Ez gezunterheyt at Gruman's

It is not every day that I am speechless, with tears running down my cheeks, in a restaurant.

Somehow, Shauna had found on the internet the fact that Calgary had its very own Jewish delicatessen - and apparently, according to the reviews, one that is every bit as authentic to Bubby's recipes as the most famous of any of them in New York City are.  As an absolute devotee of Montreal Smoked Meat sandwiches - from which she has been deprived since her Celiac diagnosis, she allowed herself a few moments of mourning salivation over the glistening photographs on Gruman's Catering and Delicatessen website, and then resigned herself to making another sacrifice to keep her insides whole.

Maybe they do Gluten Free, though.  Maybe we'll just call and ask.  So we did.  Because on their menu, tucked under a little asterisk under the "Sandwiches" heading, there's the small print - "gluten free bread available".  With all due respect, though, that usually means "Here, Celiac.  Have this little plate while the others in your party indulge in real food."  But no - the charming Australian lady on the phone confirmed that everything on the menu except the regular bread and the potato salad could easily be made Gluten Free.  "Even the meat?"  Yes - the Montreal Smoked Meat is Gluten Free.

So Rae decided it was time to host her parents to Brunch this past Saturday.  "How long are we willing to wait, if it's busy?"  We decided 20 minutes would be the limit.  Well, we walked right in.  Yes, it was humming with activity, but there was still a booth left.  What was immediately evident was how very hard every staff member was working - you have seldom seen such a dedicated, thoughtful, and professional group of people taking this service job so much to heart.  Plate after plate of steaming sandwiches, chicken soup with matzoh balls as big as your fist, and crispy latkes with sour cream paraded past our table as we perused our menus.  Our server was every bit a member of this crack team - fully knowledgeable about the travails of celiac disease, and providing the kind of reassurance that removed all doubt.

We ordered.  Shauna had to have the smoked meat sandwich, with an appetizer of latkes.  The confirmation that these, too, were gluten free provoked an involuntarily loud cheer and a touchdown signal from both Rae and Shauna.

Rae selected eggs benedict served ON her latkes:

And I needed a Reuben.  Now, I can eat just about anything, but for some reason, caraway seeds are the bane of my existence.  I struggled for a moment - to be well and truly authentic, this Reuben MUST have to come on Jewish rye bread, studded with caraway. Nope, can't do it.  I ordered multigrain - I just really needed to enjoy this meal without any distractions.  (Little did I know...)

I thought a sandwich wouldn't quite be enough - so I spied chopped liver on the menu.  I have used the expression often, to underline how I feel about being made to feel inferior by being compared to this lowly dish. But what the heck - it seemed quintessentially "Jewish deli", so I ordered it.  It came with caraway rye toast crisps - which I accepted.  Let me be a bit authentic, anyway.

The kitchen manager showed up at our table to advise that not only had they taken out a clean cutting board and knife to cut the smoked meat, they'd also opened a brand new one from which to slice it.  They clearly take their diner's culinary safety to heart.  He also asked Shauna to tell him what she thought of the gluten free bread.

The latkes arrived.  Rae and Shauna were in heaven.  They were absolutely crispy golden on the outside, and creamy good inside, without the annoying onionness that Shauna has encountered too often.  These were perfect.

My chopped liver came too.  A big ice-cream scoop full, surrounded by the rye crisps, and garnished with a sprinkle of green onions.

I took what I thought was my introductory bite of this staple food.

I could not speak.  My eyes welled up (like they are doing as I type).  I was instantly flooded by the most powerful memory - this was my Oma's dish.  She made it for me, and the last time I had it was over thirty years ago.  I had no idea "chopped liver" was this - this massive connection to my childhood, this essence of my grandmother's kindness.  They say taste and smell have the most power to trigger memory, and they're right.  Shauna thought I was reacting to the caraway in the bread.  But when I could finally talk, to our passing server, I told her what was going on in my head, and asked her to tell Peter, the owner - who was bussing tables, making coffee, and watching, watching the people fall in love with his mother's recipes.  He came over, beaming.  Yes, this is why he does what he does, in her memory.

Rae could not get enough of her eggs benedict.  They were gone faster than either of our sandwiches were. Shauna's gluten-free bun could not long contain the impossibly-balanced pile of smoked meat slathered with mustard, letting her take one or two bites sandwich-style, then collapsing to knife and fork territory for the balance of brunch.  Never mind - the taste was incredible.

And my Reuben was the kind of meal your grandmother expects you to finish before you go home - everything fitting together so perfectly, and practically - not too much sauerkraut, just enough fragrant melted swiss, and the signature ruddy beef center. Lots and lots and lots of it.  No matter that it came on multigrain bread - that caused no-one any concerns, as it turned out.

But for me, the star was that pedestrian globe of goodness.  I bought an extra 200 grams to go, and gave it to my 80-yr. old father that afternoon.  It was his mom it brought to my mind, and I wanted to pass him some memory on toast.

Gruman's also has lox, and brisket, and kosher hot dogs, and chicken soup.  I need to try them all. Repeatedly.  They'll also cater any event.  Hmmm - we have a wedding coming up.

Played me like a violin....

Our original intent, complete with planning and forethought, was to head to dinner in Edmonton at a guaranteed gluten-free establishment, for which that city (with its thrumming and active food reputation) is justly famous.  The Gluten Free Diner, perhaps, or Deluxe Diner, with their drop-dead array of delicious burgers, or maybe back to the redoubtable Cajun delights of Louisiana Purchase.  On top of that were the recommendations sought and helpfully provided by obliging Edmontonians on the Twittersphere - for the four of us up from Calgary for the weekend.

The point was, we weren't really all that hungry, having passed a tasty and entirely happy birthday celebration with Mom earlier in the afternoon, but past experience suggested we really needed to decide on something in advance.  I don't know what made us stuff the best-laid plans into the trunk of the car and start the kind of aimless wandering drive that normally characterizes the best of any vacation - but we did, drifting slowly westward along 104 Avenue.   I suppose the best part about not being that hungry means that it is relatively easy to drive right past Red Robin's and Hudson's Tap House without feeling any pangs - and it became pretty obvious without saying a word that the general consensus in the car was to find something memorable.

