Some people call it stopping to smell the flowers. I call it traipsing around to sniff at wine glasses and to inhale the aromas from various kitchens, including my own.
Yup, I've finally made the announcement to staff, clients and colleagues: starting 1 January 2010, I'm taking an extended sabbatical.
Wish me good luck and good love!
No, it's not the Balenciaga black boots, nor the red leather jacket from Dolce & Gabbana that were both at 30% off on Bangkok's city-wide midnight sale. While I lusted after these two objects of every fashionista's desire, it was easy enough to turn my back on them: they didn't have the boots in my size (thankfully) and the jacket cost as much as a holiday in Italy!
But this - an idea broached by K when the staff voted on Bangkok for our annual company outing - I couldn't NOT buy: a cooking lesson at the Oriental Thai Cooking School! After the temple-hopping and the all-day shopping, what else is there to do in Bangkok anyway? Eat, of course; and better yet, cook!
There couldn't have been a better place to discover the subtle culinary secrets of this ancient kingdom. The Oriental Thai Cooking School is a renowned school that sits within the enclave of The Oriental Hotel, a must-visit, must-experience destination, in fact, one of the "1001 Places to See Before You Die".
I expected to be terrified as this was my first ever cooking course; instead I found self-confidence. I got to learn to cook 4 classic Thai dishes in an elegant, lush setting, under the guidance of a gentle Thai chef. I even got, among other gifts, an apron that will have me prancing in the kitchen.
The 3-hour course? THB4000 per person. The experience? Priceless.
Nowhere, it seems, has brunch become such competitive sport than in Toronto.
I understand that brunch is a North American phenomenon, but I don't think the frenzied search for the perfect Egg Benedict reaches this fever pitch in New York, for example. Maybe I’m just clueless, as I stay with my family whenever I’m in the US. So, if they're not indulging my craving for a bagel-cream cheese-lox trio for breakfast, my sisters make sure I wake up to a hot plate of fried eggs, rice and pork chop. Taking me for breakfast elsewhere is unthinkable, much more so, suggesting that a heavy breakfast is meant to be lunch as well.
But I can imagine what luxury a lazy weekend morning is in this part of the world, one not to be wasted slaving at the stove. In Toronto, where I get my share of kitchen duties whenever I visit, I admit that I’ve learned to embrace this wonderful brunch culture.
An escape from the dreaded chore, yes, but more than that, it's become a little game that Poch and I get into rather seriously every weekend: we pull out a checklist drawn up days before, tick out cafes cited by some newspaper, magazine or blog and wage a $10-12 bet on an egg benedict or egg florentine – all the time thinking that probably half the city is doing the very same thing.
In Toronto, brunch is usually just between 10am and 3pm, a small window to catch and that alone gets the adrenalin rushing. Nothing like the prospect of standing last in line - in an 8º weather - kicks our butts out of bed.
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Top photo: what in my book is the best brunch in the city - a waffle egg benedict from Petit Dejeuner, 191 King E. These waffles are so light and delicately crunchy, but bursting with flavors of butter and cream with each bite. To me, they just sing "breakfast!"
Right photo: Petit Dejeuner's Egg Florentine. But Poch' vote goes to the Huevos Divorciados of Easy Restaurant, 645 Queen Street West. So called divorciados, because eggs, fried beans, fries and veggies come together on the plate in one big mess - like most divorces :-)
Think of them as culinary speakeasies - these secret, underground, anti-restaurants that have become so popular in New York, Paris, Barcelona, Sydney and, more recently, in Toronto. They usually have no fixed locations and open up only for dinners and on random dates. Seats are limited (rarely more than 15), so reservations - which can only be made online - are essential. The menu is always changing and never disclosed until the dinner itself - just like the chef who usually remains anonymous or is different each time.
They probably started as a reaction to high rentals and costs of operating a restaurant, but I prefer to think of these underground restaurants as a put-down of celebrity chefs and their over-priced, over-hyped establishments, a movement certainly worthy of our applause and support.
The irony is that this underground movement doesn’t seem to be swinging the trend the opposite way. In fact, many underground restaurants bring exclusivity to the extreme, even upping the ante for bragging rights. It's unlikely then that they will democratize fine dining.
At Toronto’s Charlie’s Burgers, for example, it’s not enough that you can afford its $110 meal ticket (so called “cash donation” which varies from dinner to dinner). You need to be “accepted” as a guest, a process that involves applying on-line, answering a questionnaire (obviously to measure one’s foodie quotient), hoping to be put on the waitlist (seats are snapped up within minutes after a dinner announcement is posted) and, after much patience and anxiety, receiving an email that details the directions to the venue but divulges nothing much in terms of the menu.
