Las tortillas absolutamente auténticas

Today have I taken a solemn vow - never again shall I refer to Taco Time, Taco Bell, or (heaven forbid) Julio's Barrio or Chili's as "Mexican Food", when that particular form of peckishness hits me.  I grant you, the basic flavors have become ubiquitous worldwide - cilantro, chilies, cumin, salsas both green and red - all have become part of the usual North American pantry, which we shake with abandon into various stews, sauces, salads, whatever...mainly because when food is allowed to develop someplace over thousands of years, the best flavors naturally rise to the top and endure.  (See also Vietnamese, Arabic, and Italian cuisine....).  

So why is it that the tacos we order here are really nothing but the palest shadow of what you get when you order a meal at a roadside stand in Playa del Carmen, or Tijuana, or for that matter, Los Angeles or San Diego?

I think it has to boil down to our uniquely Anglo-Saxon penchant for believing that complicated is better.  Look what we've done to pizza - the Italians take dough, tomatoes, and basil, and with perfect heat and perfect timing create a miracle food.  We think - let's add 80 pounds of cheese IN THE CRUST, and five kinds of processed meat, and three kinds of vegetables on that baby, and THEN see how much better it is.  Nope.  Don't get me wrong, deep dish has its hallowed place in satisfying cravings - but is it pizza anymore?  Not really.  Not if it makes Italians gag.

Same goes for tacos.  There's something to be said for the pure simplicity of four or five ingredients, precisely assembled but with speed and alacrity that comes from centuries of knowledge and wisdom, that produces eye-closing, soft-moaning sighs of pleasure with each bite.  But no - we heap on the cheese, the greasy hamburger dripping with orange fat, the guacamole, the crispy tortilla wrapped in the soft one, the tomatoes, the lettuce, the salsa - and all in a vast sheet of floury blandness to make a package as big as your head....

Here's the thing -  there's no doubt, once you've sampled the real thing, what the foundation for a real taco is.  It's the tortilla on which the rest of the ingredients lay in resplendent repose.   

What?  That unassuming disc of white boredom?  That little thing?  Why, it wouldn't feed a child, let alone a man like me!

Yes.  That little thing.  Made out of something called 'masa' - white or yellow corn flour, mysteriously processed, with a mysteriously elusive signature scent and flavor.  On this is what real Mexican food is based.  You can put pretty well anything on a real corn tortilla.  Eggs, salsa, meat fried, shredded, barbecued, boiled, vegetables alone or in concert with others - and for the heretic, pretty well anything else.  It's the real tortilla that makes all the difference in the world.

Incredibly, we found them here in our home town - again not so much by idle foodie searching, but out of the necessity of finding delicious things that do not have any wheat at all in them.  Thank goodness for Google, by the way. Who would have ever found that tiny shop in Northeast Calgary, a stone's throw from the giant LRT station on manic 36th Street NE, tucked into a residential neighborhood.  It's called "Las Tortillas", and that's enough, because the family that runs it knows that Las Tortillas are the basis of both great food, and their well-deserved fortune.

It's a combination grocery store - featuring essentials like chipotles, salsas of all descriptions (both red and green), tomatillos, masa by the sack, and Yerba Mate from Argentina - and a restaurant.  The kitchen is right there, across the counter - and the dining area is an old dining room suite - one table, six chairs.  The cooler is stocked with Mexican pop, and Coca-Cola.  And on the counter are several tidy stacks of fresh-made corn tortillas, tightly wrapped in butcher paper and sold by the kilo in a plastic bag.  Six bucks only - for an extremely impressive pile of tortillas.

We could not leave with just the tortillas.  Why not stay and sample them with fillings made by the same genius who made the tortillas?  So we ordered tacos.  Two each.  Your choices include beef, pork, shrimp, chicken - and something called "lengua".  I ordered lengua.  From which we get our English word "Language".      Yep - beef tongue.  With green salsa.  And that was all.  You can add raw onions and cilantro if you like, but there's no law.