We found ourselves in the High Street - that tiny section of Edmonton just off the western edge of Jasper Avenue and 124 Street - replete with quaint boutiques and specialty stores - and the Urban Diner.  We dropped in to look at the menu.  It featured the usual - burgers, salads, pizzas, and "we can do Gluten Free on request".  Nothing against the Diner - out we went, and around the corner, right past Violino Traditional Italian Restaurant (dismissing it out of hand because it looked like the usual expensive place having taken up residence in one of those huge, old, and charming Glenora mansions), and wound up inside Manor Casual Bistro next door.  It had a Chaine des Rotisseurs plaque by the door - and was every bit as promising inside another mansion, yes, but very tastefully laid out with small tables in an expanded living room...

But we walked out of this one, too.  It can be very disconcerting to ask the waitstaff what we might have, as a result of two of our party having a medical requirement not to eat gluten - and see the telltale flash of confusion as you say the words "gluten free", coupled with a long pause, and the questioning word "Salad?"  in reply...  Apparently, Manor Casual Bistro's website claims their specialty is adapting menu items to suit special dietary needs.  Someone forgot to tell this waitperson.  No malice, though - we didn't really feel like a fifteen dollar burger with eight dollar fries.

Back to the sidewalk - where, Violino had decided that perhaps its imposing image might be made more welcoming if their menu was out there for all to see, sheltered in a wooden and glass houselet.  Kenna spotted something immediately, something which made her really excited about a menu for the first time all day.  We peered more closely.  Boneless slow-braised short ribs, woodland mushroom risotto with barolo demi sauce?  Beef tenderloin wrapped with wild boar bacon?  Pan-seared scallop, black rice, pomegranate vinaigrette with a basil chiffonade?

Il Forno, on the veranda...

Let's go see.

First, the usual spiel at the front entry - which was particularly warm and inviting (the entry, not the spiel) - "we have a medical need for gluten free, wondering if you....."

One staff person magically became three, listening very attentively to every word.  The boss (for clearly it was he) didn't even have to let us finish.  "Table three!" he directed the maitresse, then "We WILL take care of you!" to us.

We entered an utterly charming, utterly beautiful dining room.  Chairs covered in tasteful cream linen, with tabletops sensibly squared off in brilliant white paper (to catch the drips of uncaringly blissful diners).  Blonde granite sheathed the walls all around, with antique sidebars and credenzas nestled in alcoves, and beautiful, antique original glass panes still in their frames providing a chiaroscuro view of the sunset outside on the patio, right behind Violino's authentic outdoor brick and stone forno oven.

Our server arrived.  This is one of those rare guys who exudes passion for his job, and his job is your satisfaction.  We repeated our Gluten Free message after a good look at the full menu - and when he told us that everything but two items on the menu could and would be made without gluten, Shauna and Rae were both rendered speechless.  When he went on to ask if they would like some Gluten Free bread to start - which would take about 12 minutes, as it is fresh-baked to order (!) - they actually teared up.

Cocktails arrived, along with a dish redolent with emerald olive oil shot through with winey, redolent balsamic vinegar and a spray of crushed pepper flakes.  We drank, slowly, for 12 minutes.

The bread followed.  It was slim, creamy-colored, with a caramel brown edge, like the finest crepes, and steaming from the oven.  They took a first bite.  More tears, whispers of "It's crunchy on the outside, and so soft inside!"

Worth the price of admission

And complete with its own obviously homemade dipping marinara sauce.  The quandary was whether to go olive oil or tomato - but honestly, this bread stood on its own merits, defiantly, triumphantly wheat free, and finally every bit as delicious as "the real thing".  Which arrived for Kenna and me a moment later - but to be honest, eating an admittedly outstanding loaf of hot sourdough came second to watching the other two enjoy theirs so much.

We could have died happy then.  But our entrees were on their way.  We dispensed with appetizers, determining (correctly as it turned out) that the bread plus entree combo would more than do the job.

Rae determined she was going to have meatballs.  Hand formed veal and pork meatballs, simmered in an authentic Italian tomato sugo, with herb goat cheese, on fusilli.

Vitamin D-enriched

We quietly bet she'd get three meatballs. She had seven.  Did we each try a forkful? Yes, we did.  Did Chef Boy-Ar-Dee let out a final desperate groan and disappear forever?  Yes, one can imagine he did.

Shauna elected the bone-in chicken breast with crab and goat cheese stuffing, with woodland mushroom risotto (those must have been chanterelles, we thought), and roasted garlic lemon cream with her vegetables. The risotto was letter perfect.  Too often, risotto-meisters claim they're serving you the dish al dente, and you get "al crunchy", and find yourself too embarrassed to complain - but these guys had it absolutely perfect in its creamy goodness, with the mushrooms bringing back all the rich scent of a walk in the woods after a heavy rain....

Pollo Altisimo

Kenna had the black and white linguine, with shrimp, sundried tomato, and charred fennel - in a Sambuca cream sauce.  This was remarkably brave for someone who is not that impressed with Sambuca to start with, but she determined that she was going to give the combined liquorices a chance, reasoning that "it couldn't possibly be as in-your-face as the liqueur is".

Linguine Nero Bianco

Smart observation - it was light, delicate, and just the right underpinning to the jumbo prawn tails and sweet rosy sundried tomato shards - something she also said she was not normally a fan of, but this dish won her over.

Speaking of risotto - my plate was the lobster version, with bits of lobster claw, charred fennel, and Grana Padano cheese (a nice touch - every bit as flavorful as Parmigiano Reggiano without the condescension).  And, totally unexpectedly - a whole baked lobster tail nestled right in the middle.  Lobster can be fussy - a bit too chewy if overdone, a bit bland if underdone.  Not this time - bang-on again.  And again - who knew the faint anise of charred fennel could bring out the sublime richness of the shellfish like that?

Aragosta Risotto

The table fell silent.  Shauna advised that she did not want to talk to any of us right now. We did not respond, feeling the same way.  This food monopolized any conversation.  And we eavesdropped on other tables - that one with the socialite ladies out from their own Glenora mansions for the evening, with a celiac among them too...and this one, with the East Indian couple whose meal left them totally relaxed, totally full, and totally happy.

