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.