for football but it looks like it was a good game. I wasn't riveted to the T.V. but was fortunate enough to catch the two most memorable moments: the onside kick & The Interception. Maybe there was more than one interception in the game; if you saw it, you know which one I'm talking about. It was cool. I can only imagine what it feels like to a professional sports player to have a moment like that. I imagine it's the best feeling ever.
I like the Super Bowl because I can make food, lots of food, for no real reason whatsoever other than: that's what people do on this day. I like having an excuse to cook a mountain of food. When my kids had their Bar & Bat Mitzvah, I made dinner the night before for an intimate family gathering... of 30 people. It was a real highlight for me. OK, the REAL highlight was seeing each of my kids on the bima the next day, each of them shining in the spotlight in their moment, each of them excelling in their unique talents in front of the congregation with me beaming the whole time. I love my kids. The point I'm trying to make now is that I love to cook for a crowd.
For Super Bowl Sunday, I wasn't cooking for a crowd. I was cooking for myself, another adult (my ex-wife #2) and one teenager (my son). I didn't let that stop me from making a mountain of food. My intention was to make short ribs, pork ribs, jerk wings, guacamole, key lime pie & lemon meringue pie. I can't say it's the most cohesive menu but all of this was stuff that I wanted to make. I didn't end up making the wings or key lime pie and another teenager (my daughter) joined us. It was still a lot of food.
I also had gotten lots of beer. Lots. Toronto has several really good beer bars and over the months of travel I'd taken the opportunity to sample all sorts of brews from all over, preferably local/Canadian, within wide range of alcohol percentage. I was particularly enamored of the aged barley wines from the cellar list at the Beer Bistro on King at Yonge, such as Rogue's Old Crustacean which has a depth and richness of dried fruit with a strong kick of alcohol cutting through it. I didn't have anything quite so indulgent yesterday but I made sure there was a wide variety to choose from, the equivalent of about 16 pints.
For myself and one other adult. I have quantity issues.
I busied myself with making the food, going at it all with an uncharacteristic laissez-faire. The good thing about not having very many people to feed is that the pressure is off; I don't have to hit every note spot on. Some part of the meal can fail -- deeply, miserably fail -- and it doesn't really matter. There's something else to eat. So I'm going at it with the cooking, working on multiple components for multiple dishes depending on my mood in the moment and my best guesstimate about the timing required to bring it all together at least by halftime, with guacamole and a fine cheese plate to tide things over. Like I said, it wasn't a very cohesive menu.
The game starts and it's time for a beer. I asked X2 to pick out a beer for herself and one for me and I really didn't have a preference for opening round, surprise me. I had gotten an assortment of Great Divides and she poured me a Hibernation Ale into a pint glass from my collection of pint glasses. (I collect pint glasses and coffee mugs; I have nowhere to put a new acquisition for either collection but that won't stop me.) The beer had this beautiful deepest-deep amber color, very pleasing to the eye. I took a moment to take that in and Cheers! took a sip. Oh my GOD that's a good beer! Every so often I get a taste of something that's so unbelievably good it feels important and it's not quite that time stands still but in a way it's kind of like that. I know what you're thinking. It's a beer, get over it. But truly folks, this might be the best beer I've ever had. At the very least it's the most enjoyably drinkable. What hits me first is the rich caramely sweetness that's somehow not too sweet, followed by some longer, smooth notes of a winter spice mix, ending with a hoppy bitter finish. Damn! I like that beer. I still had to keep on cooking a bit so I don't know this for sure but my instinct is that this beer goes great with food, food of the dark meat, rich sauces, potent cheese and chocolate variety, foods that I love. Stay tuned and I'll let you know. I plan on getting a few bottles to have around for those times at home when I can really indulge in the flavors of what I'm eating.
For the record, the stout-marinated short ribs and smokehouse-spice-rubbed pork ribs were pretty darn good, too. The glass of Hibernation Ale was empty by the time they were ready. So sad! The lemon meringue pie was not very good. This was attempt #2 at lemon meringue pie and after I finally nail it I'll write about it. However, there are some foods that elude me and lemon meringue pie might be one of them. Time will tell.
I like the Super Bowl because I can make food, lots of food, for no real reason whatsoever other than: that's what people do on this day. I like having an excuse to cook a mountain of food. When my kids had their Bar & Bat Mitzvah, I made dinner the night before for an intimate family gathering... of 30 people. It was a real highlight for me. OK, the REAL highlight was seeing each of my kids on the bima the next day, each of them shining in the spotlight in their moment, each of them excelling in their unique talents in front of the congregation with me beaming the whole time. I love my kids. The point I'm trying to make now is that I love to cook for a crowd.
For Super Bowl Sunday, I wasn't cooking for a crowd. I was cooking for myself, another adult (my ex-wife #2) and one teenager (my son). I didn't let that stop me from making a mountain of food. My intention was to make short ribs, pork ribs, jerk wings, guacamole, key lime pie & lemon meringue pie. I can't say it's the most cohesive menu but all of this was stuff that I wanted to make. I didn't end up making the wings or key lime pie and another teenager (my daughter) joined us. It was still a lot of food.
I also had gotten lots of beer. Lots. Toronto has several really good beer bars and over the months of travel I'd taken the opportunity to sample all sorts of brews from all over, preferably local/Canadian, within wide range of alcohol percentage. I was particularly enamored of the aged barley wines from the cellar list at the Beer Bistro on King at Yonge, such as Rogue's Old Crustacean which has a depth and richness of dried fruit with a strong kick of alcohol cutting through it. I didn't have anything quite so indulgent yesterday but I made sure there was a wide variety to choose from, the equivalent of about 16 pints.