Meanwhile, behind us - our server was matter-of-factly executing a complex sleight of hand.  A giant wheel of cheese, with a hollowed bowl in the middle, was being fed a healthy slosh of Everclear - pure grain alcohol,  which our man then proceeded to set ablaze.  As the cheese bubbled away, he tossed in a large serving of fettucine noodles, blending them expertly in melted asiago, and served with a flourish as the flames died away.  Next time, we are having the fettucine, arteries be darned.  We hadn't seen it on the menu.

Passion fruit

We were too full for dessert, so of course we ordered some.  But just two, with four spoons. Sorbetti - one coconut, one labelled passion fruit, but obviously married to lychee.  As countless Neapolitans, Tuscans, and Venetians have proven over the ages - that's the way to end dinner.

Ambrosia at Angela...

In a word, our experience at Ox & Angela was exquisite. We arrived fully half an hour earlier than our reservation, and were nevertheless immediately and courteously seated by a very friendly and attentive staff member - a theme which continued all night - the professionalism, knowledge, and friendly interaction with all four (!) waitstaff who ensured we had all we needed promptly and without any waiting ranks up there with anything we've ever experienced in Calgary. But really, it's ultimately about the food as well - and it was fantastic, a true flavor-craver's delight. We selected nine items from the extensive and varied tapas menu, and not a single dish failed to impress. This chef stays absolutely true to the classic tapas dictum - if the quality is bang-on, you don't NEED Costco-sized portions to fill the craving. From the Manchego cheese with crushed almonds and pomegranate molasses, to the perfectly fresh seared scallops (of which even our decidedly non-seafood eating members took more than one bite), to the unctuous braised chicken drumsticks, to the simple yet powerful array of olives with citrus and hot peppers, to the dense nutty power of the almond and citrus cake - every dish absolutely fired up its respective place on the tongue. The extensive wine list did not need to go further than the very first Spanish selection - matched exactly to the meal at hand. And for the tequila lovers in the crowd - eleven bucks is not too much to pay for this margarita (or two). Presentation is classic and understated - arriving in earthenware glazed pottery and simple wooden cutting boards, the focus is on the beautiful food. And don't miss this - if you are celiac, and MUST have your food wheat-free, absolutely everything except three dishes on this menu can be made gluten-free. That includes the classic mushrooms on toast, with poached egg and that pinnacle of gastronomic power, the truffle. This restaurant deserves top billing for any foodie, celiac or otherwise, looking for a deeply satisfying taste adventure in Calgary.

Country Chop

I think the culinary world has got to come up with a better name for goat meat other than "goat".  It seems whenever I use it in the context of describing delicious eating, the reaction is puzzlingly, and invariably "Eww!".  Tellingly, however, that reaction comes from people who have never actually tried a piece of goat.  It was pretty obvious from watching our server's face at Koultures Afro-Continental Restaurant, when describing the meat options available to accompany the various Nigerian stew-based dishes,  that she had heard and seen it all when arriving at the end of her list of beef, chicken, fish - and goat.  When all three of us decided we had to have goat with our meals, her quiet thumbs-up of approval put us right in the place where you want to be in any restaurant - making the chef happy with your choice means that the chance of getting an extraordinary meal just went up.

In fact, Tyler Cowen (author of the just-published guide "An Economist Gets Lunch: New Rules for Everyday Foodies" )  writes in the May 2012 edition of Atlantic Monthly magazine that one of the six rules for dining out (and finding the perfect lunch) is that in the fanciest restaurants, one should "order what sounds least appetizing".  Why?  Because at a fancy restaurant, "the menu is well thought-out.  The kitchen's time and attention are scarce.  An item won't be on the menu unless there is a good reason for its presence.  If it sounds bad, it probably tastes especially good".  (Emphasis mine)....

(To read more of Cowen's excellent article, go here)

Now, I grant you, there are probably fancier places in Edmonton, Alberta than Koultures Afro-Continental Restaurant, but I can also guarantee that Cowen's dictum applies here. Get the goat.

Having said that - pretty well everything on the left side (the "Afro" portion) of this menu will likely be unfamiliar.  North Americans have had the immense privilege of being served excellent ethnic fare from the wave after wave of new immigrant populations that have joined us over time.  From our great-grandparents learning the joys of Chinese cuisine to the latest influx of fresh and healthy Vietnamese Pho, you can pretty well travel around the world, foodwise, in any decently-sized city on the continent.   After all, twenty years ago, who would have thought we'd be shoveling bits of raw fish into our heads like it was going out of style?  There's one significant exception - food from Africa (aside from couscous, perhaps) has yet to become the latest trend here.  Maybe what it will take to show us that Africa is not a country, nor a monolithic disaster area, but a huge continent with a vast array of cultures, dynamic people, and yes, the glorious food that goes with thousands of years of evolutionary cooking, is a restaurant like this one, willing to serve absolutely authentic Nigerian fare for those willing to take a chance on goat, while keeping the roast chicken and grilled porkchops safely on the menu for those who maybe want to retreat to something familiar after trying a unique appetizer.

Having the singular advantage of having grown up in Cameroon and Nigeria, I knew intimately what I was getting into on this menu, but there was an added, weighty responsibility.  Rachel and Craig, (Nigerians neither) had put themselves into my hands for this meal, and while I love the taste and powerfully unforgettable aroma of dried crayfish, that might not come naturally to those trying something for the first time.  And so, I had the privilege of doing something I had always taken for granted as a kid - thinking hard about what we were about to choose from, and explaining it in the most delicious, and cautionary, terms possible.  I wanted badly for them to like what they got - this food is part of my DNA, and I wanted the same sense of satisfaction our server had when she realized we had the courage to get the goat.

Appetizers, then.

We started with suya.  Grilled meat on a skewer - not chunky like shish-kebab, but thin slices, seasoned with crushed peanuts and savory spices.  There was a hint of cinnamon, maybe, and some cumin, and definitely pepper (the kind that makes your brow bead up), and the crowning touch - wood smoke.  Suya is the the ultimate west African street food - cooked over hot coals winking in the pitch-black early evening, in a handy round pan with a mesh grill on top, and served inches from the shoulder of a packed and busy highway.  Koulture's suya was perfect.

