Sometimes I stubble and fall

All sports have their inexplicable superstitions and traditions and in this regard ice hockey is no different. For an outsider it would hard to justify the logic behind the practice of throwing octopus onto the ice during the Detroit Red Wings home play-off games. Octopus tossing in land locked Detroit dates back to the 1952 play-offs symbolising the, then, eight wins required to win the Stanley Cup. To a Wings fan the talismanic properties of the cephalopod are unquestionable as it delivered them the Cup in three out of four years from 1952 which is why the tossing (followed by the twirling of the octopus by a zamboni driver) still persists today.This season alone has seen this activity mimicked across the league with waffles (in Toronto), catfish (in Nashville) and salmon (in Vancouver) raining onto the ice.
In the highly competitive world of professional sport sometimes it comes down to the "one percenters" to bring the team up to the one hundred and ten percent required to taste success. The Vancouver Canucks turn to Towel Power to provide them with the edge as they vie for their first Stanley Cup in franchise history. Unlike the regionally specific one percenters like towel twirling, one tradition is universally observed by all those who are striving to secure Lord Stanley's over-sized chalice: the play-off beard.
The play-off beard is a serious undertaking, that transforms the face of hockey from a Gillette commercial into a festival of facial follicles. 
I do not believe that I can over emphasise my importance to the Vancouver Canucks organisation. Since my arrival in Vancouver, the team has turned some sketchy early season form into the best regular season in franchise history. It is no small coincidence that my presence here has helped the Canucks claim there first President's Trophy and it is why the team looks to me now to grow a play-off beard of distinction.
My beard has become so emblematic of the team's fortunes that it begs the question which came first the stubble or the success.
In the first round the Canucks met the Chicago Blackhawks, last years champions and the vanquishers of Vancouver for the past two years in the play-offs. For the early part of the series my stubble looked strong and steady growing in form and stature as the games progressed. At three-nil up in a best of seven series my beard appeared to have an unassailable lead but suddenly the follicle foundations became shaky. The beard output became uneven and unpredictable, in some areas the growth halted completely and confusion reigned as hairs were going off in every direction. This lack of unity in beard purpose allowed the Blackhawks to storm back and level the series. Heading into the deciding game several questions were being raised around Vancouver about the quality of my beard and whether it is was it was all that it was cracked up to be as the phantom itches of forty years of play-off beards came back to plague the minds of Canuck fans. 
Game Seven justified the hype providing an intense and see-sawing contest. At times the Blackhawks seemed be a Mach 5 with aggressive, razor sharp blades coming from all angles threatening to prematurely cut short my play-off beard aspirations. In the end it took an overtime goal send Chicago packing and the Canucks, who had sustained a few nicks and cuts, through to the second round.
The Conference semi-final series against the Nashville Predators proved to be one of those dour periods of beard growth where there is not very much excitement. Keen observers will note the discipline in the trimming and maintaining of form against a team that has built its' reputation on the thick defensive lather it throws over opposing play-off beards. In the end my beard prevailed and Nashville returned to the two things it understands better than ice: country and western music.
The Vancouver Canucks have harnessed my beard power and returned to the Western Conference Finals for the first time in seventeen years and now face another perennial under-achiever: the San Jose Sharks. Last nights victory in the opening game has my stubble looking thick, even and fashionable, once again providing hope that the Canucks are only seven wins away from scratching the forty year Stanley Cup play-off beard itch.

Saturday night's (Hockey Night in Canada) alright for fighting (game misconduct)

The ice hockey world is abuzz with the news that quietly a new superpower has emerged. This puck pounding nation is better known to be a wide brown land (and that's not because the ice is dirty). Be afraid Canada. Be very afraid. Australia has qualified for the ice hockey world championships!

Before Canada's reign as the preeminent hockey nation ends, the Vancouver Canucks have given them hope that the Stanley Cup might be wrested from the Yankee grasp for the first time since the Montreal Canadien triumphed in 1993.

Clearly Canadian mothers are not familiar with the precautionary phrase "It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye." In a game which involves a hard rubber disk travelling at speeds of up to 170 kilometres per hour it would seem obvious that eye protection should be mandatory. Recently Manny Malhotra, a key player in this years all conquering Vancouver Canucks, was struck in the eye when the puck deflected off another players stick. Malhotra who was not wearing a visor at the time has had to have multiple operations to save his sight.