No, it is not disgusting, regardless of your opinions about tongues other than your own in your mouth.  It's absolutely divine.  The proprietor/chef called it "the cleanest meat".  He's right.  It's straight-up muscle, no gristle, no fat, no yucky distractions.  Fabulous, silky, smooth, meltingly tender - the soul of beef in a slice.

Shauna had one barbacoa - beef, and one chicken taco.  Her chicken came with red salsa, the beef with green.  They were so completely different from each other - the beef spiked with cumin, the chicken with a bang of essential tomato, and just piquant enough to make you have to sniff.  We ate in reverent silence, broken only by strongly-worded compliments to the chef, who was beaming like any artist who sees his life's work being appreciated.  He assured us - no gluten whatsoever.  The fillings were just the meat, cooked with chilies, and the salsa.  No added fat.  Ever wonder why Mexico does not have our endemic obesity problem?

Yeah, I know.  It's just a taco, right?  Calm down!

No, it isn't just a taco.  This is how tacos are done in Mexico.  We were only there for a week once, but we ate tacos, and decided we had never had anything like this.  Since then, we have pined often for that fabulously fresh fast food. We found it today at Las Tortillas, and came home with 2 kilos worth.  I think pretty well everything in the pantry is going to wind up in those tortillas for the next little while.  And heck, when we need the complete package, it will be worth the drive back up to the Northeast.  You cannot lose, at just 3 dollars a pop.  Do yourself a favor - give up Vicente and his Taco Time "Mexi-fries" for Lent, and get yourself some classic, ancient cuisine instead.

Winterpeg Redux

When the trip is less than 24 hours, there isn't much chance to develop any kind of a realistic impression of a place, let alone the much more difficult task of changing a preconception, so I have to admit that I had resigned myself to "another trip to Winterpeg" in March.  I have offhandedly dismissed that city as a conundrum - why would anyone really want to live there, given the drab industrial scenery to which I had been exposed between the airport and downtown and the breath-robbing cold and dry blasts of wind alternating with gigantic piles of melting slush when the sun does deign to shine in the long arctic penance.

So when we went to meet with Steve, a transplant from Britain to the coldest city in Canada, I didn't even bother to ask my usual question - "What's good to eat in Winnipeg?"  Bob asked it for me, once our business meetings were done and it was time to fill the void before going back to the cookie-cutter hotel.

Bob explained to Steve my obsession with eating the essence of a place, to at least literally and physically absorb a piece of what forms the soul of a city or a country - the food.  The food that comes from a kitchen of a person passionately devoted to proving that what they do with their ingredients is not a copy of anything anywhere else, but a visual, olfactory, and gustatory signature - "this is part of me, my home, and my place, and I invite you to take a bite.  Go ahead, there's lots, and I can always make more...."

Steve leaned forward, eyes gleaming, no longer a clinical microbiologist/virus hunter, but to my astonishment, a dedicated omnivore also looking for not only what's good, but what's good to share and make a point.  "If it's Manitoba you want, then we have to go to Fude".

"What do they do at Fude?"

"Well, it's bison, (provincial symbol and emblem of Manitoba, name of a hockey team, statue by the legislature, and representation of the stubborn hardy toughness of the folks who live there), and elk, and berries, and pickerel from the big lakes, and herbs...and the most unexpected and vivid combinations that will just blow you away..."

How could we NOT go?

On the way, I drove the rental behind Steve and Bob in Steve's Mini.  It was a roundabout route, and a long way through several streets and neighborhoods, cutting through downtown.  I saw beautiful parks.  I saw beautiful houses with perfect yards.  I saw modern, I saw practical, I saw pride and purpose, I saw architecture that meant something.  I was ashamed of myself.  Winnipeg is not ugly.  Winnipeg is unique.  Winnipeg has a soul - even though I will not be here long enough to be introduced, and more's the pity.