The meat feast was next - cocktail toothpick skewers of (allegedly) beef, liver, lamb, chicken gizzard and snails in a sweet and spicy tomato sauce.  That's what the menu said, anyway - but when it arrived, we were advised that tonight, it was a goat feast.  No matter - exceptionally delicious, and leaving something for next time.  Chicken gizzards in particular - known as "the particulars" in any west African home, the gizzard automatically belongs to the head of the house, or his designate.  I selfishly hope they never catch on like chicken wings did, because I can get a whole tray of them at Safeway for three bucks...

And to round it out - Moi moi, an "African bean cake".  Known by various names, (Koki beans in Cameroon), this is an incredibly labor-intensive dish to prepare - soaking, peeling, and grinding white pinto beans, blending with spices (including hot pepper flakes and palm oil) shaping into neat banana-leaf packages and steaming carefully for hours). The result, as described by Rae, is almost "tofu-like", but not as limply smooth as its soybean counterpart.  One could exist for days, even weeks on this treat - powerfully proteinaceous and singularly satisfying.

Our entrees showcased the essential fundamentals of down-home Nigerian fare.  Although the variety of ingredients change from one end of the country to the other (north to south and east to west), most Nigerians will agree that the main meal of the day will consist of a fragrant and spicy tomato or palm-oil based stew, with deep green spinach or spinach-like vegetables, often with ground pumpkin seed (egusi) or ground peanuts, partnered with beef, goat, lamb, fish, or chicken (and all the parts of these fine animals playing key roles in one dish or another).  That stew is captured and transferred to your mouth by means of the first three fingers of your right hand, breaking off and forming a kind of scoop of the hearty carbohydrate provided - corn fufu (almost exactly like polenta, except a bit stiffer), pounded yam (like mashed potatoes but with the consistency of silly putty), or cassava (source of tapioca, but also mashed potato-ey in this incarnation).  Plantains - which look like bananas but act like potatoes, are another key carbo option.  Jollof Rice, from which our Louisiana counterparts evolved their redoubtable Red Beans and Rice dish, is a rightly famous Nigerian option, eaten with less sauce, with the meat on the side.  Note - the carbs are the core - this meal is meant to fill you up.  As such, the meat and stew are actually more of a garnish, the flavor-enhancer, the icing on the cake, as it were.

Obe Efo-Elegusi - a melon-seed stew with smoked fish and a rack of barbecued goat ribs, spinach and palm oil with pounded yam, was my entree.  When it arrived, I thought I should perhaps have had a bit less Moi moi - these portions are gigantic.  One dish can easily be shared by two people (which is also nicely Nigerian, in terms of the family meal being a traditionally communal affair, with your own softball-sized sphere of fufu dipped into a shared bowl of stew).  The sauce was perfect - a savory blend of beefy gravy with the unmistakable tropical signature of red palm oil, nutty ground pumpkin seed and spinach, punctuated by lovely surprise bite-sized pieces of dark smoked fish, and underpinned with pili-pili - the red pepper (whose heat you can and should request adjustment to when you order) that provides the red face and serotonin rush so beloved by heatseekers from every cuisine.  The goat ribs were an odd, but perfectly reasonable combination of what's best about lamb, and low-and-slow barbecue.  Goat cheese and goat's milk are both definitely "goaty", and maybe that's why the meat is a bit of a hard sell - but don't let that stop you.  Trust me.

Craig had the Jollof rice.  After privately telling Rae he was nervous about this meal, he ate it like he was raised on it.  The fried plantains seemed to be a particular hit with him.  Meanwhile, Rae (a self-professed "tactile" eater) appeared to be in heaven, not limiting herself to a mere three-fingered approach to her mixed-meat stew (without the fish) and pounded yam.  (The server did ask, with some dismay - "What happened to your pounded yam?" when viewing the postprandial wreckage of Rae's plate.  Practice will make perfect....)

Nobody finished their entree.  Mission accomplished, for the kitchen.  And for me, the chance to talk in my adopted native tongue with Madame, who owns and runs the place, and commands the kitchen.  She has a very lucky family.  It took a bit more effort to get our server involved in the conversation at first - a middle aged white guy is not supposed to sound like a Nigerian from the bush ("You learned that on YouTube, didn't you!" she initially said, a bit accusingly....).  In the end, though - it was like a trip back to my childhood home.  Nothing brings you back like the smell and taste of home cooking, wherever and whomever you might be.   So, if you're Nigerian, Cameroonian, or Ghanaian, homesick and hankering for mom's cooking, or an Edmontonian looking to try a new destination on your trip around the culinary world in your town, stop in at Koultures on 118th Avenue and 88th Street.  Yes, that's the northside - but you'll be blown away by the changes to the neighborhood, and the pride of the folks living and working there now.

Order the goat.

What do they do, on a rainy night in Rio....

"Não falo o português", I finally, timidly said to my cab driver, 10 minutes into the ride from Tom Jobim international airport in Rio de Janeiro.  I couldn't stand my ignorant silence any more.  "Well, use Spanish then," he said, relieved and gracious.  The fact that he said that in Portuguese, and I understood it, spoke volumes about the next 72 hours I was going to experience in this fascinating place. We carried on a conversation about everything - the Olympics and the World Cup, how much the shops and apartments by the lake look like Monaco, how cold it really gets in Canada...as if my tentative and brutal Spanglish and his very considerately slow Portuguese were as effortless as the talk around a family dinner table.  And his firm decline of any tip at the end of the trip just underlined his sincerity.  