During my visit to Toronto last summer, Poch filled up the questionnaire for me and managed to squeeze me into Charlie’s guest list, but I had to leave for Manila before the scheduled dinner.
This trip, though, we were fortunate to get ourselves a couple of seats in 6º, another popular Toronto-based underground restaurant.
Unlike Charlie’s Burgers where the chefs and venues are different each time, the 6º dining series is created by one chef, Karen Viva-Haynes of Viva Tastings. It’s held in one location, literally underground, in a kitchen built in the basement of her house on Henry Street and which she uses for her corporate catering and cooking classes.
Where Charlie’s parties run up to 20-30 people, Haynes’ dining events are more intimate and less formal, with no more than 14 guests seated around the stainless-steel worktable in the middle of the kitchen.
The restaurant name 6º is for 6º of separation. So what was the “connection” that got us in? Haynes said she noted the email address that Poch used in her application. It was from MacLaren, the ad agency where her daughter used to work.
I like that it was a less intricate – and less pretentious – way of getting a dinner invite. Also, I love that we could watch Haynes and her sous chef at work - preparing, cooking, plating and explaining the dishes to us as they are served. The price tag for the dinner was also more modest ($85pp) and it’s BYOB.
Like Charlie’s Burgers, Karen Viva-Haynes wouldn’t disclose her multi-course tasting menu until the dinner itself. At most, she would name a few ingredients, a concession to help guests decide on the wine to bring. For our dinner last Sunday, she mentioned Ontario venison, fingerling potatoes, apples, horse radish, organic greens and shrimp. She advised that a blended wine – red or white - would work well, as the dishes would be heavier to fit with the season.
Poch and I deliberated between the pinot noir I had bought in a previous trip to Burgundy and a Barolo which she had been reserving for “the right occasion”. So Barolo it was, an Italian favorite that always paired very well with stews and game like venison and wild boar.
Our dinner turned out to be excellent, from start to finish. Presentation-wise, it was simple, almost austere. But the flavors, rich and deep, more than made up for the lack of flourish.
We were welcomed with a hot apple cider drink with cranberries and appetizers of cognac-and-mushroom terrine and beet salad with goat cheese aioli in fried wanton cones. Dessert was a comforting, pub-style pudding. Interestingly, the salad of honey crisp apple and greens was served after, not before the heavy courses - French style. It was a 7-course dinner that included a white bean velouté with candied pancetta, sauteéd mushroom with truffles shavings, prawns wrapped in crisp potato strings and the venison pot pie. The amuse bouche was memorable, too: smoked eggs with cayenne-laced stuffing.
When Poch and I emerged from the basement kitchen, it felt like we had just emerged from an underground amusement park; the cold air outside heightened our sense of exhilaration - as if down there, we handed the joystick to the chef and just held on tight for the ride.
True, it is the vibe of exclusivity and secrecy that attracts a hungry audience to underground restaurants like Charlie's Burgers and 6º. But I think what will keep the buzz going is that audience experience I have so futilely described. These culinary speakeasies get it and are putting the right things together that will provoke and delight the jaded palate. No, not ambience, nor service, not even a 3-star Michelin rating. Instead, these: suspense, surprise, surrender.
Let's admit it. Aren't these what we truly, deeply want and seek out, in bed as at the dining table?
I'm again in Toronto. Again, and loving it.
I arrived in time for the Holloween Parade. Though not in the same grand scale as New York's, it was nevertheless wild and not to be missed. Church Street, in Toronto's gay district, was cordoned off. Who cared if it was 4ºC, and it's not even winter! Aside from the usual suspects (mummies and trannies), an interesting cast of characters came and partied: the Joker, Dorothy of Oz, Bert and Ernie, Andy Warhol, Anna Wintour! A friend of Poch's, dressed over-the-top as Lady Gaga, landed on the pages of Toronto newspapers and blogs the following morning. Poch and I, on the other hand, managed to score a mask from Value Village. So even if I only had an afternoon to shop for costumes, I thought I managed to spook people as the living dead. Meanwhile, Poch pulled out a costume from her treasure chest and came as a wench from Pirates of the Carribean.
Pictures? Our cameras suddenly went wonky on us. Spooky!
(Photos taken at Saiseki Sakura on Church Street (more about its food in another post): me sans mask; Poch as pirate wench. Click here for more holloween pics, Toronto style.)
All we probably know of Toronto-based chef, Mark McEwan, is that he has a show that airs (now mostly re-runs) on The Asian Food Channel.