We stopped, and parked, and I saw a place that was once old.  They call it Osborne Village, and in its own way, it is just as assertive as San Antonio's Riverwalk or Medicine Hat's Old Downtown, or Kansas City's Country Club Plaza - a place where people have pushed up their sleeves and made something old into something that lets you participate in the soul of the place.  Sure, it's got some rough edges yet, and that darned winter means you might have to walk quickly and duck into several doorways before getting to your destination, but next time bring a scarf, toque and mitts, and have a good look at what Osborne Village is becoming.

Fude is upstairs in one of the quirky buildings along the street.  Inside, the decor is decidedly casual, but the kind of casual that you go for when you transform your living room at home into a candle-lit sanctuary.  It's cozy and welcoming and modern and jazzy.  The waitstaff look you in the eye when you arrive - the kind of look that says, "just you wait, you won't regret having picked our place tonight".

The menu is split into lightly punny categories - Fude for Thought is salads, Flat Fude is gourmet pizzas, Fude to Share is appetizers, etc.  OK by me, because the real stars that make you concentrate in a hurry are the actual dishes on offer.

Steve had sealed the deal by telling us about two appetizers in particular - the Chili Chocolate Chicken Skewers - this is not a misprint - featuring Manitoba chicken tenderloin dusted in cocoa (!) with chili powder and cayenne pepper, pan-seared and grilled, and then slathered in a house-made Callebaut dark chocolate sauce streaked with a cayenne cream.  What?!?

...and the Hyper Seared Tuna - espresso-seared sushi-grade tuna with Asian vanilla soy sauce reduction for dipping.

Again - huh??  Fish with espresso and vanilla?

So we ordered both.

Look.  Coffee grounds on raw tuna, dipped in sweet vanilla soy sauce just looks wrong on paper.  Doesn't it?  But it was so right.  The coffee hits you with a bitter mini-bomb, which is swiped right clear by the cool tuna, and the vanilla is like a reward for being an exceptionally good boy.  Bite, after bite, after bite.  My question is - who figured this out, and how?

Now - it has dawned on a lot of people that chocolate and pepper were actually made for each other, in certain circumstances.  This chicken came expertly sauteed, and the most intriguing thing was not just how the cayenne and Callebaut played off each other, but how the distinct absence of expected salt in the meat meant that your other taste buds could explore a side of chicken you never thought you'd see.

These two starters did what appetizers are supposed to do - focus your attention, and I mean like a laser, on what's going in your mouth and what is coming next....

They were accompanied by some foccacia pan bread, with balsamic vinegar and olive oil.  But it was a vivid dark pink, and there were dangerous flecks of rust and orange and yellow floating in the mix on the plate.  Somebody added beet juice and hot red pepper flakes.  Let me tell you - this is how bread and dipping sauce should always be done.  It looks wrong, it doesn't make sense - until you let your mouth decide.

Mission accomplished.  I wanted very badly to see what was next.

I ordered ribs.  From a bison.  They make their own barbecue sauce in which these guys are braised.  It has espresso in it.  What's with the espresso, already!  Well - don't forget, in the land where barbecue was invented, the cowboys poured coffee into the dutch ovens swinging above the fire, simmering the beef for six hours while they worked.  There's a reason the best barbecue has coffee in it.

The ribs are as big, or bigger, than the beef ones you order at any Tony Roma's.  Any resemblance ends there.  The meat is unctuous, gooey, and sublimely smooth, with the very slightest touch of wildness still shining through.  I had to ask, when the chef/owner came to see how we were doing - how do you get lean wild meat, famous for its lack of fat, to become so essentially and deeply....porky?

They cook them low and slow, six hours in the oven, and then let them cool right off.  When you order them, they go back in the oven, back up to temperature - and that's where the chemistry happens.  The meat surrenders, falling off the bone when you tell it to.  I ate it like pig.  The sauce is marvelously complex, with little pronounced hits of orange, of nutmeg, of savory, of molasses.  I do not know if they put all that in the sauce, but that's what comes out of the sauce, and it carries the bison proudly to its conclusion.