72 hours does not do justice to any city, let alone country, that one visits for the first time, and it would be desperately unfair to characterize anything about this amazing, complex giant country which few North Americans ever cross the Equator to see.  That might be because of the immense length of time it takes to get here - flying for 15 hours and yet landing in virtually the same time zone.  That kinda screws up jet lag.  Try flying 15 hours east or west from  Calgary - you're in a different day, not just a different country.  Also a bit unnerving is the idea that while we at home are finally getting our first glimpse of the end of winter, these folks are preparing for fall.  I love the idea that nobody here needs English to get along, let alone to get rich.  Nature here is as big, as strange, and as wonderful as anything I have experienced in my vast country - with glimpses of the extremely familiar crashing into the completely different.  It's almost like waking up and discovering you have a sixth, and seventh sense.  But how do you stuff any of this into your head in a mere 72 hours, and how do you let it make any kind of a difference?


It's not made any easier by the same language on every traveler's tips website, warning against walking around  Rio at any time with anything that might be of value dangling from your wrist or neck.  To hear them talk, Brazil is teeming with postapocalyptic hordes looking to sever you from your watch - with or without your hand attached, and predatory cab drivers driving you the long way into the boondocks before shaking you down for your hard-earned holiday cash at some dimly lit hotel at the end of the trip...


Maybe you just have to go, and keep the same common sense you'd use at home.  Keep your ears, eyes, and mind open, yeah - but not for pure self preservation alone.  Drink from the firehose - you're bound to swallow something.  Swallowing, yes:  When time is of the absolute essence, like on a two-day conference trip to the New World, sometimes all you can do is swallow, in order to get and keep a piece of the experience around you.  A picture may speak louder than a thousand words, but one bite of slippery maracuja, one heady sip of caipirinha, are worth ten million.  I had to taste whatever part of Brazil I could get into my mouth.


The standard array of runny scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and pancakes, sat there in the buffet line - perhaps to quell the prospective rioting of desperate Americans asserting their constitutional right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of normal breakfast - but Lo! - the revolution begins right on that doorstep.  Innocuously named sausages sat ready to pounce, under their strategic cover between eggs and bacon.  They seemed ridiculously small - no bigger than a lima bean - but oh, the heavenly punch of garlic, real non-baloney meat, snappy casing and wreathed in gloriously sweet sautee of onion!   I hesitated, then put the egg spoon down.  There was a long table to the right, (which I had stupidly ignored, beelining like a drone towards "the usual").  On it, the parade of yellow things, as big as your fist, looked oddly familiar, like your best friend in sixth grade twenty five years later.  The sign called it "maracuja".  Passion fruit!  But passion fruit is purple!  Why is this yellow, and why is it so big?  I gotta take two....


 



It was passion fruit.  It was apparently one of a mere 150 species of passion fruit in Brazil - less than half of which are eaten, the rest made into valuable pharmaceutical and cosmetic things.  For 48 years I had thought there was just one, available in Africa and in certain Chinese grocery stores in Canada (if you were lucky).  This one was incredible.  Google informed me that the yellow version, which most Brazilians prefer, is "not as sweet" as the purple one.  "As if!",  thought I, spooning memory after memory down my throat.  Guavas!  Yellow ones, with pink in the middle!  Pineapple - pure white, like they are supposed to be, and ten times sweeter and more alive than anything coming off the boat to Safeway.  And bananas - fat, irregular, dusty-skinned - and the perfect essence of bananiness, the kind that also cannot seem to survive the trip North.  Who eats only fruit at breakfast?  I do!  (Well - and a few more sausages.  And those tiny little sticky buns and pastries so light they float effortlessly off your plate.  And cheese, after springy buffalo mozzarella, after grilled feta on a stick, after sliced "I thought it was Swiss but it's way more", after cheese, after cheese....)


Lunch was not required.


But at 4:00, something to drink while watching the pool, and the crashing breakers on the beach, was.  And maybe a little something to nibble on, to cleanse the palate...  First, the Caipirinha - famed national drink of Brazil.  This is nothing more than a sliced lime, smashed together with sugar, some ice cubes, then all mercifully drowned in Cachaça - something which Wikipedia helpfully identifies as "fermented sugar cane juice".


Now - others who seek to experience "national drinks" inevitably wind up with a surprise somewhat different than the pleasant kind. Witness east African "pombe" - fermented banana mash, which should be drunk from a brown beer bottle with a straw, thus avoiding both its unsettling blackness and occasional slimed chunk.  Or, on the west side of that continent - "mimbo" - palm wine similarly fermented in one day, but with the pleasing texture and mouth feel of saliva.  Not even Italy is exempt - "grappa" by any other name is kerosene lightly dosed with licorice (at least as far as I have tried to date).  So, national drink of Brazil - what macho posturing is needed to unearth your alleged charms?


None!  This stuff is magnificent.  We don't call bourbon "fermented corn mash drink", nor do we call gin "juniper berry hell" (although maybe we should).  I think the problem here is that one is not quite sure how to say "Cachaça" (ka-SHA-sa, as I learned at the liquor store today).  Let me herewith proclaim 'kashasa's" rightful place among the heralds of discreet, sophisticated imbibery known to man.  And - the best way to consume it, bearing another name perhaps only pronounced correctly before beginning to drink it - the Caipirinha.  One sliced lime, two teaspoons sugar, smashed (or "muddled") together in a glass, then ice to fill the glass, with two ounces of Cachaça.  Should you be so lucky to have fresh sugar cane idling about your kitchen, add a spear of it as garnish to the glass.  Enjoy.  Enjoy the tiny globes of pure lime sacs, liberated and floating freely through your glass, the crunch of the occasional undiluted sugar crystal, the clearly unmistakable rich first cousin of rum smoothly finishing and crowning every sip!  


 



Don't have more than two at a time, at least not by yourself.


And coming with the poolside drink, a poolside platter of antipasti.  Not the Italian kind, we soon discovered.  Grilled sliced sausage - reminiscent of but bigger and bolder than those at breakfast.  Olives shot through with strong florals, fresh radishes and rocket lettuce, and calamari which had clearly arrived that morning from just over there in the bay.


Supper was not required.  But procured nonetheless -  after another patriotic round of national drinks - much later that night.  A festival of small plates - none ordered, but placed on the table as obviously and naturally as your fork and knife.  Grilled eggplant, hot and delicately charred.  Sweet and slippery grilled pepper, tender and flat as your own tongue.  Chunks of pure white cod in grassy green olive oil.  Octopus chunks, impossibly tender and meaty as the finest filet mignon.  What might have been, and should have been called naan bread, although about as thick as a page of a good novel - and crusty slices of peasant baguette to purge the plate of every and all sauce and garnish.