Heat is some kind of reality tv on the drama and complexities of running a high-end catering business. It ushers us behind kitchen doors where McEwan and his team roll out 4-5 course dinners for 200 people or so in an atmosphere guaranteed to bust arteries and unleash inner beasts. But McEwan is no Gordon Ramsay. No four-letter words fly across the kitchen counter. No apprentices burst into tears. The heat here is nowhere near Gordon's Hell's Kitchen - and Heat nowhere near HK in tv ratings.
But this is where McEwan leaves Ramsay eating his dust: McEwan has just put up one of Toronto's biggest gourmet shopping destinations. Sure, McEwan may not have his signature etched on some high-end pots and pans, but his name is emblazoned on the facade of what people say rivals Toronto's Whole Foods in size and offerings.
McEwan is one of the first to open in the Shops at Don Mills near Lawrence and Don Mills. Here you'll find fresh produce, prime cuts of meats, a wide choice of seafoods, specialty food and, of course, his own brand of gourmet spice mixes, dips, stock and oil. Including his own recipes of hot meals-to-go, like truffle mac'n cheese, glazed pork belly and vegetable curry with biryani rice which my sister, I and Poch had. Who says food eaten off styro boxes, with plastic spoons and forks, have to be blah?
Gordon Ramsay - and other high-profile chefs - must be scratching their head, "why didn't I think of that?"
(McEwan's photo, topmost, from the National Post)
Just when I thought a city like New York couldn't surprise me anymore, she turns around and shows me what once was an urban blight - the bones of an old, abandoned railway 30 feet or so above street level - transformed into a 3-km stretch of green space and promenade. Of course, New York isn't the first city to build an elevated park; Paris has Promenade Plantée, similarly converted from a railway. But when New York finally built her own, the result just took my breath away.
The High Line snakes from 20th St. between 10th and 11th Avenues, all the way to Gansevoort St. in the heart of the meat-packing district, offering a view of the city never seen before. This time, you can look down on the trendy cafes, clubs and restaurants that line Manhattan's westside and have a peek into lofts and homes that happen to be on the same level. You can even sit in its small, open-air auditorium and, from a safe spot directly above the street, watch New York's infamous traffic - this is theater in itself! You'll also want to laze the afternoon away on those wooden lounge chairs with wheels set on the railtracks, a favorite among sunbathers.
I love that the High Line doesn't have the manicured, self-conscious look of modern parks. In fact, the landscaping incorporates many of the plant species that grew on the rail bed during the 25 years after the trains stopped running.
And that's what I find most inspiring about it, that this "park in the sky" has remained faithful to its history: the ruins of an industrial age where nature refused to die, where grass and flowers grew wild and persistent, like hope that asserts itself through cement cracks and decaying steel.
I can't help but fall in love with this city, again.
Above, a pre-construction shot of the railway, taken from the High Line Blog.
For another post on urban renewal, click here.
I don't have fear of flying; but there's a lot about flying that I dread. I dread being greeted by the smell of tired upholstery as soon as I step into the plane. I cringe at the singsong of welcomes from the cabin crew. Not even a privileged stay in the airline lounge cheers me up for the forthcoming trip. Not only is the food as joyless as what they serve on board, I find airline lounges as musty and eeriely quiet as a public library.
Flying, they say, has lost its romance. But, come to think of it, what's gone is not the romance, but the elements that stoke and sustain it - elegance and design.
So, was it this - the return of elegance and design - that made getting on a Porter flight from Toronto to New York so exciting?
Porter is a Toronto-based airline offering short haul routes between key Canada and US cities. If you're travelling from Toronto to Montreal, Quebec, Ottawa, Halifax, St. John, Thunder Bay, Vancouver, New York, Boston or Chicago, don't go to Pearson in suburban Mississauga but hie off to the dock, no more than 15 minutes from downtown, where possibly the world's shortest ferry ride will take you to the Porter airport on the island.
This, to me, is the Mac of airlines. The design sensibilities behind Porter are, well, very Steve Jobs. Sleek, modern; but there's a sense of fun with a retro bent - from the logo to the airline mascot (a lovable raccoon), the cabin interior (which looks and smells good), the paper (not microwavable plastic) box in which they serve food, the in-flight magazine that you'd actually want to take home and read. Then, of course, the stewardesses' blue caps and just-ironed, fresh-looking uniforms that bring out our nostalgia for PanAm and the whole romance that that era created about flying.