For myself and one other adult. I have quantity issues.
I busied myself with making the food, going at it all with an uncharacteristic laissez-faire. The good thing about not having very many people to feed is that the pressure is off; I don't have to hit every note spot on. Some part of the meal can fail -- deeply, miserably fail -- and it doesn't really matter. There's something else to eat. So I'm going at it with the cooking, working on multiple components for multiple dishes depending on my mood in the moment and my best guesstimate about the timing required to bring it all together at least by halftime, with guacamole and a fine cheese plate to tide things over. Like I said, it wasn't a very cohesive menu.
The game starts and it's time for a beer. I asked X2 to pick out a beer for herself and one for me and I really didn't have a preference for opening round, surprise me. I had gotten an assortment of Great Divides and she poured me a Hibernation Ale into a pint glass from my collection of pint glasses. (I collect pint glasses and coffee mugs; I have nowhere to put a new acquisition for either collection but that won't stop me.) The beer had this beautiful deepest-deep amber color, very pleasing to the eye. I took a moment to take that in and Cheers! took a sip. Oh my GOD that's a good beer! Every so often I get a taste of something that's so unbelievably good it feels important and it's not quite that time stands still but in a way it's kind of like that. I know what you're thinking. It's a beer, get over it. But truly folks, this might be the best beer I've ever had. At the very least it's the most enjoyably drinkable. What hits me first is the rich caramely sweetness that's somehow not too sweet, followed by some longer, smooth notes of a winter spice mix, ending with a hoppy bitter finish. Damn! I like that beer. I still had to keep on cooking a bit so I don't know this for sure but my instinct is that this beer goes great with food, food of the dark meat, rich sauces, potent cheese and chocolate variety, foods that I love. Stay tuned and I'll let you know. I plan on getting a few bottles to have around for those times at home when I can really indulge in the flavors of what I'm eating.
For the record, the stout-marinated short ribs and smokehouse-spice-rubbed pork ribs were pretty darn good, too. The glass of Hibernation Ale was empty by the time they were ready. So sad! The lemon meringue pie was not very good. This was attempt #2 at lemon meringue pie and after I finally nail it I'll write about it. However, there are some foods that elude me and lemon meringue pie might be one of them. Time will tell.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Toronto: The Farewell Tour, Part 2
Night & Day
After the awesome dinner at Mill Street Brew Pub, I had an unrelenting fail of a 20-hour stretch in Toronto.
Let's see, where did we leave off?... Ah, yes. It's Thursday night and I'm drunk. I finally got to the hotel -- which, by the way, had no parking and it was hard to find an available lot in the neighborhood and this had already put me in a sour mood on the place -- and I stumbled into my room. Ew! I wasn't expecting much for the price but I was expecting clean. It wasn't. It was a mutant train-wreck of a room, smelling of sickly-sweet air freshener with a sticky fake wood formica floor that wasn't properly swept (why oh why did I have to move the rolling TV stand out of the way only to discover a nauseating pile of dust bunnies & hair?) and the teeny-tiniest bathroom you can imagine (if you've lived in an NYC apartment you can imagine) and the most uninviting slab of a bed. The heater had two settings: Sonic-boom blasting high & off. My choices were to freeze in silence or stay warm but go deaf. Since the bed didn't have a comforter I opted for warmth. It was a fitful night's sleep at best. I woke up completely hung over and completely miserable. My own damn fault, I know.
I spent an hour making sure I could check out early & get a refund for the second night. After that, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I didn't want to put my bare feet on the floor so I had to maneuver through getting showered & dressed in the teeny-tiny bathroom. This would have been amusing had I not been hung over and near-homicidal cranky. Eventually, mission accomplished. I got back in the car & drove to King/Yonge to hang out at the Starbucks & figure out what the hell was next. I found a spot, figured out the parking meter thing and schlepped myself over for a coffee and some internet. I knew the general plan for the day was to have lunch at Frank, tour the AGO, grab a drink at one spot then dinner at another. The first order of business was to find an affordable replacement hotel, which was quicker & easier than I thought (LOVE the internet). OK, the day's looking up! I got over to the hotel and was able to check in early. Super score! It was a relief beyond words to find a clean, spacious, sunny room waiting for me. Ahhh! They didn't have room in the hotel garage yet but maybe this was the universe telling me to take it easy and drive myself here & there rather than freezing my ass off walking. I happened to be coming up to Toronto for the bitterest-cold two days out of a ten-day stretch. I was prepared for this. But I was still completely hung over and more than happy to take the lazy way out for once.
The universe is funny that way. You think you know what's it's telling you and then...
I got to the AGO and felt all lucky to get a parking space right in front. It was late already, about 1:30; I'm starving for lunch and psyched to try out Frank, the chic cafe named after architect Gehry. (Aside: Wyborowa has a Gehry-designed vodka bottle. Very cool. Check it out.) Street parking was 3 hours but for some reason I couldn't set the meter for the max time. I chalked it up to fat, cold fingers.