Followed by a main dish - which, if it had to carry the title of dinner on its slender shoulders alone, may have collapsed to its knees.  After that round of appetizers, though - it was perfect.  Japan has its sashimi - a royal and excellent way to eat all fish (raw, the way it is supposed to be).  But here in South America, they have proven that this same fish can jump to a whole new level when bathed, simply and quickly in a dash of pure fresh citrus juice - lemon, and/or definitely lime.  The acid cooks the flesh ever so delicately.  Then, blend the fish with a handful of the freshest vegetable nearby.  Radish, sweet red onion, avocado - all can take their rightful place in this harmonic dish - behold, "ceviche".  My menu said mine was supposed to be tuna.  But my menu also gave itself the right to do whatever came in on the boat that day.  Salmon came in today.  So mine was salmon ceviche, and I was glad it was.


 



The next day, we stood again in our trade show booth, sweating gently under air conditioning valiantly losing against the tropical sun blazing off the ocean behind us, and talked to everyone we had come to talk to.  We still had four hours of conference left, but the mission was accomplished, and so we abandoned it, leaving long sleeves and long pants behind, and found ourselves under umbrellas on a promontory, with the boardwalk stretching left to the immense blinding white wonder of Ipanema Beach, lined with condominiums at $3 million per square meter, and to the right, our massive Sheraton perched on its private beach, at the end of a cascade of impossibly angled, precarious boxes affixed to the towering mountains climbing right out of the ocean to the sky. 


 



And so we toasted our goodbyes to a country which has so much more to taste - yes, some with caipirinhas, some with a green coconut, end lopped off and straw inserted into the most refreshing natural energy drink ever invented.  And up over my left shoulder, Cristo Redentor - Christ the Redeemer, on the mountain, hands outstretched over Rio and Brazil  


God bless Brazil - I hope I can see you again.

Buying bread from a man in Brussels...(he was 5 foot 8 and selling mussels)

At the front desk of the Thon Hotel Bristol Stephanie (largest rooms in Brussels!), Bertrand said – “I never recommend stupid things.  I say you should go to G-EA”, and promptly drew us a map to the restaurant he recommended we try for dinner on Saturday night.

Due to our distinctly North American penchant for eating dinner before the sun goes down, the restaurant, (nestled along a short street apparently famed for the fact that every address on both sides is occupied by a restaurant), was closed when we arrived shortly before 6:00 p.m., jet-lagged but hungry.

My idea was maybe to try one of the others along the street – I mean, my last experience with hotel front desk recommendations for restaurants was decidedly nothing to write home about – and the fragrances wafting from “La Vigne”, “Le Roi des Moules” and even “Japanese Fondu” were not a little seductive…

In a candid burst of diplomacy, however, Bob reminded me that there was probably a particular reason why Bertrand’s recommendation was unusually passionate, so we elected to wander for twenty minutes through the shopping arcades of downtown Brussels.

With a twinge of worry, I noted once we returned that G-EA was teeming with exactly one additional customer.  And in the doorway stood a resigned-looking Greek, with a faraway expression in his eyes.

It turns out that Monsieur Christo was, in fact, the proprietor.  There are two kinds of restaurateurs in the business – those whose goal is to make a business of it, and those whose primary compulsion is their love of feeding people well.  The latter category is characterized by people who stand by the table awaiting your reaction to their presentation on your plate, who lean forward to watch your face change when the first bite goes in, and who beam with obvious relief once they are assured that you really do like what they’ve made.

Bertrand at the hotel had obviously done this before, noting that the clincher for most guests interested merely in getting a decent meal would probably be the additional incentive of getting something free.  What Bertrand knows, (and we didn’t), was that the extra incentive of getting a free aperitif, and “maybe even a free dessert” is actually completely unnecessary…but more about that later.

Christo seated us outside, on his enclosed sidewalk patio.  I asked him my usual question, when engaged in culinary speed-exploration of a city in which I spend too few hours to do any proper cultural immersion… “What would YOU eat on this menu?  What should we eat-something which is particularly Belgian?”

Without hesitation, (as he set down a plate of croutons, olive tapenade, Greek tomato and cucumber salad and a tablespoon of Orzo with black olives), he said that our timing, by coincidence, was excellent.  September, October and November were the season of the mussel in Brussels, and if it were him eating, he would without question have the “moules marinieres”.

And, of course, the house-made frites.  Not the skinny fries, but the wide ones, made here in our own kitchen from scratch.  Yes, to be eaten in concert with the moules.

“Well, that’s what we have to have, then”, we say, sipping our vaguely peach-flavored but nonetheless outstanding aperitifs.  “But which version?  Steamed with white wine, with cream, with garlic?  What about Provencal?  What IS Provencal, anyway?”

“Provencal is a tomato-based sauce.  It’s really good, but I don’t think you should have it with these mussels, because then you’ll get mainly the taste of tomatoes (which really are good, by the way), but I think it’s important that you primarily have the taste of the mussels.  And, many people like combining the cream with the garlic, and having both with the mussels”.

Bob chose that combination.  I picked the vin blanc version.

“And, what should we drink, Monsieur Christo?”

“Oh, this white wine from Chile is really quite good, monsieur.”

“Chile?  Am I allowed to drink a Chilean wine with such a deeply European dish?  Well, if you say so, Monsieur, of course, we will take your recommendation.”

The tapenade, croutons and other introductions disappeared quickly, each one a small but perfect nod to fine French presentation with a generous bow to our host’s ancestry.

And then came the moules.  For each of us, a gigantic black enameled tureen, with a deep cover designed to hold the empty shells.  Christo opened them with a flourish.  I buried my face in the burst of steam (promptly taking five years off my increasingly grandfatherly visage), and inhaled deeply.  There’s a reason wine connoisseurs sniff deeply before they drink – I think the tactic should be employed with everything you intend to put in your mouth.  This was a flourish of intense wine and brine, punctuated with just the right exclamation of garlic, and that singularly unidentifiable but perfectly obvious sense of absolute freshness you can only get from shellfish that mere minutes ago were quite happily feeding in the cool currents of the North Atlantic.