Manny Malhotra's injury has been a sobering counter-point to what has been a record breaking season for the Canucks, who for the first time in their forty year history have earned the President's Trophy for the best regular season record in league. Their regular season performance has been so comprehensive that they also own all of the key statistical areas ( best goals for and against, best power play and penalty killing). Impressive as the season has been so far, ultimately this is a grail quest. Only the play-offs will decide whether the Knights of Rain City will retake the Holy Land, retrieving the Stanley Cup from the Chicago infidels. 

Central to the team's success are the identical Sedin twins. Quietly this season they have gone about their jobs. Henrik has amassed a league leading number of scoring assists while his brother Daniel's lead in the scoring race has him poised to follow up Henrik's Most Valuable Player award last year with his own triumph this year.
As with most Swedish products the Sedin twins are too ergonomic for their own good. Much like Ikea people give them a hard time because they are mass produced and they make it look so simple but  everyone wishes they had them in their home as they're incredibly functional and well designed. As with Volvo they are deceptive, not overly loud or built around big engines but they run smoothly, efficiently, safely and retain their value while others around them depreciate. Hockey like the automotive industry also has the element of distrust about foreign built models. Locally made or not when in years to come, people are wondering about what became of this or that Justin Bieber of the National Hockey League every record collection will contain Sedin Gold. This best of, which like Abba Gold is packed full of greatest hits, may be maligned for it's joyful harmonies and its distinct lack of male bravado but somehow no collection is complete without it.
Their hockey legacy will forever be as two S80's cruising in tandem down the ice, constructing plays with over-sized graphite Allen keys while the melodious tones of "The Winner Takes It All" serenade their triumph of Swedish substance over style.

The people of Vancouver are on edge, rising levels of expectation are tempered by the knowledge that within the few years a dingo will steal Canada's baby, as Australian teams such as the Coolongatta Quokkas begin to flood the NHL. The buses in Vancouver proudly trumpet "Go Canucks Go!" because even the bus drivers here know there is only one destination that the people care about and that's the Stanley Cup. As the Sedin twins take the wheel and drive the Canucks deep into the playoffs, the hopes of the province are conjoined with them.

Little Mr Muffet sat on his tuffet eating his curds and whey.

Migneron de Charlevoix, unpasteurised cow's milk cheese from  Charlevoix (Baie-Saint-Paul), Quebec (left) and Petit Basque sheep's milk cheese from the Pyrenees, France (right).

It's true that when it comes to stenographers you really get what you pay for. When Irving Berlin dictated the lyrics to the song that we are familiar with as "Cheek to cheek", he originally intended it to be a homage the American dairy industry. "Cheese to cheese", as it was entitled, would have had the following lyrics had Irving not unwisely recited the words to a close friend who had deafened himself by dancing the grizzly bear and the chicken walk too close to the the orchestra in New York's ragtime clubs (for the record this friend redeemed himself by making Berlin's "White-mould Christmas"more readily accessible).

 

"Heaven, I’m in heaven

And my cholesterol makes my heart beats so that I can hardly speak

And I seem to find the happiness I seek

When we’re out together feasting cheese to cheese"

Recently I discovered Les Amis du Fromage and I would have to say I that I concur with Mr Berlin when I say that I was in heaven. Les Amis du Fromage is the best cheese shop that I have ever been into, it's three hundred and sixty degrees of cheese.

It stocks not only some of my all time favourites like Petit Basque (and it's Pyrenees brother Etorki) but possibly more exciting is the range of Canadian cheeses that they have available. These include local British Columbian cheeses from Poplar Grove and the Kootenay Alpine Cheese Company as well as from Quebec, Canada's provincial outpost for cheese eating surrender monkeys.

If cheeses such as the delicious washed-rind La Sauvagine are anything to go by, it would appear that being of French derivation endows people with super-human abilities. They have retractable, sterilised, stainless steel claws for cutting curds; hidden rennet excreting glands that allow them set vast, vats of milk; from their wrists they can sling a webbing of cheese cloth that allows them to drain curds from any structure and finally they possess chameleon-like abilities transforming from white mould to ash coated to an orange washed rind in seconds. Little is known about how these beings came to live amongst the Canadian population but in a sick twist of fate it has come to light that these dairy demi-gods are rendered powerless but many of the alien Canadian dairy products in particular orange cheese (otherwise known as the Quebecois Kryptonite).