Lunch at Frank was memorable, in part because I wish I wasn't there alone. Unlike most meals I've had in Toronto, I was seated here at a table rather than the bar. I had a nice view of the open kitchen and the admirably hard-working staff but I felt like the odd man out not having a hip-urban lunch companion to engage with in hip-urban artsy conversation. It was lonely. And I don't say that for sympathy but rather to point out that the fundamental joy in food for me is in the sharing. The food was very, very good. I got the crispy duck leg confit with a lovely Gamay red. You'll soon notice that I don't get wine very often. It seemed fitting on a cold, cold day when still a bit hung over from too much beer the night before. Plus it paired much better with the comforting wintry meal than I think any beer would have. The duck was beautifully done, seasoned right on point, both crispy on the outside as promised and perfectly fall off the bone tender throughout. I chuckled to myself that it was served with kale. Tip of the hat to Forex-Larry-Ellison-kale guy! It was an appreciated color balance in the presentation that I've found lacking in most of my Toronto meals. That's one thing I'll say about Boston/Cambridge chefs, they are generally more sophisticated as visual artists than Toronto chefs although there are notable exceptions (Reds) and, y'know, I'm not THAT well-traveled.
Meal done, I returned to the car to up the meter since it was previously cranky and didn't give me the max due to 5:30 PM. I plugged in some coins and felt like I was having some more fat-finger problems but finally got the ticket out and checked, yep, looks like 5:30 PM on the dot. Onward!
The AGO has a great collection. I opted out of the King Tut exhibit (in spite of having met the installation manager twice at beer bars a few months back) due to limited time, finances and attention span. I stuck to the main galleries. It's a beautiful museum. Of course it is! It's designed by Frank Gehry. I don't actually know that he designed the whole thing in & out but I'm taking an educated guess that he did. There's a main indoor courtyard area flanked by two wooden spiral staircases -- dynamic is the word that comes to mind -- and the coolest, most form-follows-function example of a handicap ramp you can imagine. Well, I'm not even sure you can imagine it. The flow of the galleries is a little wonky for me, I couldn't quite orient myself. This might have been the after-effect of viewing the art which was quite beautifully presented but a bit heavy on depictions of Christian martyrdom a.k.a. glorified sadistic torture. What's up with that?? Do I really want to see that saint get flayed? Can I take yet another gory crucifixion? This wasn't helping my hangover one bit. I needed some fresh air. Made my way over to the coat check, suited up & stepped out into the refreshing cold. Whew. Now to hop in the car and get on toward dinner.
Um... Where's the car?
You know that moment when you realize in your gut that something unpleasant has happened but it takes your head several more moments to catch up? So I'm looking across the street where I parked and, huh, isn't that odd there's not a single car there anymore. In fact, neither is mine... Uh... Shit! It hit me with a nearly-audible sickening thud that my awesome parking space was in a clear-it-out-for-rush-hour-traffic zone and that the meter rejecting my coins not from crankiness or fat fingers but because it was trying to tell me, You can't park here for that long. Abort! It's plainly stated on the signposts, too, although the hangover and the overabundance of do-this-don't-do-that placards conspired against any of this information making it to my conscious brain. If I even had a conscious brain that day, which I'm beginning to doubt. The kindly sympathetic woman at the AGO information desk gave me the lowdown in her gentlest don't-expect-the-best voice. Here's the address & phone number of the tow lot and you're best off taking a cab there, you'll be there in 5 minutes. I opted for the 20-minute walk, give me a chance to further clear my head in the bracing cold. My head was trying its best to be very unclear & very blame-y on the rest of me for screwing up so badly. Fail! So many little hints along the way & I missed them all! Nothing to be done about it now. I got to the tow lot, paid up for the towing & "storage" and stuffed the parking ticket into my wallet to be dealt with later. I tallied the damage.
Fuck! Parking just cost me $250.
I was at a turning point. I could a) attempt to push through the hangover and the depression and the bitter cold and stick to my plans anyway, dammit; or I could b) give up entirely and wallow in misery at the hotel for the rest of the night. I was leaning very heavily toward Plan B. I got in the car and made my way sloooooowly to the hotel garage. I contemplated stopping at Biff's for a drink to wait out the rush hour traffic but that would mean parking on the street and no thank you I wasn't going to do that. Even the hotel garage became a hostile, foreboding place with its impossibly narrow, tightly winding drive down to P4 where I finally -- finally! -- got the car to its final resting place for the evening. My pulse rate must have gone off the chart. So now what? I sat in the hotel room, still very heavily leaning toward Plan B.
Screw it. Do I give up that easy?? There's a third way to do this. I grabbed my notes & a feeble internet connection and decided, OK, one of the restaurants on my list is just a few minutes walk away which I can handle even in this cold so why don't I have a pleasant meal before turning in? Snap out of it, Jane, you can salvage this day! Which is exactly what I did.
Nota Bene, Queen Street West. Just what the doctor ordered. Things were already looking up a few sips into the Wellington Arkell Bitter, and totally back on track by the time the pulled suckling pig & boudin noir tart topped with a fried pork skin chip showed up. Hoo-ah! Whenever pork 3 ways is on the plate, I'm good. And this was very, very good. No haggling on presentation, not tonight. The pork was divine, tender as pulled pork should be, whether from a suckling pig or not. The plate was a beautiful balance of flavors and textures from the melty pork to the hearty boudin noir to the accompanying cabbage sautee and applesauce, a brilliant take on the traditional pork sides. The tart wasn't a tart as advertised but was a really big crispy/fluffy popover. This made me giddy! They didn't provide butter to slather on it & that detracted a little from the meal for me but not much. My spirit was restored. It's amazing how life is better when one is well fed! Heck yeah I'll take a look at the dessert menu. I was going for the chocolate cake when I noticed Riopelle on the cheese plate offerings. This is "the best cheese in Quebec" according to Denver Dave, which is another story entirely, but assuming there's a lot of cheese in Quebec I'm taking his recommendation. Words can't describe how perfect this cheese is. For one thing, it was served at the optimal temperature to be soft but not runny. It's a brie-like cheese but that's where the similarities end. I haven't been a fan of brie for years; it's rich but bland and most times I'd prefer a cultured butter on my crusty french bread. Back to the Riopelle. Somehow, the texture of the rind elevated the flavor of the cheese to heights I can't even begin to describe. The combination of that crumbly-creamy mouth-feel and the flavor nuances (grassy?) was truly divine. It soared. There's no other way to describe it. I skipped the crackers & dipped each precious sliver of cheese ever-so-lightly in the accompanying local honey. All the pent-up stress from my misadventures simply melted away. Poof!
