The Making of a Foodie - Our GF Weekend Extravaganza

"Let's go to Kingsland Farmer's Market today", says Shauna yesterday, having heard from her increasing network of celiac and food-conscious friends in Calgary that this place is apparently chockablock with vendors that know what celiac disease is, and what it does to people, and most importantly, how wonderful it is to come across something which you can eat with abandon and not worry once, about any bite going in your mouth threatening to incapacitate you for the next four days.

This was new for me.  I have always been on the hunt for what tastes good.  I figured - what the heck?  Not only might we find a GF biscuit or two that will make Shauna's tummy happy, but I might get some interesting tastes in besides.  But when I saw tears in her eyes as she sampled the shiitake cream of mushroom soup, followed by the exquisite red velvet almond macarons, the Saskatoon berry compote, the Spolumbo's chicken and apple sausage with fresh tomato sauce, the fresh free-range grilled pork farmer's sausage, the Thai green curry on jasmine rice, and the tuscan olive salad - every bite gluten-free, and every bite (as I herewith confirm to be true) absolutely, unbeatably and undeniably as delicious as anything I have ever tasted anywhere else....I witnessed, right before my very eyes, the birth of a new foodie.

Her eyes shone as someone walked past her, carrying a plate of roasted root vegetables with herbs.  She asked that total stranger, ever so politely, if she would mind telling her where she got that.  She gasped audibly at the concept of meat-filled, AND ricotta-filled canneloni - and doubly so when the proprietor of that stall promised that his gluten-free pasta is better than anything we've ever tasted.  If it wasn't, he laid a free lasagne on the line - come back, say you didn't like it as much as the old wheat pasta, and the lasagne is yours.  We bought one of each.  And gnocchi!  Wheat-free gnocchi - pillows of love!  Never had these had the pull, the attraction for her as they did that day.  We bought some of those, too.

We sampled the Alberta-made traditional mead - yup, that medieval wine made with honey.  We sampled three kinds of Thai curry before settling on the green one to take home - they pack all the ingredients in a kit, inside one of those Chinese carry-out cartons - for you to cook up when you get home, from scratch.  We did that for dinner tonight - with exotica like slivered lime leaves, palm sugar, fish sauce, coconut milk permeating the kitchen.  Not a single bite was left - and the whole family ate it.  We made ours with chicken and fresh broccoli....

We stopped by Primal Grounds' stall in the market - yes, it's a coffee emporium, but with a huge, confident, and well-deserved reputation for making the best gluten-free soups in the business.  On offer, as samples, were the shiitake cream of mushroom - which made Shauna cry out "I belong here!  These are my people!" - as well as German caraway borscht.  We promptly bought a liter of the mushroom, and a liter of the roasted tomato vegetable, with a commitment to come back for Japanese miso and lemon dill chicken (because they had sold out).  And then Margaret, who cooks these soups that sustain and bring comfort to so many, told Shauna that because her diagnosis had been so recent, she deserved to be spoiled - and provided a fresh walnut and berry biscuit to eat with the soup.

She had the tomato soup for lunch today.  Last night, we had the free range pork farmer's sausage, with the sweetest, creamiest cranberry coleslaw and a genuine German oma's potato salad.  I don't care anymore that those pigs are loose in the back forty - leave them alone, let them eat - look at this sausage!!!

Today, we decided to spend an afternoon in each other's company, looking at overpriced showhomes - a hobby for as long as we've been married.

We visited exactly one such place...

....and then wound up at Primal Grounds' home base - a little restaurant, transformed from a vintage diner atmosphere into a funky little cafe.  I thought we were getting some tea or hot chocolate - the chinook winds had died back and it was getting cold.  But there was my gourmand wife - peering intently at the display case.  There was a sweet pineapple and chicken curry there.  She looked at me and said - we should split one, don't you think?  I DID think - so we did.  And we added a spinach salad, with freshly slivered almonds and dried cranberries in an intensely orange dressing.

The curry was sublimely smooth, with snow peas, sweet potatoes, bell peppers and a creamy, unctuous sauce caressing the chicken bits.  As an added bonus, the turmeric turned our tongues yellow.  We washed it down with vanilla steamed milk - which on paper sounds wrong, but let me assure you, it's right.