There were potatoes and vegetables to go with them, but I honestly can't remember how they were done.  They were the chorus that helped push the meat to stardom, just like they are supposed to be.

We could not do dessert.  The chef did not care.  She waited until after our cappuccinos had waned, and then presented us with a scoop of Saskatoon berry sorbet each, on the house.  Steve said "I've gotta get me an ice cream maker".  Point being - Manitoba Saskatoons grow in the backyard.  If she can do it, why can't I?

I left Fude, and Winnipeg, with a new respect, again ashamed for pigeonholing a place which I'd never even thought of giving a chance.  When you go to Winnipeg, take a minute and look around, and taste around.

Fude for thought.

The Celiac Conundrum: Chapters 4 to 6 -In Which we Explore a Troika of Time-Tested Comfort Food, Modified to Suit Both Celiac and Layman Alike

You know, there are days when the excitement of Rapini with Blue Cheese Soup, and Free Range Pork Farmer Sausage, and Gnocchi alla Bolognese gives way to the simple cravings of life.  Things which you shouldn't necessarily eat every day - as they present certain cardiovascular perils - but which sometimes you just have to have.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I recently experienced three such hankerings, virtually in a row, and wondered if it would be possible to modify them in such a way that their sacred taste and provenance could be preserved, yet altered in such a way as to bring nostalgic tears to the eye of someone who must no longer eat gluten.  Not because it is easier to cook one meal for everyone, but because everyone around the table deserves the same level of gastronomic satisfaction, regardless of condition.  Life's too short...

1.  Pulled Pork with Slaw on a Bun

With that, I pulled out a pork butt roast I had sitting around in the freezer, waiting its turn to become something interesting.  Confession time - pork roasts have always been my nemesis.  In my constant effort to try and make something juicy, fork tender and sweet like pork should be, I have tried just about everything - low temperature, high temperature, long braising in a variety of liquids, rubs, glazes - you name it.  Usually, it's been disappointingly dry and unsatisfying.  Maybe this time....

I read a lot of recipes online for pulled pork, looking for a common theme, and yes, looking for ideas to steal. The common theme that emerged was this - you gotta cook this low, and you gotta cook this slow.  A good rub makes all the difference.  And - seal up your cooking vessel that it may keep in all the flavor, steam and goodness.

My little roast was about a pound and a half.  That's a little roast.  You are technically supposed to use a pork shoulder or pork butt which is anywhere from 3-5 pounds, but I found this worked with this little guy as well. Of paramount importance - do NOT use a lean pork cut.  Use the less expensive ones with good lashings of fat and occasional gristle - because trust me, the low, slow heat transforms those often 'yucky' things that we like cutting off into utterly sublime messengers of unctuous taste, evincing involuntary groans of gustatory pleasure.  Mmmm.....

Back to the point.

Let that roast sit on your counter until it achieves room temperature.  Cold roasts cook unevenly, and make uneven pulled pork.

Sometime in that timeframe, make yourself a good dry spice rub.  This is what I used:

1 tsp chili powder

1 tsp dry mustard powder

1 tsp onion powder

1 tsp garlic powder

1 tsp ground black pepper

1 tsp poultry seasoning (use rosemary, thyme, and or marjoram if you don't have this)

1 tsp. cumin

2 tbsp. salt.

3 tbsp.  (yes, tablespoons) brown sugar.

Mix extremely well together, using the back of your spoon to take advantage of the natural moistness of the brown sugar to mash this stuff together extremely well.

Pause and preheat your oven to 275 Fahrenheit.  I dunno what that is in Celsius, sorry.  Look it up?

Lay down a long strip of wax paper on your counter, and thinly spread an even layer of spice rub about the same width and length of your roast, onto the paper.

Put your butt (the pork one) onto the layer of spices.  Grind it down, so that the spices are crushed into the meat.  Turn it over and do the other side.  Do the ends.  Rearrange the spices on the paper so you can mash the maximum amount of rub into the meat.  Knead it in there with your hands.  You want this thing covered and crusty.