I made my way back to the hotel room, completely satisfied. The meal had literally saved the day -- a miserable fail of a day which now rose like a Phoenix from the ashes. Food can do that for me like nothing else can.
After the awesome dinner at Mill Street Brew Pub, I had an unrelenting fail of a 20-hour stretch in Toronto.
Let's see, where did we leave off?... Ah, yes. It's Thursday night and I'm drunk. I finally got to the hotel -- which, by the way, had no parking and it was hard to find an available lot in the neighborhood and this had already put me in a sour mood on the place -- and I stumbled into my room. Ew! I wasn't expecting much for the price but I was expecting clean. It wasn't. It was a mutant train-wreck of a room, smelling of sickly-sweet air freshener with a sticky fake wood formica floor that wasn't properly swept (why oh why did I have to move the rolling TV stand out of the way only to discover a nauseating pile of dust bunnies & hair?) and the teeny-tiniest bathroom you can imagine (if you've lived in an NYC apartment you can imagine) and the most uninviting slab of a bed. The heater had two settings: Sonic-boom blasting high & off. My choices were to freeze in silence or stay warm but go deaf. Since the bed didn't have a comforter I opted for warmth. It was a fitful night's sleep at best. I woke up completely hung over and completely miserable. My own damn fault, I know.
I spent an hour making sure I could check out early & get a refund for the second night. After that, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I didn't want to put my bare feet on the floor so I had to maneuver through getting showered & dressed in the teeny-tiny bathroom. This would have been amusing had I not been hung over and near-homicidal cranky. Eventually, mission accomplished. I got back in the car & drove to King/Yonge to hang out at the Starbucks & figure out what the hell was next. I found a spot, figured out the parking meter thing and schlepped myself over for a coffee and some internet. I knew the general plan for the day was to have lunch at Frank, tour the AGO, grab a drink at one spot then dinner at another. The first order of business was to find an affordable replacement hotel, which was quicker & easier than I thought (LOVE the internet). OK, the day's looking up! I got over to the hotel and was able to check in early. Super score! It was a relief beyond words to find a clean, spacious, sunny room waiting for me. Ahhh! They didn't have room in the hotel garage yet but maybe this was the universe telling me to take it easy and drive myself here & there rather than freezing my ass off walking. I happened to be coming up to Toronto for the bitterest-cold two days out of a ten-day stretch. I was prepared for this. But I was still completely hung over and more than happy to take the lazy way out for once.
The universe is funny that way. You think you know what's it's telling you and then...
I got to the AGO and felt all lucky to get a parking space right in front. It was late already, about 1:30; I'm starving for lunch and psyched to try out Frank, the chic cafe named after architect Gehry. (Aside: Wyborowa has a Gehry-designed vodka bottle. Very cool. Check it out.) Street parking was 3 hours but for some reason I couldn't set the meter for the max time. I chalked it up to fat, cold fingers.
Lunch at Frank was memorable, in part because I wish I wasn't there alone. Unlike most meals I've had in Toronto, I was seated here at a table rather than the bar. I had a nice view of the open kitchen and the admirably hard-working staff but I felt like the odd man out not having a hip-urban lunch companion to engage with in hip-urban artsy conversation. It was lonely. And I don't say that for sympathy but rather to point out that the fundamental joy in food for me is in the sharing. The food was very, very good. I got the crispy duck leg confit with a lovely Gamay red. You'll soon notice that I don't get wine very often. It seemed fitting on a cold, cold day when still a bit hung over from too much beer the night before. Plus it paired much better with the comforting wintry meal than I think any beer would have. The duck was beautifully done, seasoned right on point, both crispy on the outside as promised and perfectly fall off the bone tender throughout. I chuckled to myself that it was served with kale. Tip of the hat to Forex-Larry-Ellison-kale guy! It was an appreciated color balance in the presentation that I've found lacking in most of my Toronto meals. That's one thing I'll say about Boston/Cambridge chefs, they are generally more sophisticated as visual artists than Toronto chefs although there are notable exceptions (Reds) and, y'know, I'm not THAT well-traveled.
Meal done, I returned to the car to up the meter since it was previously cranky and didn't give me the max due to 5:30 PM. I plugged in some coins and felt like I was having some more fat-finger problems but finally got the ticket out and checked, yep, looks like 5:30 PM on the dot. Onward!