We live in a frightening world full of refrigeration units stocked with substances called Homo, Half and Half or simply 2%. Thankfully while most milk falls a long way from the udder these days, there are still a few remaining strongholds such as Le Amis du Fromage where we can be fortified by the unadulterated, unpasteurised, full fat nectar of the teat.  

Etorki sheep's milk cheese from the Pyrenees, France; La Sauvagine, pasteurised cow's milk from Quebec;  La Besace du Berger pasteurised goat's milk cheese from France (left to right).

Quintessence

I have an abiding memory of my mother wolf's description of tasting the quintessential orange. It was on a ferry ride in Istanbul, in 1968, that she had the orange against which all other oranges would be compared.
The notion of encountering the quintessence of an ingredient is a culinary holy grail quest.

It is the convergence of simplicity and completeness in a single bite. The distillation of the purest form of an ingredient. It makes me feel like when I look at sculptures by Alberto Giacometti, at times they are not the most attractive representations of form but in stripping away the superfluous elements, somehow they capture the most vital part: the soul. Giacometti's portraits are at times unnerving, in that as a viewer you feel like you are prying into the inner most thoughts and secrets of the bronzed figure before you.

Encountering the essence of a person in a sculpture may be both moving and unsettling but when you come upon this quality in an ingredient it is heavenly. The wonderful thing about tasting quintessence is that it defies hype, superlatives, best of's, it cannot be revisited or competed against; it just simply is. In that mouthful, at that moment in time that person was part of something complete and incomparable.

Some chefs are true Crusaders in their unflinching resolve to capture this culinary last covenant but few have the skills, knowledge, patience and empathy to complete this quest. Dan Hunter from The Royal Mail in Dunkeld, Victoria, is truly a knight of the covenant. Since eating at The Royal Mail over two years ago I have held the unwavering belief that it will come to be recognised to be not only one of Australia's best restaurants (it has already been named the best regional restaurant in Australia for three consecutive years by Gourmet Traveller) but one of the great restaurants of the world. Set against the breath-taking backdrop of the Grampians, Dan Hunter produces exquisite dishes driven by location, seasonality and purity of flavour. It was particularly this last aspect that struck me when I ate there, reflecting on my meal I have never had a succession of courses like that where everything on the plate tasted like it's truest form. It takes remarkable talent and conviction to achieve this feat once but particularly to repeat this day after day, service after service.

For the rest of us mere culinary mercenaries who can't afford to eat the ten course omnivore degustation at The Royal Mail everyday, we have to seek solace in the fact that each day brings the possibility of a chance encounter with a sublime mouthful.
The following are some the wonderful things that have passed between my lips recently:

• Agassiz hazelnuts- These nuts come from a town not far out of Vancouver and they are like no hazelnut that I have ever had. These fresh hazelnuts are sweet, rich, smooth and completely without any tannic, bitter aftertaste.
• British Columbia white anchovies- Hand filleting pounds of these small fish is no chore when at the end you get to eat white anchovies that have been freshly marinated with lemon juice, garlic, parsley and olive oil.
• Red Fife flour- Recently we started making the bread at work with Red Fife flour which is a heritage Canadian bread flour that was saved by the Slow Food movement in Canada. The difference in flavour between bread made with flour such as this or a generic white flour is worlds apart. This bread is full of depth, character and structure (it reminds me of Baker D. Chirico's bread) and it demands to be eaten warm and lathered with butter (note this means good butter and not some namby pamby spread with various additives that are supposed to benefit your heart) or toasted and topped with fresh white anchovies.
• Butter fish- This fish is also known as Black Cod (although not technically a cod) and Sable fish but to paraphrase the bard (or Anne Hathaway who was probably more likely to have done the cooking in the Shakespeare household) "What is in a name? That which we call a Sable fish Would by any other name taste as sweet." This is quite simply one of the most delicious tasting fish I have ever eaten, its' firm flesh giving way to yield its' creamy, buttery flavour. At home I seared the skin side before poaching it in a tomato and fresh tamarind prawn broth with Savoury clams and okra. 
• La Ghianda's Vitello tonatto ciabatta- Often restaurants are guilty of over complicating food and a sandwich like this is a salient reminder of the joy of simplicity. Vitello tonnato is by it's nature an ugly dish that makes for great eating. The temptation is to pull a Professor Henry Higgins and try and turn cold veal with a tuna sauce into Audrey Hepburn. La Ghianda (the deli associated with the restaurant La Quercia, where I can't wait to eat) to their credit have simply dressed Eliza Doolittle in modest ciabatta and sent her out into society.