Now - it is the depth of a Canadian winter as I write this, so going outside to put this thing in any sort of outdoor smoker is, while realistic, just a bit too masochistic for my taste.  I cheated brazenly in the next step.  Put your pork into a very heavy (preferably cast-iron Le Creuset) dutch oven (one that comes with a very heavy lid).  Sprinkle the roast liberally with 4-5 shots of liquid hickory smoke flavor.

Get a piece of parchment paper.  If you have none, stop and go get some.  It's important.  Tear off a piece big enough to cover the top opening of your pot, and put it on the pot.  Put the cover on.

Put the roast in the oven.

Three full hours must pass, for a little roast like this.  For a big one, give it up to six and a half hours.  No kidding.  Do not open the pot to "see how it's going".  Trust in the power of the fire.

During those hours, make yourself a pot of baked beans from a can.  Add some BBQ sauce, if you like.  Get some coleslaw - the creamy kind, not the vinegar kind.  Get some hamburger buns - not ciabatta, not whole wheat - the real kind.  Soft and white.  (Yes, I know this part is not gluten free.  Gluten free potato buns work here for the same purpose.  The point is, they are supposed to fall apart under the pressure of the soft pulled pork and creamy coleslaw later.  Both the buns mentioned here will do so, satisfactorily).

Take the roast out of the oven.  Take two forks, and begin shredding the meat of the roast into a large pile in the bottom of your roasting pot.  It will fall apart into nice shreds with little or no effort.  Let it soak up the concentrated liquid goodness in the bottom of the pot.

You may, at this point, add some heated barbecue sauce and mix it into the meat, although it is kinder to let each person add their own sauce to their liking, on their buns.

Serve on buns with coleslaw on the meat, and some beans alongside.  Pickles, while optional, add a certain exotic twist. You will not be disappointed.

2.  Spaghetti with Turkey Meatballs

Spaghetti and Meatballs.  A child's favorite, horribly corrupted by Chef Boy-Ar-Dee, yet still lovingly redeemed in a thousand delicious forms worldwide.  Here's a twist that should have you savoring each bite.

Grate one small onion, or half a big one, into a big mixing bowl, using the side of the cheese grater that makes really small shavings.  You should have a fresh onion mush in the bowl when you are done.

Mince three cloves of garlic into the onion mush.

Add:

1 large egg

1/4 cup of Cream of Rice Cereal (Gluten free!  Gluten free!  And, a fine alternative to traditional bread crumbs).

3 tbsp. ketchup

1/4 cup of fresh parsley (use 1 tbsp. of dried oregano, poultry seasoning, marjoram, or rosemary if you have no fresh parsley)

1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese.  The real stuff if you have it, if not the Kraft in the green container is just fine.

1/4 cup feta cheese, crumbled finely

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper.  Or more, if you want.

1 pound dark (or light) ground fresh turkey meat.  Use pork or beef if you want.

Mix this mixture together well, with your hands.  Get a little olive oil on your hands, then start rolling the mixture into meatballs about 1-1.5 inches in diameter (no bigger, please).  Place them on a plate or baking sheet.

Heat 3-4 tbsp of olive oil in a large, heavy frying pan over medium-high heat.  Add the meatballs and brown them on all sides, about five minutes.  Add 1/2 cup of red wine, and deglaze the pan.  (Scrape up the browny bits from the bottom, and let the wine boil down to a nice syrupy coating.   Turn off the heat and transfer the meatballs to a plate (a different one).

Pour into the pan one jar of store-bought spaghetti sauce.  I like the four-cheese versions.  (I like cheese in all its incarnations).  Add one can of diced tomatoes.  Return all the meatballs and juices into the pan.  Turn the heat to medium-low, and just simmer the sauce for awhile until the sauce thickens a bit and the flavors blend - probably just as long as it takes you to get out your spaghetti pot, boil the water, add the gluten-free spaghetti (I like Tinkyada and Rizopia rice noodles, and even better, a rice and corn combination made in Italy, brand name Misura), and cook it up.  Once the spaghetti is done, your sauce with meatballs will be too.