And when we got home, after a couple hours of rearranging our growing library of books, my Shauna announced - I'm ready for supper!

You have to understand - when food is only something you eat to live, and especially when so much of it could be dangerous, it just isn't exciting.  It wasn't ever nearly as exciting for Shauna as it has been for me.  But this weekend, when we found a bonanza of things made by people who really, truly care not only about taste, and freshness, and texture, and infusing every bite with dedication and love - but who also care about the people who cannot eat everything, a new foodie found a home.

And I like that.  A lot.

The Irresistible Pull of Pork

I have been on a pilgrimage through the US Barbecue belt – Washington DC, St. Louis, Kansas City, San Antonio, Atlanta, Houston – eating "low and slow" meat in a quest to find the best – and always yearning for someplace in Calgary to at least come close, for those long stretches when business kept me here, unable to find excuses to head south of the border. Yes, there were one or two wannabes in town that approximated the real thing, but they’ve swirled down the drain of mediocrity.

So imagine my barely contained, hopeful glee when I was zipping down Manhattan Road on an errand last fall, and just out of the corner of my eye spotted the Holy Smoke sign, with a bunch of guys at a picnic table. This is always a good sign. Fortunately, it was lunchtime, so I stopped in.

The first confirmation of my hope was the smell - the essence of smoky porkiness, in all its olfactory glory. Next, everyone at the gingham-plastic covered communal tables was eating off trays lined with butcher paper. My faith grew.

I made a resolution on my birthday that I needed to slim down again – which is the only reason I did not order one of everything on the menu. And besides, thus saith the holy grail of barbecue – “by thy pork shalt thou be judged” – so I reverently requested the full 8 ounce version of the pulled pork sandwich. And pit baked beans on the side. With a Dr. Pepper, naturally.

Peaches, behind the counter, as well as Jim Bob and a variety of other industrious staff, all clad in vestments of repair-shop coveralls with helpful nametags, were completely and devotedly interested in what I had on my tray. Before I even turned fully to face the wall of sauce choices (from Missouri, to Lip-Blistering to Jack Daniels, among 12 or 15 others), Jim Bob materialized beside me, and guided me in the way to the sublime vinegary Jim Beam-based version, which I slathered on.

The bun came with coleslaw, like it’s supposed to. The bun fell apart halfway through my meal, like it’s supposed to. The extra pork dropped all over my tray, ditto. The juice ran down my hands. I think I probably moaned a bit, because Peaches was watching me, expectantly, from the counter. I had told her my last stop for Barbecue had been Rudy’s in San Antonio. She wanted to know how this compared - you know why?  Because they told me they modeled Holy Smoke after Rudy's.  Small world!  My mouth was full, so I just put up two dripping thumbs. She made the universal sign for “Score!” – and you know what? I think she genuinely meant it – these guys rejoice in knowing that they have hit it out of the park.

I looked across, behind the assembly table where the sandwiches were being packed at blazing speed, to try and find the smoker. It’s actually parked outside, in a huge trailer. Somebody was thinking.

The pit beans were a rich, chocolatey brown, with the kind of unctuous sauce that can only result from being forcibly converted over several hours in a hot, smoky room. Perfect.

And when it was time to clean my hands before trying to navigate my BlackBerry again, I found the washroom impeccably clean. Yeah, there are license plates on the walls, and the atmosphere is devotedly redneck – but make no mistake. This is a class joint, that does it lovingly right. And the price? You’d pay the same at Wendy’s for lunch. And – if you don’t have a GPS and can’t find it on the map – they’ll apparently cater your event right at your house.

www.holysmokebbq.ca

The Celiac Conundrum, Chapter 3 - More Than Just Fast Food

Just about everyone who lives in Calgary eventually winds up being introduced to a small but influential place along Memorial Drive, just before Shaganappi Trail, where the lineups are long in winter and even longer in summer - Lic's Ice Cream parlor.  The Leavitt family has been running this place for many years, and it's still one of the finest places to get just about any flavor of ice cream your heart desires - especially if you have it in one of their waffle cones.

