Now - I am not an egg-lover. In fact, I'm barely an egg-eater, unless the egginess is disguised by other flavours. When Julie blanches at not only cooking but eating her way through Julia's whole section on eggs in 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking', I got pale in vicarious sympathy.
But we were at Olives for their Food Bar Series and were clustered in the open kitchen, as their chef, Jonathan Canning, was preparing our first course for the evening, Roasted Wild Mushroom and Zucchini Salad.
Saute pans sizzled, plates were prepped and lo and behold, a bowl of cold poached eggs appeared. They had been cooked earlier, then the whites trimmed to shapely restaurant perfection. They were now about to be re-simmered to warm them...surely the route to rubbery.
However after a brief rebathification, they were plated on top of the warm salad at the ideal stage of gooey yolk, showing no evidence of being cooked and primped earlier.
Hubby relished each runny mouthful...I mixed mine into the rest of the salad and also enjoyed, especially savouring the neat trick of twice cooked and still delicate eggs. I may not ever double boil any myself, but how cool is that?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Death of a Scallop
I bought these pretty little guys - love the salmon colour! - planning a nice, intimate dinner with Hubby. In fact, I chilled a bottle of the coveted Grand Pre Muscat for us to enjoy alongside.I researched scallop recipes and chose one from epicurious: Seared Scallops with Spicy Honey Citrus glaze.
I prepped everything else first; waiting to saute the scallops last so we could eat them just out of the pan. We sat down. The wine was poured; the candles lit - and took a bite.
I'd killed them...they were little pucks in glaze. It was a seafood massacre by another heavy handed prairie kid...mea culpa.
I'm determined to make great scallops even while acknowledging that many more may have to die in the pursuit of perfection. I will not let my conscience stop me! I will continue to sear the helpless things until I force them to yield...
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Pigging Out
Travel to me means food - when there's talk of tickets, I head for Chowhound http://chowhound.chow.com/boards and look up where other food-obsessed people are enjoying eating where I may be heading. Recently, I was in Vancouver for work for a few days. Options! What did I want to eat and where would I feel comfortable solo? Such a savoury problem.
I arrived on a damp fall evening, thinking sushi. The hotel desk recommended Miko, just a block away. But oops - it's not open Sundays. Robson Street is full of restaurants so I started walking.
On a Sunday night the Korean restaurants are full of Koreans, the Greek places full of Mediterranean types. Where does a transient eat? None of this is the food of my mama.
I had a dim recollection that there are some authentic Japanese noodle shops on Denman. Sure enough, out of the steam of its own broth cauldrons emerges Kintaro. Score! I stood at the door, a little disoriented: the cooks yell something out; the room is busy and dishevelled; I am the only white person. A waitress showed me to the perfect spot at the bar – front row to the tiny, open kitchen, packed with 4 enormous pots of simmering broth, a noodle-cooking pot of boiling water, towers of mighty red and green soup bowls, bins of toppings stacked up on a narrow ledge.
Seconds after the brief menu was placed in my hands, I am asked for my order. Without time to absorb my options, I choose the first one. I am asked how rich I want my broth and how fatty my meat – I go for medium and lean. No, I can’t have tea, they don’t serve it. Focus, people, it's all about the soup!
This is pig country. The broth is pork, as is the meat. When my bowl arrives, it has a fan of pork loin slices on top of noodles, with bean sprouts, a sheet of nori and bamboo sprouts. Yum to the ramen noodles, they have great texture and flavour of their own, but the unctuous richness of the broth is incredible. I expected the sliced pork, added cold, to be bland but it is all salty, piggy luxuriousness. Halfway through the bowl, I felt a flush of heat from the fat overload but it's so hard to stop! I escaped into the chilly night, defeated by the richness. The cooks shout a Japanese thank you to me as I stagger out. That was FUN.
For night two, given my current obsession with cheese, I was on the hunt for the local specialty shop. Les Amis du Fromage seems to be Vancouver’s stinky milk flagship – unfortunately, given my schedule, I wouldn’t be able to get there. But they have a new restaurant on the infamous and gentrifying East Hastings Street. I would like to walk but the concierge gently suggests a cab. I was glad I wasn't on foot all that way…and the street feels uncomfortably empty.
Au Petit Chavignol is, that night, all cool and quiet with a long concrete bar and dark upholstered chairs. I have it almost to myself. The bar is anchored by the most spectacular piece of kitchen equipment – an antique style, hand-spun meat slicer. I unashamedly ask to take a photo.