I will never know how that orange tasted in the warm Turkish sunshine of 1968 but even in the cold, abrasive Vancouver daylight, the possibility exists for my own moment of tasting quintessence.     

Hairy men on Ice 5 - Insipid Disney Characters on Ice Nil

A perfect winter cocktail. One part speed, one part skill to one part sweat with a taint of spilt blood, shaken vigorously and served on ice in a perspex rimmed glass. 

In late January I attended my very first National Hockey League (NHL) game to watch the Vancouver Canucks take on the Calgary Flames. The Canucks are my adopted team and fast becoming my second greatest sporting love behind the Geelong Football Club. 

Normally when grown men have fantasies about twins they often involve pig-tails and school girl uniforms which leaves me feeling slightly confused about my school boy crush on two bearded, red headed brothers from Sweden. It was a great thrill to see the Sedin twins (Daniel and Henrik) skate onto the ice in Rogers Arena, their combination of sublime skills and preternatural understanding of each other's game has made them the most devastating one-two combination in the league this year.

There are not too many sports where even the warm up seems to be fun but there really is something mesmerising and hypnotic about watching the warm up skate. Seeing the players circling and pirouetting reminded me of a set piece from Footlight Parade, if you iced over the lameness of synchronised swimming dispensed with the nose clips and added facial hair and blood lust to the mix.

Although the result didn't quite go according to script all of the desired elements were present: Canada's Olympic Gold medal winning goal-tender Roberto Luongo 'between the pipes' (that means in goal in Canadian); Kevin Bieksa 'dropping the gloves' (punching on in Canadian) plus an overtime period and finally a shoot-out.

Thankfully in this hockey mad country and particularly with the Canucks sitting at the top of the league currently I won't be the only male hanging out in Vancouver sports bars hoping to run into the Sedin twins. Even if fate intervenes and the three of us aren't meant to be together, I promise that no child of mine will ever be subjected to any exhibition on ice that doesn't involve two grown men smashing each other into a perspex partition.

The Marine Building

At 355 Burrard Street in downtown Vancouver stands an edifice from the golden age of office work. The men that worked in behind desks in this period were so large and powerful that no modern day cubicle could contain their twelve feet, rippling forms. During this time memorandums were delivered via raptors as all men were well trained in the skill of falconry. Sadly those days are but a faint memory kept alive by monumental buildings such as the Marine Building.
When it opened its brass revolving doors for the first time in 1930, the Marine Building (which cost nearly double its' original budget) was a thing of splendour. From the uniformed doormen that greeted you to the sailor-suited women who operated the five high speed elevators those who entered knew that they were in a shrine to modernity and greatness.
These days it provides some fascinating historical insights into what Canada was like in the 1930s. From the Art Deco detailing we learn that Canada had a highly sophisticated defence programme. Squadrons of powerfully built Canadian geese patrolled the skies ensuring the security of Air Canada's burgeoning bi-plane and zeppelin fleets. This was supplemented by the navies impressive collection of sail ships many of which were hand-me-downs from Mother England's Royal Navy (which was starting to learn that in no longer ruled the waves). This in turn allowed the Canadian government to begin phasing out the remnants of the Spanish Armada ships that it still had in active service.
Another interesting point to note is that of the image of the rising sun radiating light and warmth across Canada. In the early 1930s the tilt of earth's axis was more pronounced which meant that Canada enjoyed warmer days and longer daylight hours. At the time Vancouver was a major holiday resort for Mexicans who were trying to escape the winter blues by fleeing north of the border to lie on the beach, drink cheap Moosehead beers with lime and eat traditional British Columbia corn tortilla tacos (a popular dish that they took back to Mexico with them).
The Marine Building remains a beacon from another age shining its' light across the tempestuous waters of modern architecture. Guiding us past the double glazed, aluminium framed, stainless steel gilded reefs that scuttle architects. Leading us to the safe harbour of a time when real men wore suits and soared to their offices in the sky in polished brass elevators.

Hedgehogs, Black trumpets and Watermelons: A Dinner for Surrealists

Watermelon radish. 

Hedgehog (left) and Black trumpet mushrooms (right). 

I picked up these wonderful ingredients at the Granville Island Market today for dinner.