The AGO has a great collection. I opted out of the King Tut exhibit (in spite of having met the installation manager twice at beer bars a few months back) due to limited time, finances and attention span. I stuck to the main galleries. It's a beautiful museum. Of course it is! It's designed by Frank Gehry. I don't actually know that he designed the whole thing in & out but I'm taking an educated guess that he did. There's a main indoor courtyard area flanked by two wooden spiral staircases -- dynamic is the word that comes to mind -- and the coolest, most form-follows-function example of a handicap ramp you can imagine. Well, I'm not even sure you can imagine it. The flow of the galleries is a little wonky for me, I couldn't quite orient myself. This might have been the after-effect of viewing the art which was quite beautifully presented but a bit heavy on depictions of Christian martyrdom a.k.a. glorified sadistic torture. What's up with that?? Do I really want to see that saint get flayed? Can I take yet another gory crucifixion? This wasn't helping my hangover one bit. I needed some fresh air. Made my way over to the coat check, suited up & stepped out into the refreshing cold. Whew. Now to hop in the car and get on toward dinner.
Um... Where's the car?
You know that moment when you realize in your gut that something unpleasant has happened but it takes your head several more moments to catch up? So I'm looking across the street where I parked and, huh, isn't that odd there's not a single car there anymore. In fact, neither is mine... Uh... Shit! It hit me with a nearly-audible sickening thud that my awesome parking space was in a clear-it-out-for-rush-hour-traffic zone and that the meter rejecting my coins not from crankiness or fat fingers but because it was trying to tell me, You can't park here for that long. Abort! It's plainly stated on the signposts, too, although the hangover and the overabundance of do-this-don't-do-that placards conspired against any of this information making it to my conscious brain. If I even had a conscious brain that day, which I'm beginning to doubt. The kindly sympathetic woman at the AGO information desk gave me the lowdown in her gentlest don't-expect-the-best voice. Here's the address & phone number of the tow lot and you're best off taking a cab there, you'll be there in 5 minutes. I opted for the 20-minute walk, give me a chance to further clear my head in the bracing cold. My head was trying its best to be very unclear & very blame-y on the rest of me for screwing up so badly. Fail! So many little hints along the way & I missed them all! Nothing to be done about it now. I got to the tow lot, paid up for the towing & "storage" and stuffed the parking ticket into my wallet to be dealt with later. I tallied the damage.
Fuck! Parking just cost me $250.
I was at a turning point. I could a) attempt to push through the hangover and the depression and the bitter cold and stick to my plans anyway, dammit; or I could b) give up entirely and wallow in misery at the hotel for the rest of the night. I was leaning very heavily toward Plan B. I got in the car and made my way sloooooowly to the hotel garage. I contemplated stopping at Biff's for a drink to wait out the rush hour traffic but that would mean parking on the street and no thank you I wasn't going to do that. Even the hotel garage became a hostile, foreboding place with its impossibly narrow, tightly winding drive down to P4 where I finally -- finally! -- got the car to its final resting place for the evening. My pulse rate must have gone off the chart. So now what? I sat in the hotel room, still very heavily leaning toward Plan B.
Screw it. Do I give up that easy?? There's a third way to do this. I grabbed my notes & a feeble internet connection and decided, OK, one of the restaurants on my list is just a few minutes walk away which I can handle even in this cold so why don't I have a pleasant meal before turning in? Snap out of it, Jane, you can salvage this day! Which is exactly what I did.
Nota Bene, Queen Street West. Just what the doctor ordered. Things were already looking up a few sips into the Wellington Arkell Bitter, and totally back on track by the time the pulled suckling pig & boudin noir tart topped with a fried pork skin chip showed up. Hoo-ah! Whenever pork 3 ways is on the plate, I'm good. And this was very, very good. No haggling on presentation, not tonight. The pork was divine, tender as pulled pork should be, whether from a suckling pig or not. The plate was a beautiful balance of flavors and textures from the melty pork to the hearty boudin noir to the accompanying cabbage sautee and applesauce, a brilliant take on the traditional pork sides. The tart wasn't a tart as advertised but was a really big crispy/fluffy popover. This made me giddy! They didn't provide butter to slather on it & that detracted a little from the meal for me but not much. My spirit was restored. It's amazing how life is better when one is well fed! Heck yeah I'll take a look at the dessert menu. I was going for the chocolate cake when I noticed Riopelle on the cheese plate offerings. This is "the best cheese in Quebec" according to Denver Dave, which is another story entirely, but assuming there's a lot of cheese in Quebec I'm taking his recommendation. Words can't describe how perfect this cheese is. For one thing, it was served at the optimal temperature to be soft but not runny. It's a brie-like cheese but that's where the similarities end. I haven't been a fan of brie for years; it's rich but bland and most times I'd prefer a cultured butter on my crusty french bread. Back to the Riopelle. Somehow, the texture of the rind elevated the flavor of the cheese to heights I can't even begin to describe. The combination of that crumbly-creamy mouth-feel and the flavor nuances (grassy?) was truly divine. It soared. There's no other way to describe it. I skipped the crackers & dipped each precious sliver of cheese ever-so-lightly in the accompanying local honey. All the pent-up stress from my misadventures simply melted away. Poof!
I made my way back to the hotel room, completely satisfied. The meal had literally saved the day -- a miserable fail of a day which now rose like a Phoenix from the ashes. Food can do that for me like nothing else can.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Totonto Farewell Tour: The final bow
Sunday
I know, I haven't written about Friday & Saturday yet. Patience.
Last day in Toronto for a while. Excited & sad all at once. It's a big foodie day, though. The plan -- after packing up, checking out & steeling up my courage to park on the street again -- is to have brunch at The Hoof Cafe. This is THE reason why I'm spending C$150 to stay an extra night in Toronto.