We began to eat.  Each shell contained the fattest, firmest orangey-yellow mollusk I have ever speared with a fork.  Each bite was sublime – buttery smoothness, the essence of the ocean, the pinnacle of food in season.  Bob made a confession later.  He said, with characteristic candor, “I gotta tell you, I’m not really much of a mussel guy, and figured ‘When in Brussels’ – but that was really something!”

Yes, it was.  And to accompany these mussels came a cone of French fries, encased in a paper wrap, and presented with a small dish of mayonnaise blended with mustard (the white wine and Dijon kind).  Saving us from routine barbarian embarrassment, Christo quickly advised that the sauce was for dipping the mussels, not the fries.  Regarding these fries, it does them injustice to call them French fries, because these little gems are in fact an invention of, and gift to mankind by the Belgians.  And yes, they are traditionally supplied with filet mignon, but in the fall months, they sidle up beside the mussels in a second tradition – “Moules Frites”.

Well, they’re just fries, aren’t they?  Non, monsieur.  These potatoes are carefully parboiled first.  That’s what makes the inside so incredibly creamy.  Then they are fried in oil with another secret ingredient.  In your sunflower oil, add duck fat!  (Please refer here to your list of simple pleasures which God intended man to eat).  Not only does this add to the wonderful crispiness, but adds the crowning dimension, that which separates McDonald’s from civilization.

The problem here was that we became greatly distracted – one can’t stop eating the mussels, but if you do, in order to have a frite, then you can’t stop eating frites, either.  The fries started losing the battle to the mussels, but Christo comes prepared.  In his restaurant, you shall not eat cool fries, so the half-empty cones were replaced, quickly, with a second round – this time in a porcelain crock, scathingly hot from the kitchen (along with a quiet reminder that these were also, in fact, house-made, by hand…)

He filled our wine glasses.  This was unusually good.  I am far from an expert in which wine goes with what, but my eyebrows went up…”This is Chilean wine?”

“Ah, pardon, monsieur.  When I thought about what you said about being in Europe and eating such a European meal, I changed the wine for you.  This one is French, as it should be.  But I will give you the Chilean price, of course!”

Meanwhile a face cautiously appeared at the corner of the building, just over Bob’s right shoulder.  It was Bertrand, from the hotel, face full of questioning concern, inquisitive thumbs up, mouthing “Is it OK”?  Firmly nodding, thumbs up in return, a quiet “Thank you!” mimed back to him, whereupon Bertrand nonchalantly strolled by with cellphone on ear, down the street.  Good thing we’d decided to come back.

We’d reached the bottom of the black tureen, the place where the broth that had steamed up through all the mussels lay.  No longer mindful of proper etiquette, I lifted the pot, and drank.  Some say you needn’t.  Well, don’t listen.  My meal was thus blessedly complete.

Well, almost.  It was time for dessert.

I chose a moelleux of chocolate.  (When in Belgium, you know…)  A moelleux is somewhat like a soufflé, I think, but “cakier” with a lovely unctuous flow of pure dark melted lava waiting in the middle.  Bob had a generous dollop of Greek yogurt, flavored with thyme and garnished with drippingly honeyed orange peel, surrounded with an acre of red fruit – raspberries, strawberries, and quartered fresh figs.

We beamed.  Christo beamed.  It was a mutual admiration society!  Christo, his life’s purpose reaffirmed again (which I am sure happens to him on a regular basis) announced that in addition to the aperitif, the house would be pleased to furnish for us an after-dinner digestif, and would we please choose anything.

Naturally, this needed to be properly French as well.  So Bob chose Armagnac, and I ventured where I had not gone before, asking Christo whether a Calvados would be appropriate.  (More beaming – yes, apparently both were entirely to the point).

I wish I could say I became a convert to this apple-based liqueur, but to be honest, I probably need to try it more than once before it becomes a favorite.  As a signature at the end of a meal resulting from being in the right place at the right time, however, it was, how to say, correcte.

What I love about restaurateurs like Christo is that while the money is important, the sheer satisfaction on the guest’s face is the real reward.  So when we added a tip to the bill, something that showed how we really felt about the meal, Christo was visibly moved.  Along with his heartfelt handshake and quiet “Merci a vous, messieurs”, we were each presented with a hand-picked bottle of red from his cellars.

Would we ever go back?  Some would say you can’t repeat the experience, let alone the food.  But yes, we did in fact go back.  Three nights later, this time pulling in 11 colleagues from our meetings in Brussels.  I am pleased to say, our new friend in Brussels did not disappoint, in any way.  I won’t tell you what I had, because I don’t remember – I was having too much fun watching everyone’s faces, and hearing their exclamations as they pushed back from their plates when we finally stopped at nearly midnight.  Christo’s knowing look, punctuated by another bottle of fine vintage slipped to Bob and me as we left Brussels proves it – feeding people good food is fun.

Viens ici, ma petite cherie...

I wish summer would never end, although perhaps its brevity in this part of the world is what makes we Prairie Canadians so passionate about squeezing every last tantalizing morsel out of it.  We sit intently on our decks in the sun, willing the pasty whiteness away and glaring at any cloud with the temerity to block the sun.  Suppertime is but halfway through the daylight, as increasingly sleep-deprived, we stake our claim to overdosing on Vitamin D long into the night, slapping and cursing the mosquitos but unwilling to give away an ounce of the fleeting luxury of nearly everlasting daylight.  Doom is around the corner, and its name is October....or September....or, yes, even August, when the whiteness and the darkness exercise their divine right over the Great White North.

In addition to the blazing light, nature seems to overcompensate on our behalf.  Farmer's markets burst their banks with teeming crowds of the citified, intent on eating a year's worth of truly fresh, truly local veggies - tomatoes whose intensity brings veritable cries of delight, snap peas which were supposed to go in the stirfry but didn't even make it out of the car to the house, giant garlic bulbs that speak boisterous Italian, and berries - berries that burst  like an indigo invasion over tongue and teeth, satisfying the most primal of thirsts....