They became a wild mushroom and pinenut ragout that went with sauteed ricotta gnocchi and a simple green lettuce, basil and radish salad.

Sauteed ricotta gnocchi with pinenuts.

I was so pleased with how the gnocchi worked out that I thought that I would share the recipe.

Sauteed Ricotta Gnocchi

500g ricotta, drained

1 1/2 tsp salt

1 whole egg and 1 egg yolk

1 cup plain flour

Combine the ricotta, salt and eggs in a bowl and mix well.

Add all of the flour and mix thoroughly then blend for a short time in a food processor or with a stick blender.

Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and allow to rest in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.

 Dust a bench with flour and divide the dough into six portions. Roll each portion to form a log with a 1 cm diameter and using a floured paring knife cut into 1 cm lengths. Note: Use sufficient flour for dusting  to prevent sticking and use a plastic bowl scrapper to lift the finished gnocchi onto a floured tray. 

The gnocchi can be frozen at this stage and defrosted for use at some later date.

Blanch the gnocchi in small batches in a large pot of boiling, salted water until they all rise to the top. Drain and serve immediately or refresh quickly in ice water then drain.

To saute the gnocchi heat olive oil and butter in a wide frying pan over medium heat. When hot enough add the refreshed and drained gnocchi, ensuring that they separated. Leave the gnocchi alone without moving it to allow it to develop a golden brown colour then turn them over and do the same on the other side.

To finish, toss with sauce and serve.

The Weekend Ahead

Napa cabbage (or Chinese cabbage) for my Kim Chi.

It's 1:30 AM and my weekend has begun.

I have big plans for the next two days, these plans include, in no particular order, the following:-

Make kimchi (the process is already underway as I salted the napa cabbage and Korean raddish before starting work today).

Undertake a solo polar bear swim in English Bay (cue manly inspirational music and a montage of me climbing stairs). The Polar Bear swim is a Canadian New Year's day tradition where willing (and ideally blubber insulated) participants take the plunge into the icy ocean. Despite the best of intentions I missed the opportunity to partake in this annual event so instead I have created a one-time exhibition swim called "The Chiller in Van-illa." Stay tuned for details as one man in board-shorts pits himself against the might of the Pacific Ocean.

Make the trip across the Burrard Street Bridge to West Broadway to sample the reportedly delicious pastries from Thomas Haas.

Watch the Vancouver Canucks as they seek to continue their best winning streak in their forty year franchise. This streak has the Canucks leading the entire league and chasing their ninth straight win as they take on their closest rival in the Western Conference; the Detroit Red Wings. Exciting times to live in this success starved hockey town as this immensely talented and well balanced team builds towards great things. 

A pistachio croissant and selection of macarons from Thomas Haas plus the best coffee I've had in Vancouver from 49th Parallel Coffee Roasters.

How the first day of the new year ended.

Discustation

Discustation is a concept that I threw up a while ago, it refers to a meal of small tasting courses where each course endeavours to be more repellent than the one that preceded it. Having coined this term I feel well within my linguistic rights to change its definition.
The new meaning of discustation is far broader in its scope and refers to any use of language that makes food or eating less appetising. I won't endeavour to conceal the primary objective of this new term which is a search and destroy, culinary witch hunt. Places offering Asian tapas have been served notice the Larousse Inquisition will soon be knocking at your door. Menus will be excommunicated and non-believers char-grilled at the steak. Please feel free to dob in offenders. Your efforts will make this a safer world for the appetites of your children and your children's children.

A less than glossary of terms:
Floats: Ice cream sodas otherwise known as 'spiders'. Floats just makes them sound like buoyant dead bodies.
Steamers: Although the term steamer brings to mind images of warm dog poo on a cold day, they are in fact steamed burritos.
Jerk chicken: A Jamaican speciality of hot spice marinated chicken that's smoked over an aromatic wood. Undoubtedly this is a delicious dish but is it named such because it has to be produced an obnoxious Rastafarian. Probably even more disturbing is the moment a male colleague assured that "I have to try his jerk sauce."
Dredge: It is going to make difficult viewing when an American Food Network presenter exhumes a cadaver while dredging fish fillets.
Broil: Not content to grill food, North Americans insist on broiling, a medieval practice of torturing people with overcooked, rubbery food.
Smokie: A smoked hot dog coupling the public love for sausages with the addictive powers of carcinogens.
Tube steak: A beginners guide as to how to make a processed meat sound even more unnatural, apply a very literal description to the product.
Japa dog: An iconic Vancouver hot dog with Japanese influenced accompaniments. Where this product goes wrong is to create a subconscious connection between the frankfurt and the source of the unspecified meat. Shiba inu? Akita inu?
Potstickers: Generally speaking you wouldn't name a style of dish after a dinner party disaster which leaves you with the cremated remains of beef bourguignon in the bottom of your Le Creuset and hours of scrubbing ahead of you.