The design company behind Porter, I'm told, are the same guys behind Wallpaper, my favorite design magazine! So I wasn't surprised to find iMacs - not clunky pc's - at the Porter lounge. Here, wifi and coffee are free and unlimited, so are the biscottis, cookies and muffins. The lounge, by the way, is for all Porter passengers and this is where the elegance lies: no one feels left out, no one feels like an economy ticket holder.
The fact is, Porter is an economy airline - but one that, thankfully, didn't scrimp on elegance and design. Roundtrip ticket to New York: CAD$250, taxes and wine included.
Shown right, food box design by Winkreative. Check out their design portfolio on Porter here. Also an interesting read: a Design Sponge interview with Neal Whittington, one of the illustrators/graphic designers behind the Porter look, here.)
Who'd ever think of combining tomato juice and clam broth to make, not some vongole or marinara sauce, but a cocktail drink! Well, a mixologist from Calgary, Alberta did! Pressed to develop an original cocktail to celebrate the opening of an Italian restaurant, he created what is now Canada's most popular cocktail, the Bloody Caesar - also known as clamato caesar or red eye. The idea was picked up by the Duffy-Mott Company in New York and, thanks to them, we now have bottled and canned "clamato" for times we bloody need a caesar at home.
A bloody caesar consists of clamato (available in the juice section of most Canadian supermarkets), vodka, lime juice, spices like worcestershire sauce, horseradish and tabasco, celery salt (to rim the glass) and garnishings of celery, dill or olives. It's all of sweet, salty, sour, spicy and bitter - a refreshing yet savory drink that's proven to go very well with eggs (think catsup), hence its popularity as a brunch drink.
A recent survey on Toronto's best caesar led us to 5 of the city's trendiest restaurants and bars for their take on this national cocktail: the Gladstone Hotel and the Drake Hotel in Parkdale, Chehozki and Swan on Queen Street West, and Hemingway's in Yorkville. Our verdict: Chehozki wins hands down for their creative addition of red wine and horseradish toppings to the mix; lots of crunchy celery sticks too, when served at brunch. For best value, it's Swan at less than CAD$7. To avoid: Drake. Watered down, uninspired, overpriced at CAD$11 plus tax.
Poch and I prefer our home version: high-alcohol (lots of vodka), spicy (lots of tabasco) and vegetable-y (lots of dill and celery). Call it a spiked salad.
We were expecting a simple slice of brioche soaked in syrup and doused with rhum. Instead, we got this glass (shown above). Inside, the syrup/rhum-soaked cake was packed 4 inches high, topped with cream and, whoa, pierced with a straw and two medicine droppers. Yup, the medicine droppers were for adding more rhum to the cake, and the straw, to mop up the the sweet and intoxicating liquid that dripped to the bottom of the glass.
This, Poch and I swear, is the best baba au rhum we've ever had. And guess where we found it. Not in a French patisserie or restaurant (not even the profiterole at Joel Robuchon's elicited such shrieks of delight), but at the coffee/snack bar of what turned out to be my favorite shop in the whole of Paris - the Nespresso store on Champs-Élysée!
Could this be my best memory of Paris? Gleaming coffee gadgets and alcohol in my cake?
Above, top shot of Nespresso's Grands Crus and Collections Gallery. To visit the Nespresso Club in Paris, click here.
I always knew that until I saw the lay of the land, studied the angle of the sun, loosened the soil in my hand, and plucked a grape from its vine, I'd never really understand what wine was all about. This trip to France was really about leaving behind what books had taught me so far and getting down to (more) serious, empirical education on old world wines - which means a tour along Burgundy's Cote de Nuit and Cote de Beaune and, of course, a lot of wine tasting.
Thanks to Noel of Eye On Wine, I decided to do Burgundy instead of Bordeaux as I had originally planned. Better food, friendlier people, he said. And indeed it was a good place to start any wine journey. Burgundy is a region par excellence when it comes to single-grape wines: pinot noir and chardonnay. It is here that these grape varieties reach the sublime and, in the case of Romanée Conti - reputedly the most expensive wine in the world - a cult status that beats even that of Petrus in Bordeaux. Think upwards of 1,000 euros a bottle, that is, if you can get your hands on one.
That's a huge price to pay for wine from a tiny appellation. While it isn't Burgundy's smallest in terms of size (1.8 hectares), its yield is the lowest in the region - by design. Domaine de la Romanée Conti (aka DRC) follows extremely strict production method and produces only 450 cases a year, or roughly 25 liters/100 sqm. Think 3 grapes per plant!