I have to tell you this story first. I was in Toronto the week before Christmas and I thought it'd be my last trip up for the year. I had been getting into a bit of a slump at that point, repeating dinners at familiar restaurants rather than going on my adventurous walkabouts. Now there's nothing wrong with familiarity. I was starting to be a fixture at Biff's, like Norm in Cheers. "Jane!" and my seat at the bar was waiting. I have to admit that this is an awesome feeling for a lonely girl far from the comforts of home. Plus the food at Biff's is so good I could keep going back there night after night without getting sick of it. But I digress within a digression...
Back to The Hoof. So I was in a rut and I needed to kick myself out of it. Of course being the stubborn New Englander that I am, I decide to get adventurous again right at the very cold start of a very cold winter making this whole walkabout thing especially challenging. But I know how to do this. I mean, I walk my dog Nanny for hours in the bitterest of weather, right? So I came prepared for the week with my three layers of everything and my best walking shoes. Damn the torpedoes... onward! I had heard and read about The Black Hoof and its charcuterie-centric menu in the heart of the slum-turned-hipster Trinity Bellwoods neighborhood. Google maps pegged it as a 44-minute 2.2-mile walk. I wasn't going to dispute the 2.2 miles, but 44 minutes? I can do a mile in 15. Plus I had C$30 cash on me, ample for a beer-laden cab ride home. I decided to further trim my exposure to the cold, strapped on my sleekest gear & jogged there. I barely observed the pedestrian traffic rules and got there in 25 minutes. Fail! There was no room at the inn! Even a single bar seat would be about a 40 minute wait. But I was welcome to go to their newly-opened casual eats cafe across the street for a drink & app. So I went over to The Hoof Cafe, a bit crestfallen but determined to stick it out. I had come all this way and dammit I was not giving up until I had had my fill of cured bits bits of pig. My mood immediately brightened when I walked in & saw -- no lie -- the partially-carved rear haunch of a sow artfully displayed on the counter, hoof still attached and proudly pointing toward the chalkboard menu on the opposite wall. Damn! It's a HOOF! I could barely contain my excitement, especially since there was an open bar seat RIGHT THERE! Right next to the hoof! I sat down, giddy. It got better when I was presented with the all-Ontario beer & wine list and the extremely too-cool-for-me list of cocktails on the back, including a drink with their housemade bacon rye. I ordered the local Wellington imperial stout and the beef heart app for a wallet-friendly total of C$11. Occasionally one of the chefs appeared from the kitchen behind me with a machete-like knife to carve paper-thin slices of cured perfection from the sow. Good god, people, can you feel that? Can you see the gleam in my eye & slight bit of drool forming in the corner of my mouth? The Wellie appeared, skillfully poured for me by the barkeep who was, for the record, very sexy in a skinny straight chick kind of way -- usually not at all my type but that night I was so happy that I think I would have found anyone behind that bar to be sexy. At this point I got a call from the Black Hoof saying that actually a bar seat opened up much sooner than expected & I could come over anytime. Um... nevermind? Sorry, but I'm having way too much fun over here & I'm sticking to it. At this point I'm also getting this sinking feeling looking around the place that mayyyyybe they don't take AmEx. That's right, folks, part of my complacent sloth was getting into the routine of only going out with my driver's license, corporate AmEx & whatever I had on hand for cash which was, that night, C$30 for a cab ride home. For a moment I thought, OK, I have my ING debit on me, I can just find out where's the nearest ATM if they don't take any plastic at all but NOPE I hadn't put that in the little change purse this week. I sheepishly admitted all of this to the barkeep (who turned out to be one of the proprietors) and found out that, as I feared, no AmEx here or across the street. Fuck! Um... OK, can you help me have an absolutely fantastic Hoof experience for $30 including the $11 I just plunked down for the beer & app? I must have looked very sad & pathetic. She took pity on me, then seemed to really get into this idea of crafting a perfect Hoof menu for me. It was clear by now I was a passionate foodie and she was proud of her newly minted establishment. We all got caught up in the moment. First course: Roasted skewered beef heart resting on a yummy, tangy, vibrant green sauce. The flavors were off the chart & the textures a perfect combo of carmelized-chewy-saucy. Second course: I'm still kicking myself that I didn't write this down because I have no idea what it was but it was some of the best food I've ever eaten. Two loose "cakes" of lightly fried porky stuff on a bed of watercress-y greens that weren't watercress. I don't know how it was seasoned to get that just-barely spicy back-of-the-throat tingle or how it was prepared but the pork had a completely seductive melt-in-the-mouth quality with just the right addition of more tasty fat from the fry. I was completely transported. Anyone who has seen me eat anything this fantastically amazing knows what this looks like. I wish I could see myself in these moments but all I know is what it feels like on the inside and it's better than sex and I really like sex. Whew, ok, I get all hot & bothered just thinking about it! Main course: Schnitzel sandwich that I'm pretty sure was deep-fried tongue (it had that toothy-chew characteristic of muscly organ meats) on housemade no-knead bread with creme fraiche mustard. I can't think of enough superlatives for this place. My only comment remotely close to a criticism is that the menu was a little heavy on the deep fry, overhearing the hip guys next to me inquiring about the desserts, which were deep-fried this-n-that. Trust me, they could deep fry someone's big toe and it would come out tasty (am I stealing that comment from Padma Lakshmi?). The evening was near-perfection, marred but not by any means ruined by the leaden jog-walk home. All during this meal I'm chatting it up with the barkeep & the occasional chef wafting by, all of whom were more than happy to give me all the when & where & why of the pig leg on the counter, the no-knead bread recipe, the creme fraiche mustard, the Sunday brunch...