Blacklisted Eateries:
The Dog House: There are unquestionably some gourmet dog food products on the market but if you are going to brand yourself a family restaurant don't expect to have anyone on less than four legs salivating at the prospect of eating at The Dog House.
The Beaver and Mullet Bistro: A misguided Canadian attempt at surf and turf or lodge and school.
Ho Ho's Yummy Food: Risking being accused by ghosts of Christmas past of failing to see the enduring appeal of associating a Chinese restaurant with Santa's rumbling chortle, yo no hablo Chino .
Beard Papa's: A successful international franchise that makes unearthly light cream puffs but why associate a choux pastry range with a hairy, pipe smoking mariner?
The Smoking Dog French Bistro: Apparently having cigarette ash and dog hair in the Ratatouille is a drawcard.

This is merely the beginning, a drop in the spittoon of life but I will not tire in this culinary crusade until taste buds across the globe are free from the tyranny of discustation.

Autumn's spectre on a Wintery pavement

Is this the work of a patriotic stencil artist or is it simply the only block in Canada to not feel the two stroke breath of a leaf blower?

Comfort Food

An almond and chocolate croissant from Boulangerie Chopain

Above my head Vancouver is making a concerted bid to impress international delegates to name it "the Greyest city in the World." Despite the horizontal rain and an umbrella that prefers to invert itself and masquerade as a portable satellite dish, I am exceedingly happy. On my lips remains the sweet grit of sugar that dusted the apple filled donut from Lee's Donuts in the Granville Island Market. The simple delight derived from biting into the yeasted dough to be greeted by the ooze of cinnamon infused apple sauce reminds me of the great comfort that food can give.

The term comfort food is synonymous with fried food and rich Winter fare but to me it is the taste, the smell of anything that makes you feel at home. What makes it even better is that food can be a fantasy home entirely removed from your own. It can be a Mexican hacienda, a rustic Tuscan villa or a refined, ultra-modern condominium with sleek lines.

Some dishes through no fault of their own fall out of favour or even worse into being cliched.  Chicken cacciatore is one such victim of over-exposure and poor execution. Having cooked it on a couple occasions recently I have found it to be every bit as comforting as it would have been to the cacciatore (or hunters) who originally prepared it. What's not to love about golden, braised chicken falling off the bone with the sweetness of sweated onion, garlic, oregano and red pepper; the salty edge of capers and plump olives in a shimmering, rich tomato and white wine sauce.

At times home can be constructed from the most unassuming of materials. Beef cheeks are some of my favourite lumber for building a snug log cabin in the woods. Given time they reward you for your patience as the beautiful, gelatinous texture melts away in your mouth. For a dinner party I braised some with red wine and thyme at 95C for twelve hours and served it with a celeriac puree. To serve with the meal, I made a salad with a new building material for me; fresh chickpeas. I paired the blanched chickpeas with shaved golden beetroot, kohlrabi, parsley, shallot and dressed it with lemon juice, olive oil and dried oregano. It proved to be a fresh new addition in my beef cheek cabin.

Every so often strangers provide you with a home away from home. At the moment I have an insatiable hunger for my two new homes (La Tacqueria and Bread & Meat) both in Gastown that has me constantly thinking "homeward bound I wish I was."

La Tacqueria is hole in the wall Mexican taco shop serving their addictive fillings in double soft corn tortillas. The simple answer to the question how do you choose between the Pescado (grilled fish with pico de gallo) and the De Cachete (braised pork cheeks from Chilliwack) is you don't. You order both plus the sauteed mushrooms in chipotle sauce (De Picadillo), the braised beef cheeks with pickled onion and hope that you have room left for the Rajas Con Crema. 