While I didn't have the fortune of tasting this grand cru wine, a photo op at the Romanée Conti gate was enough to make me happy. I had a good fill of Burgundy wine, though, from numerous wine tastings, including a premier cru from Domaine Serrigny owned by Francine and Marie Laurie, possibly the only women winemakers in Burgundy. I ended up buying their 2006 "Les Peuillets" Savigny-Les Beaune, and for a teeny-weeny fraction of the price of a Romanée Conti, a premier cru from a Vosne-Romanée vineyard - one that's literally 3 steps (okay, 3 vineyards) from DRC, next to La Tache which is another name-droppable vineyard in Cote de Nuit. Call it social climbing by way of wine :-)
My wine path in France took a few interesting detours: Kir. Pastis. Absinthe. What trip to France would be complete without a sip of these local cocktails!
Kir was supposedly invented in Dijon, the capital of Burgundy which, aside from mustard, is famous for its wine and créme de cassis or blackcurrant liqueur, kir's two main ingredients. We could have waited to get to Dijon the following morning, but on our first day in France, we found ourselves in the heart of Paris' Marais district, right where you'd find what Frommer's described as "the best falafel in the planet".
A falafel is a fried patty made from chickpeas or fava beans and is usually served with a hummus-based sauce. They say that among the wines, a rosé is best with falafels; but somehow kir seemed the more appropriate drink as it evoked, at least to me, images of Morocco and Algeria. I've never tasted kir before, so maybe it's just how the name sounds. It turned out to be very good with the falafel, with its strong fruit component providing a welcome contrast to the inherently dry, dense texture and mild flavor of the dish. So kir it was, not wine, that was my first alcoholic drink in France.
I first read about pastis in one of Peter Mayle's books. Since South of France - where pastis is most popular - wasn't part of our itinerary, we ordered pastis the first chance we got - at our hotel's fuschia-themed, Philip Starck-ish, thoroughly modern bar. A setting so un-Provence! This anise-and-licorice flavored drink was served with a jug of water on the side, to be diluted according to preference. Interesting how the drink changed color from yellow to milky beige as soon as we poured the water in. Just like absinthe, they say.
Truth to tell, it was absinthe that we were keen on trying. Absinthe reputedly made people crazy and murderous, caused epilepsy and tuberculosis, ruined families and killed people. It was a mysterious, seductive, forbidden fruit, so much so that asking around where we could find it felt like we were trying to score hash or cocaine. A waiter we asked seemed shocked, saying it's banned in France (still ?!?). Anyway he told us about a bikers' bar in Montmartre that served absinthe. Finally, a call to a liqueur supplier led us to La Fée Verte, a bar in Marais. La Fée verte is French for the green fairy, which is another name - a secret code - for absinthe.
I wondered about all the hype made around this drink. It was, like pastis, anise-flavored and just as strong. But our heads didn't spin and we didn't degenerate into streetwalkers. What I loved, though, was the water container the waiter brought to our table. It was an antique piece, a glass jar on a tall pewter (?) base, with 4 metal spouts that released the water for diluting our drink. This was just so Moulin Rouge!
In Manila, I'd say only Je Suis Gourmand serves a decent-sized foie gras with the salad. Elsewhere, the foie gras is almost lost in the greens or is just a miserable sliver on top of some steak. That's why, foie gras is right there at the top of my list of must-eat in France.
First stop for foie gras was the Les Oenophiles Restaurant in Dijon. Its famous chef, Stephane Cattane, described his foie gras as "bloc de foie gras de canard poché dans un vins fruité, carapace épice, condiment orange-carottes" (right photo). Foie gras poached in fruity wine, who could resist?
What arrived was a shocker: The "bloc" was actually 1 inch thick and 3 inches in diameter! In terms of cholesterol content, I believe that's the equivalent of 20x20 inches of lechon skin. And this was just for starters! But who's complaining? I enjoyed it with a Chateau Henye 2003 Tokaji, a sweet wine much like a sauterne.
I swear I met my year's quota for foie gras with this decadent "bloc". But in France, there is no escaping death by foie gras.
Shown above (top photo) is course # 3 in the 9-course degustation dinner at Joel Robuchon's Atelier in Paris. This was no torchon, but a rich, quivering slice of fat duck liver, pan seared and served in a portion you wouldn't call degustation-size. I thought I'd keel over before I got to the lamb chops!
To think that earlier that day, Poch and I made a trip to La Grande Epicerie to buy that foie gras sandwich that Marketman mentioned here! Enjoyed picnic-style, with a (small) bottle of champagne... yum!
Yes - if it isn't obvious yet - I do love foie gras. Or maybe I just have a deathwish.
Paris-Dijon-Beaune in 10 days: To eat what "women who don't get fat" eat and to drink the wines that define "old world".