Because yes, along with superb cheese, we are still on the swine wagon. Pate! Prosciutto! Aged Jamon Iberico! All this after a belated Thanksgiving ham the day before.
I start with the cream of celeriac soup – because if one is making a dinner of cheese, why wouldn’t one start with cream soup? – and move on to a tasting platter. This is three cheeses, the three piggy portions of charcuterie along with sliced baguette and slim, crisp crackers. I’ve asked for a pass on camembert, it’s just too bland for me. Instead, as the soft cheese, I’m given La Sauvagine from Quebec, which while having the creamy spreadibility of a brie, also has a delicious, caramel complexity. Mmmm. A cave aged Gruyere and blue St. Agur are alongside. I rationed the cornichons – eating is a dance, balancing the rich intensity of the cheese and meat against a glass of Viognier, punctuated by the asperity of the pickle when my palate is on the verge of fat collapse. It’s all very, very good but I do not usually eat like this. I am forced to concede without finishing – again.
Next up - Fort St. John in northeastern B.C., which does not have any postings in Chowhound. The restaurant list includes the Dairy Queen Brazier. You begin to feel my pain.
I arrived on a damp fall evening, thinking sushi. The hotel desk recommended Miko, just a block away. But oops - it's not open Sundays. Robson Street is full of restaurants so I started walking.
On a Sunday night the Korean restaurants are full of Koreans, the Greek places full of Mediterranean types. Where does a transient eat? None of this is the food of my mama.
I had a dim recollection that there are some authentic Japanese noodle shops on Denman. Sure enough, out of the steam of its own broth cauldrons emerges Kintaro. Score! I stood at the door, a little disoriented: the cooks yell something out; the room is busy and dishevelled; I am the only white person. A waitress showed me to the perfect spot at the bar – front row to the tiny, open kitchen, packed with 4 enormous pots of simmering broth, a noodle-cooking pot of boiling water, towers of mighty red and green soup bowls, bins of toppings stacked up on a narrow ledge.
Seconds after the brief menu was placed in my hands, I am asked for my order. Without time to absorb my options, I choose the first one. I am asked how rich I want my broth and how fatty my meat – I go for medium and lean. No, I can’t have tea, they don’t serve it. Focus, people, it's all about the soup!
This is pig country. The broth is pork, as is the meat. When my bowl arrives, it has a fan of pork loin slices on top of noodles, with bean sprouts, a sheet of nori and bamboo sprouts. Yum to the ramen noodles, they have great texture and flavour of their own, but the unctuous richness of the broth is incredible. I expected the sliced pork, added cold, to be bland but it is all salty, piggy luxuriousness. Halfway through the bowl, I felt a flush of heat from the fat overload but it's so hard to stop! I escaped into the chilly night, defeated by the richness. The cooks shout a Japanese thank you to me as I stagger out. That was FUN.
For night two, given my current obsession with cheese, I was on the hunt for the local specialty shop. Les Amis du Fromage seems to be Vancouver’s stinky milk flagship – unfortunately, given my schedule, I wouldn’t be able to get there. But they have a new restaurant on the infamous and gentrifying East Hastings Street. I would like to walk but the concierge gently suggests a cab. I was glad I wasn't on foot all that way…and the street feels uncomfortably empty.
Au Petit Chavignol is, that night, all cool and quiet with a long concrete bar and dark upholstered chairs. I have it almost to myself. The bar is anchored by the most spectacular piece of kitchen equipment – an antique style, hand-spun meat slicer. I unashamedly ask to take a photo.
Because yes, along with superb cheese, we are still on the swine wagon. Pate! Prosciutto! Aged Jamon Iberico! All this after a belated Thanksgiving ham the day before.I start with the cream of celeriac soup – because if one is making a dinner of cheese, why wouldn’t one start with cream soup? – and move on to a tasting platter. This is three cheeses, the three piggy portions of charcuterie along with sliced baguette and slim, crisp crackers. I’ve asked for a pass on camembert, it’s just too bland for me. Instead, as the soft cheese, I’m given La Sauvagine from Quebec, which while having the creamy spreadibility of a brie, also has a delicious, caramel complexity. Mmmm. A cave aged Gruyere and blue St. Agur are alongside. I rationed the cornichons – eating is a dance, balancing the rich intensity of the cheese and meat against a glass of Viognier, punctuated by the asperity of the pickle when my palate is on the verge of fat collapse. It’s all very, very good but I do not usually eat like this. I am forced to concede without finishing – again.
Next up - Fort St. John in northeastern B.C., which does not have any postings in Chowhound. The restaurant list includes the Dairy Queen Brazier. You begin to feel my pain.