And here I am back in Toronto for Sunday brunch at The Hoof. This was a golden opportunity not to be missed and well worth the extra hotel bucks. With this I also had the chance to spend all day Saturday exploring the city which turned out to be a very good thing given how much Friday sucked. I was also on a mission to pick up only-in-Toronto foodie treats for friends-of-friends back home. After checking out of the hotel, the first stop would Hodo Kwaja for walnut cakes (score!), the final stop would be Gandhi for extra-spicy chicken korma roti (fail! closed sat & sun), and brunch in between. Here's where I admit that at the hotel that morning I made sure to put on some extra cute for the day in case skinny-sexy proprietor-barkeep was there. She wasn't. Sigh. But I was served by a cute baby-dyke of a barkeep who was, if I'm not mistaken, flirting with me. What the hell. I did look cute, why waste it? I started off with an Americano since I hadn't had a coffee yet & this bought me some time to decide on beer & food. I almost ordered the bacon-rye cocktail but considering my Thursday night drunk I decided better of it and got Mike Duggan's IPA, which I had heard about and gotten a taste of just the night before at C'est What. Dammit though I couldn't choose between the suckling pig eggs benedict or the can't-remember-which-part-of-the-pig grits. I wanted BOTH! Cute barkeep helped calm me down enough to decide on the benny & by the way could she recommend the bone marrow donuts as a starter? Hot damn, girl, yes you can! I got some of those to go, too. When given the chance to have bone marrow donuts you just don't pass that up. My eggs benny show up and they did not disappoint. Again the pulled suckling-pig-of-a-pork was melty awesomeness, sitting on top of tender biscuits instead of english muffins (yes! GREAT idea!) with the hollandaise as an extra-tangy balance to the all of the deeply rich components including its own creaminess. The accompanying arugula salad was completely extraneous to me on this day but was appreciated for its refreshing contrast for the eyes and palate. And I want to take this opportunity to sing the praises of the poached egg. Is there anything more delightful than a hidden treasure of barely-coddled yolk in a delicate balloon of white? Maybe I get it from Tampopo but that moment of breaking into the package to release the yolk is soooo sexy.
So, that's it. That's the perfect Sunday brunch for me against which all other brunches will be judged. I paid up and pulled away from the counter seat with my full-but-not-too-much belly as satisfied as it's ever been. I got back to the car which happily was not ticketed or towed, and I made way to the Gardiner Expressway for a long, relatively uneventful ride home.
Until we meet again, Toronto. This was the sweetest of bittersweet farewells.
I know, I haven't written about Friday & Saturday yet. Patience.
Last day in Toronto for a while. Excited & sad all at once. It's a big foodie day, though. The plan -- after packing up, checking out & steeling up my courage to park on the street again -- is to have brunch at The Hoof Cafe. This is THE reason why I'm spending C$150 to stay an extra night in Toronto.
I have to tell you this story first. I was in Toronto the week before Christmas and I thought it'd be my last trip up for the year. I had been getting into a bit of a slump at that point, repeating dinners at familiar restaurants rather than going on my adventurous walkabouts. Now there's nothing wrong with familiarity. I was starting to be a fixture at Biff's, like Norm in Cheers. "Jane!" and my seat at the bar was waiting. I have to admit that this is an awesome feeling for a lonely girl far from the comforts of home. Plus the food at Biff's is so good I could keep going back there night after night without getting sick of it. But I digress within a digression...
Back to The Hoof. So I was in a rut and I needed to kick myself out of it. Of course being the stubborn New Englander that I am, I decide to get adventurous again right at the very cold start of a very cold winter making this whole walkabout thing especially challenging. But I know how to do this. I mean, I walk my dog Nanny for hours in the bitterest of weather, right? So I came prepared for the week with my three layers of everything and my best walking shoes. Damn the torpedoes... onward! I had heard and read about The Black Hoof and its charcuterie-centric menu in the heart of the slum-turned-hipster Trinity Bellwoods neighborhood. Google maps pegged it as a 44-minute 2.2-mile walk. I wasn't going to dispute the 2.2 miles, but 44 minutes? I can do a mile in 15. Plus I had C$30 cash on me, ample for a beer-laden cab ride home. I decided to further trim my exposure to the cold, strapped on my sleekest gear & jogged there. I barely observed the pedestrian traffic rules and got there in 25 minutes. Fail! There was no room at the inn! Even a single bar seat would be about a 40 minute wait. But I was welcome to go to their newly-opened casual eats cafe across the street for a drink & app. So I went over to The Hoof Cafe, a bit crestfallen but determined to stick it out. I had come all this way and dammit I was not giving up until I had had my fill of cured bits bits of pig. My mood immediately brightened when I walked in & saw -- no lie -- the partially-carved rear haunch of a sow artfully displayed on the counter, hoof still attached and proudly pointing toward the chalkboard menu on the opposite wall. Damn! It's a HOOF! I could barely contain my excitement, especially since there was an open bar seat RIGHT THERE! Right next to the hoof! I sat down, giddy. It got better when I was presented with the all-Ontario beer & wine list and the extremely too-cool-for-me list of cocktails on the back, including a drink with their housemade bacon rye. I ordered the local Wellington imperial stout and the beef heart app for a wallet-friendly total of C$11. Occasionally one of the chefs appeared from the kitchen behind me with a machete-like knife to carve paper-thin slices of cured perfection from the sow. Good god, people, can you feel that? Can you see the gleam in my eye & slight bit of drool forming in the corner of my mouth? The Wellie appeared, skillfully poured for me by the barkeep who was, for the record, very sexy in a