If you look hard enough, I discovered - you don't even have to spend a red cent to grab some of this for yourself.  For years, our back yard has been quietly but determinedly taken over by a slowly expanding and ever broadening bush.  I had always thought that the Nanking Cherry bush was nothing more than one of those "ornamentals", whose brazen scarlet fruit was primarily designed for small birds and the occasional bear to eat as part of a varied and generally unremarkable wild diet.

Until the day I picked one for myself, late in the summer, after a particularly long stretch of intensely hot summer days.  I have always been a very great and appreciative fan of cherries, this being a fruit which did not exist in my childhood Africa, and which still has me eating large handfuls in fear of there not being any more, ever again.

This particular cherry, about 3/4 the diameter of a penny, was a very pleasant surprise indeed.  It was simultaneously sweet and tart - just the right proportion that induces you to pick some more, which you kinda have to do in order to get a satisfying snack.  They're pretty small.  This got me to thinking - my Oma used to make all manner of interesting juices from the bounty of summer fruit - concentrates which she'd mix with 7-Up for me to make the wildly popular "juice-pop" that shamed any mass-produced drink into submission.

I wondered, if one could get enough Nanking cherries off a bush, whether it would be possible to make my own juice - for juice-pop to be sure, but also for all kinds of other things.

There's only one way to find out.  I started picking.  Five pounds of Nanking cherries later, I realized I would definitely have way more than enough to make some juice.  Here's how we did it:

• 5 lbs. Nanking Cherries
• 2 cups sugar
• 4 litres water
• 1 tbsp. almond extract (optional, but bloody good)

Boil for about an hour or so.  When the cherries are all soft and starting to fall away from the stones, pour the whole pot through a large strainer into a suitably large pan.  Press down on the cherries with the back of a wooden spoon, extracting as much juice as possible.  There will be pulp in your concentrate, but very tasty pulp.  Pour into various juice jugs or other covered containers, and allow to cool, then refrigerate.

There's your base for a couple of weeks of summer in a glass.  You won't believe the vivid redness - all natural, yet incredibly bright.  Don't get it on your shirt, in other words.  Dilute with water, club soda, 7-up, or even straight up on ice.  You could just leave it at that, and get all you need just drinking it.

Or, you could push the envelope a bit, like a sun-obsessed Albertan should...

From medieval times, people have instinctively known that there is a natural marriage between pork and fruit. Pigs with apples in their mouths begat pork chops with applesauce, ham is better with pineapple rings, and so on.  It occurred to us that perhaps the most summer of pork dishes - barbecued ribs - might also benefit from some fruity embellishment.  After all, we had more than a gallon of Nanking Cherry concentrate....

• 2 racks of baby back or side pork ribs
• 5 cloves of garlic, smashed
• 2 tbsp peppercorns
• A handful of chopped fresh thyme, basil, or rosemary - whatever your summer herb garden has lots of.
• Salt - a good handful

Baking rub

• Seasoning salt
• Pepper
• Smoked paprika, if you have it, or chili powder
• Dried oregano or rosemary

Sauce
Mix together thoroughly:

• 1 bottle Bullseye Sweet & Sticky or Honey Garlic Extravaganza or Original Bold Barbecue Sauce
• 2 cups Nanking Cherry juice concentrate

Since I don't have a smoker in the backyard, and my barbecue is propane-fuelled, I have found through some practice, and through keeping my mouth shut and not admitting how it's done, that you can get a pretty decent set of pork ribs falling off their bone right on your plate by judiciously boiling and baking them.

Put the ribs, garlic, peppercorns, salt and herbs into a very large stockpot.  Pour in enough water to completely cover the ribs.  Boil for at least an hour, up to an hour and a half.

Pre-heat your oven to 325 degrees.

Remove ribs from the pot and cut into portion-size lengths.  Dust with the baking rub spices, and massage them in a bit.  Careful, they'll be hot.

With a basting brush, brush the underside of each rib portion with the barbecue sauce/cherry concentrate mixture.  Turn them over and arrange them in a large baking dish or lasagne pan.  Liberally douse them with the rest of the sauce mixture.  Sprinkle with dry herbs and ground black pepper.

Cover the dish with foil, and put them in a 325-degree oven for another 1-1.5 hours.  When they are ready, baste them without reservation with the pan juices.  Serve them with baked beans, corn on the cob, baked potatoes, and salad.  I promise you - the cherries make this a match made in heaven.

What about dessert, then?  Well, the most civilized apparently use fruit sorbets to cleanse the palate.  A Nanking Cherry sorbet would seem logical, after a mess of ribs.  If you don't have an ice-cream maker, maybe go get one.  It also adds considerable meaning to summer, not to mention its great ability to make some mean gelati.

You'll need:

• 3 cups of Nanking Cherry concentrate
• 1/2 cup of sugar (optional - if you like it really sweet)
• 2 tbsp. lemon juice
• 1 pkt. unflavored gelatin, softened in 1/4 cup of cold water
• 2 egg whites, whipped stiff.

Dissolve sugar in concentrate - heat it up in a saucepan and dissolve it.  Add the gelatin and lemon juice, then cool the mixture for about an hour in the fridge, until the gelatin just begins to set.

Whip up the egg whites until stiff, and fold immediately into the juice mixture.  Egg whites give your sorbet (or more accurately, gelato) a nice creamy texture.

Immediately freeze in the ice-cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions.  When it's done, empty it into a container and chill, covered, in the freezer for about an hour.  Frozen red-hot summer.

And last but not least - what is summer without a decent drink in hand?  After some judicious experimentation, we found two combinations that showcase not only this lovely little fruit, but also the sunshine trapped inside it:

N-37  (Yeah, I know.  But sometimes history is painful)

• 4 parts Nanking Cherry concentrate
• 3 parts Sprite or 7-Up
• 1 part Light Rum
• 1 part Amaretto di Saronno

Combine all ingredients in a highball glass, over ice.

Dramking Cherry

• 4 parts Nanking Cherry concentrate
• 1 part Drambuie

Serve in a highball glass, on the rocks.

(I hate winter).