Conveniently only a block away from La Tacqueria, an Australian ex-pat and his Canadian mates have established a stubble chic shrine to carbs and protein; Meat & Bread. The concept is as simple as the name, on the altar of warm, freshly baked bread is placed delicious portions of fattened sacrificial beast. It might be harissa braised lamb shoulder with jicama and coriander served on the paper lined wooden chopping board along the house mustard and truly excellent sambal. Ultimately it's all about the porchetta, a rolled roast of Two Rivers pork. The slices of herb stuffed porchetta are sweet, succulent with the textural contrast of the crunch of golden crackling and finished with a bright, punchy salsa verde.

Although I will be risking accusations of being a home wrecker I may well have discovered a comfort food that will tear me away from my Gastown digs. Ramen Santouka offers Tokusen Toroniku Ramen, a bowl of buttery flavoured, salt broth full of noodles. The pork broth is accompanied by bamboo shoots, jelly ear, slices of melting boiled pigs jowl and finished with a pickled plum.

Every so often I encounter a person who cooks so effortlessly and with such soul that I cannot help but be envious. The latest is Delilah a joyous Columbian kitchen-hand who calls me (and everyone else) honey. One night as she had promised, Delilah brought in some of her home cooking, deboned chicken thighs stuffed with potato and peas and cooked in a "coconut milk gravy" as well as a simple salad. Some people cook as they live and I am thankful to have met and eaten Delilah's food.

  

The plight of being a culinary orphan is a very pleasant affliction, taking comfort and being nurtured by all foods that open their doors to me. In the words of another ravenous street urchin, I am left asking "Please sir, can I've some more?"  

Stanley Park Seawall

 Sunset over Kitsilano (albeit at twenty past four).

Some festive ice decorations hanging on the rock faces along the seawall.

The view from Stanley Park across the water towards West Vancouver.

Deck the Halls with the bowels of holly!

Due to a glitch in scheduling, apparently there is another season of significance occurring concurrently with Canada's most celebrated season; the National Hockey League. Most Vancouver residents are hoping that the Sedin twins will skate down their chimney and deposit a Stanley cup in their Canuck monogramed stockings. Those that have been able to tear themselves away from the twenty four hour analysis of all things puck related, have been perplexed by the appearance of the mascots of the rival league.
Lights, wreaths and spray frosting abounds in this new realm populated by people on stilts dressed as twelve foot ginger bread men and Santas keeping warm in malls assisted by a bevy of busty Jagermeister elvettes. Being a nation of heretics, Canadians have a muddied understanding of the Christmas traditions. In fact many here believe that Christmas Day was celebrated on February 28 this year, with the gold medal victory over the United States of America in the men's ice hockey. This belief was compounded by the presence of "The Great One" (Wayne Gretzky) who Canadian children are raised to view as the bearer of gifts.
Another staple of the Christmas period is the Canadian traditional "Deck the halls" the origins of which have been sugar coated over time. Originally the song was written to document a pagan practice of Canadian lumberjacks involving the ritual sacrifice of a maiden named Holly. The shrub that we know as Holly is a symbolic representation of the act, the berries are the viscera and the serrated leaves are like the lumber saw used to sacrifice the virgin. The woodsmen thought that this ritual would ensure a bounty of fresh lumber in the coming year and reduce the sinus problems associated with milling Red cedar.

The Raccoon that ate Neil Young

In the lead up to carving my very first pumpkin for Halloween, I sought to find an inspiration that encapsulated the harvest spirit, the role of the moon and a distinctly Canadian sense. What better than a jack o lantern paying homage to Neil Young's iconic Harvest Moon album! Armed with a nine dollar carving kit, I set about realising my vision.

Upon completing the pumpkin I placed it on the back deck. Not for a moment did I suspect that in such a good neighbourhood there would be the presence of a rabid Lynyrd Skynyrd fan, a raccoon hell bent on exacting his southern revenge on the Canadian songsmith. The image above shows the pumpkin Neil Young in happier times, minutes before his untimely demise.