Serve immediately, with plenty of grated cheese for garnish.

3.  Southern Fried Double Dredged Buttermilk-Marinated Fried Chicken

I have a dream. Someday, I shall make fried chicken as good as my girlfriend did, the first time we went on an all-day trip to Jasper National Park, where we ate it cold on a picnic blanket, next to the Athabasca River (or maybe it was the mighty Pembina River?  I dunno - all I know is that the chicken was amazing).  Having evolved since into my loving wife, she told me just the other day what her secret was.  She fries it till it's golden brown, then she bakes it in the oven.  Aha!  Maybe now my dream will come true.

Here goes.  Please note that if you want this chicken today, you should have started this process yesterday.  Govern yourselves accordingly.

Place 9-10 good sized chicken pieces into a shallow, coverable container (Tupperware, or analogue).  Our family is well divided into white-only and dark-only meat lovers, so we use equal measures of boneless skinless chicken breast, and either drumsticks or thighs.

Mix together in a bowl one liter of buttermilk with a 1/2 teaspoon of cayenne pepper.  You may also add some sliced onion, some paprika, and some fresh herbs to this sauce if you like.  Pour the whole thing into your container over the chicken.  Get in there with your hands and lovingly massage this liquid into every cranny of the meat.  Cover tightly, and put it in the fridge overnight - for up to 24 hours.

The next day, mix up in a plastic ziploc or similar bag the following gluten-free coating mix:

1/2 cup sweet sorghum flour

1/2 cup light buckwheat flour

1/2 cup tapioca flour

1/2 cup white rice flour

1/2 cup "all purpose" celiac flour

1 tbsp. paprika

1 tbsp. ground black pepper

1 tbsp garlic powder

1 tbsp. onion powder

1 tbsp. sage

1 tbsp. poultry seasoning

2 tbsp seasoning salt.

Close the bag and shake this up to mix together well.

Lay out several layers of paper towel on the counter.  Remove the chicken pieces, smoothing the buttermilk coating back into the container.  Dry the chicken pieces with the paper towel.

Drop the pieces one at a time into the coating mixture.  Close the bag, shake well until completely coated, and remove onto another layer of paper towel.  

When all the pieces have been duly coated, dip them again into the buttermilk sauce and without drying them, drop them back one at a time into the coating mix, shaking them again to make a second layer of crust.  They should come out looking something like this:

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

In a large heavy frying pan, and preferably one in which you can watch and control the heat of your oil, heat about two cups of oil (NOT olive oil, but something with a high smoking point, like peanut or canola or grapeseed oil) up to 350 degrees.  If you have no thermometer, then heat over medium-high heat until a pinch of flour dropped in the oil sizzles immediately.  It is important to keep your oil at at least 320 degrees during the frying process - it will drop in temperature when you put the chicken in.  Putting in too many pieces at once lowers the temperature too much, and your chicken will get soggy.  Not what you want in a good fry.

So, fry the chicken in batches of 4-5 pieces at a time, until golden brown, turning once to get the other side brown.

When they are all brown, put them on a rack on a cookie sheet, and put them in the oven.  It should take about 40 minutes to get them all well done (you can check doneness with a meat thermometer in the thickest part of the thigh, but don't touch the bone with the thermometer.

When they come out of the oven, they should have a uniform, thick, dark-brown crusty crust, with the most impossibly flavorful, tender and juiciest chicken you can imagine inside. Drain them for a minute on some paper towels just to get any excess oil off.

Serve some of them hot, until everyone is full.  The rest should be saved in the fridge until tomorrow, (or midnight), for a second round of amazing flavor, but cold this time.

There.  That oughta hold ya for a couple of days....