skinny straight chick kind of way -- usually not at all my type but that night I was so happy that I think I would have found anyone behind that bar to be sexy. At this point I got a call from the Black Hoof saying that actually a bar seat opened up much sooner than expected & I could come over anytime. Um... nevermind? Sorry, but I'm having way too much fun over here & I'm sticking to it. At this point I'm also getting this sinking feeling looking around the place that mayyyyybe they don't take AmEx. That's right, folks, part of my complacent sloth was getting into the routine of only going out with my driver's license, corporate AmEx & whatever I had on hand for cash which was, that night, C$30 for a cab ride home. For a moment I thought, OK, I have my ING debit on me, I can just find out where's the nearest ATM if they don't take any plastic at all but NOPE I hadn't put that in the little change purse this week. I sheepishly admitted all of this to the barkeep (who turned out to be one of the proprietors) and found out that, as I feared, no AmEx here or across the street. Fuck! Um... OK, can you help me have an absolutely fantastic Hoof experience for $30 including the $11 I just plunked down for the beer & app? I must have looked very sad & pathetic. She took pity on me, then seemed to really get into this idea of crafting a perfect Hoof menu for me. It was clear by now I was a passionate foodie and she was proud of her newly minted establishment. We all got caught up in the moment. First course: Roasted skewered beef heart resting on a yummy, tangy, vibrant green sauce. The flavors were off the chart & the textures a perfect combo of carmelized-chewy-saucy. Second course: I'm still kicking myself that I didn't write this down because I have no idea what it was but it was some of the best food I've ever eaten. Two loose "cakes" of lightly fried porky stuff on a bed of watercress-y greens that weren't watercress. I don't know how it was seasoned to get that just-barely spicy back-of-the-throat tingle or how it was prepared but the pork had a completely seductive melt-in-the-mouth quality with just the right addition of more tasty fat from the fry. I was completely transported. Anyone who has seen me eat anything this fantastically amazing knows what this looks like. I wish I could see myself in these moments but all I know is what it feels like on the inside and it's better than sex and I really like sex. Whew, ok, I get all hot & bothered just thinking about it! Main course: Schnitzel sandwich that I'm pretty sure was deep-fried tongue (it had that toothy-chew characteristic of muscly organ meats) on housemade no-knead bread with creme fraiche mustard. I can't think of enough superlatives for this place. My only comment remotely close to a criticism is that the menu was a little heavy on the deep fry, overhearing the hip guys next to me inquiring about the desserts, which were deep-fried this-n-that. Trust me, they could deep fry someone's big toe and it would come out tasty (am I stealing that comment from Padma Lakshmi?). The evening was near-perfection, marred but not by any means ruined by the leaden jog-walk home. All during this meal I'm chatting it up with the barkeep & the occasional chef wafting by, all of whom were more than happy to give me all the when & where & why of the pig leg on the counter, the no-knead bread recipe, the creme fraiche mustard, the Sunday brunch...
And here I am back in Toronto for Sunday brunch at The Hoof. This was a golden opportunity not to be missed and well worth the extra hotel bucks. With this I also had the chance to spend all day Saturday exploring the city which turned out to be a very good thing given how much Friday sucked. I was also on a mission to pick up only-in-Toronto foodie treats for friends-of-friends back home. After checking out of the hotel, the first stop would Hodo Kwaja for walnut cakes (score!), the final stop would be Gandhi for extra-spicy chicken korma roti (fail! closed sat & sun), and brunch in between. Here's where I admit that at the hotel that morning I made sure to put on some extra cute for the day in case skinny-sexy proprietor-barkeep was there. She wasn't. Sigh. But I was served by a cute baby-dyke of a barkeep who was, if I'm not mistaken, flirting with me. What the hell. I did look cute, why waste it? I started off with an Americano since I hadn't had a coffee yet & this bought me some time to decide on beer & food. I almost ordered the bacon-rye cocktail but considering my Thursday night drunk I decided better of it and got Mike Duggan's IPA, which I had heard about and gotten a taste of just the night before at C'est What. Dammit though I couldn't choose between the suckling pig eggs benedict or the can't-remember-which-part-of-the-pig grits. I wanted BOTH! Cute barkeep helped calm me down enough to decide on the benny & by the way could she recommend the bone marrow donuts as a starter? Hot damn, girl, yes you can! I got some of those to go, too. When given the chance to have bone marrow donuts you just don't pass that up. My eggs benny show up and they did not disappoint. Again the pulled suckling-pig-of-a-pork was melty awesomeness, sitting on top of tender biscuits instead of english muffins (yes! GREAT idea!) with the hollandaise as an extra-tangy balance to the all of the deeply rich components including its own creaminess. The accompanying arugula salad was completely extraneous to me on this day but was appreciated for its refreshing contrast for the eyes and palate. And I want to take this opportunity to sing the praises of the poached egg. Is there anything more delightful than a hidden treasure of barely-coddled yolk in a delicate balloon of white? Maybe I get it from Tampopo but that moment of breaking into the package to release the yolk is soooo sexy.
So, that's it. That's the perfect Sunday brunch for me against which all other brunches will be judged. I paid up and pulled away from the counter seat with my full-but-not-too-much belly as satisfied as it's ever been. I got back to the car which happily was not ticketed or towed, and I made way to the Gardiner Expressway for a long, relatively uneventful ride home.
Until we meet again, Toronto. This was the sweetest of bittersweet farewells.
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