Snow Day

For all of you that have wondered what became of the performing artist responsible for the early nineties hit “Informer”, it turns out that the magical story of his fate is a familiar folk tale here in Canada. According to recording industry insiders, Snow poured all of his creative juices into making “Informer” which climbed the music charts ascending into the stratosphere of success. Eventually all of Snow’s creative essence was absorbed into the atmosphere (leaving the white rapper 99% inspiration free and severely dehydrated) and as the world cooled to his unintelligible rhymes, the evaporated creativity formed ice crystals (not to confused with Vanilla Ice crystals), which fell silently to earth. In time, this meteorological phenomenon was named after the man responsible for it. To this day, Canadian children build Snowmen as a cautionary totem to remind budding Justin Biebers of the perilous pitfalls of life as a performing artist. Some say that if you listen closely, you can hear these frozen, sculpted priors whisper “…A licky boom boom down…”

Having not seen snow in many now, there was a certain child-like joy and wonder to waking up to find the world iced in ten centimetres of snow. It transforms the landscape with its’ complete disregard of man made delineations. It is obviously not well versed in notions of private property or possibly it has socialist inclinations as it indiscriminately levels the landscape, concealing the borders, paying no heed to social hierarchies blanketing lawns both the manicured and the threadbare. The austere, monochromatic tones of winter certainly reflect communist leanings but it is hard to dispel the feeling that there is something decidedly anarchic about snowfall. Observing the way the snowflakes come to roost on tree branches, cling to the lee side of street posts and effortlessly alight on the power line tightropes, it’s like an icy act of defiance against the forces of nature and gravity. Newton’s laws aren’t the only being broken as the mechanisms of the state are entombed in ice. The visual memory of: roads, fire hydrants and utilities, obliterated by the marauding water crystals.

Contrary to the “winter wonderland” tag that is often used to describe the pristine appearance of a landscape under the covering of snow there is the little discussed dirty underworld of this sub-zero playground. For every Disneyland moment there is developing world sweat-shop, in the dungeons deep beneath the happiest place on earth, where undiscovered Cinderellas produce affordable memories. The same is true in the snow. Look beyond the frosted gingerbread  cottages and you will see that it is not all reindeer with sleigh bells and candy canes.
The soundtrack to winter is a little less Bing Crosby and more:
"A million magic crystals, painted pure and white
A multi-million dollars almost overnight
Twice as sweet as sugar, twice as bitter as salt
And if you get hooked, baby, it's nobody else's fault, so don't do it!"
That's right Mr Grandmaster Flash, I've White Lines blowin' through my mind! The outside world looks the set of Scarface; people, automobiles are getting crazy on ice; used pine-needles litter the pavements and the roads look like they are lined with dirty crack rocks. The slippery slide is well documented, one day you may sitting on the deck with the smell of skunk lingering in the air and the next you are in casualty because your nose has collapsed due to a frost-bitten septum having snorted your driveway.

It is fast becoming clear why Georgio Armani would hold off launching collections until Spring. Black ice is not the only reason runways are treacherous for models at this time of year. Anna Wintour savaged the last designer to put size zero women in long johns, with multiple layered t-shirts, a Stanfield under a fluoro waterproof jacket with reflective highlights and finished off with a toque and mittens. Apparently she did not like the silhouette! Suddenly the minus fourteen degree over night temperature is bringing into focus the logic behind the previously inexplicable fashion trends of Cat work boots, puffy jackets and the Seattle grunge layered look. Currently I have been pushing the boundaries of cold weather couture with knee length woollen socks (last seen on Olivia Newton-John's 1981 tour of Antarctic RSL clubs) under a pair boots that only rated to -70 Celsius, offset by toque coiffed hair.

Whilst salting the roads is a common and necessary practice to ensure that they are free of ice, it has hidden and unexpected side-effects. When cooking with Canadian seafood it is important to be aware to under season as much of it has been reared in the briny ocean outfall.  This high sodium diet is having devastating effects on the native wildlife. The orca population complains of shortness of breath and hypertension is hampering sockeye salmon in their efforts to climb the fish ladders to spawn. One plus is that the iodized road salt has reduced the rate of goiter in sea lions.

One thing is for certain winter is a frustrating time for your inner perfectionist. When shovelling the snow    from the driveway, I could feel myself channelling Lady MacBeth. "Out, damned ice spot!...What, will these driveways ne'er be cleared?" As I knelt on the concrete gently thawing it with a blow dryer, I gazed further afield and realised that I had a greater purpose in life; to save the vegetation of the world from freezer burn. Now I am but one man on a cling wrap crusade to seal in the freshness of a landscape under a meteorological assault.

The phrase "pure as snow" is somewhat of a misnomer considering its' associations with: questionable clothing; a forgotten white rapper; drug connotations; excessive salt and an indecipherable political agenda. Despite all of this, I feel an overwhelming urge to embrace the cold and warm the cockles of my heart with a candy cane latte supreme.