But if you're one of their customers, let me urge you to slow down as you approach their front door, and have a look at a tiny little place in the very same building, just one door over, next to the hair salon.  You've probably walked past it a hundred times, and if you're like me, automatically dismissed it in your drive for sweet dairy goodness.

Avatara Healthy Heartstone Pizza has finally put a sandwich board out on the sidewalk, advertising its healthy pizza, complete with gluten-free and lactose-free options.  Again, I am ashamed to say, it wasn't till the hunt for good gluten-free food became personal that I would have even considered a place which advertised "healthy" food, because too often those places make up in sanctimony what they lack in taste.  But today, we decided to step inside, because others in the growing celiac community in Calgary had recommended it highly.

Out of a frigid January Calgary day, the first thing that hits you as you pull open the door is an absolute wash of warm, complex aromas - fresh basil, sweet peppers, spiky chorizo, melting cheese - all punctuated with the insistent, primeval welcoming throb of reggae music.  It's strictly take-out, with a couple of bar chairs for those who don't want to sit in the car for the 20 minutes it takes for your order to be ready.

It quickly became apparent that the proprietor has been doing this for a very, very long time.  Which would mean he started making pizza when he was three years old, given his obvious youth.  It always shocks me into awed silence, watching someone who's an artist in the kitchen.  While we drank in the voluminous menu on the wall, he quietly chopped fresh basil and cilantro with the combination of lightning speed and casual fluidity that says - "this ain't no Little Caesar's, people".

We had a multitude of choices.  The most magnificent for my wife, though, was the fact that all these ingredients could be provided on a gluten-free crust, and lactose free options if desired.  Instead of opting for any of their avatars -  "The Guru" (Butter Chicken Sauce, Chicken, Mozzarella, Red Onion, Sweet Pepper, Mango Chutney and Cilantro), or the "Mauie Wowie" (Tomato or Rebel BBQ sauce, Black Forest Ham, Mozzarella, Pineapple and Bacon), she elected to build her own, from the Alter Ego menu - creating her own avatar from Body Types like thin or thick crust (she picked gluten-free), Saucy Soul sauces, Characteristics (toppings) Personality (choice of five cheeses) and Special Powers - including pine nuts, cashews, chipotle and other nifty taste explosions.

I had to go with the Italian Stallion - Fresh Basil graced the tomato sauce, with fresh-cut mushrooms, chorizo (not the kind that makes your hair catch fire, but with just the right kind of zing that makes you crave another bite), huge slices of salami, the tastiest, salty burst of green olives, and to crown the mozzarella cheese, a healthy sprinkling of honest, garlicky, in-your-face bruschetta, carefully strained of excess liquid through his fingertips, and strategically dropped in place.

We watched him put it all together.  He started with a meticulously-cleaned granite prep table, expunged of all traces of glutenous flour or dough.  After rolling out the crust and hand-cutting a perfect 10" circle, he built Shauna's creation with both hands, alternating layers of her chicken, sweet pepper, and cheese toppings - in its own foil tray.  He set it far away - far, far away from the prep table, so that his practiced flinging of flour to prepare my whisper-thin 50% whole-wheat crust could not possibly stray onto her pizza.  That crust was properly punctured with a rolling perforator, and slid onto a large paddle.

They went into his granite-hearth pizza oven, separated like boys and girls at an old-time Bible college.  No touching.  He checked the underside of the crust on mine twice - and when it was just brown enough, slid it onto its own baking sheet - preserving the bottom while finishing the toppings.

I saw a crease of worry cross Shauna's face.  With the agony of a full-blown celiac attack from a few days ago awfully fresh in her memory, she had to ask.  (The sign says "gluten free", but how do you really know it isn't just an advertising gimmick?)  So she said - "You do know there can't be any cross-contamination there, right?"  He smiled, and said - "That's why we keep them on their own tray, off the hearth surface.  We use separate cutters and keep them well away from the other pizzas.  Don't worry, ma'am".  "Well, I DO worry", she said, as she watched him cut and box my pizza.  Then, like a surgeon, he fastidiously washed and dried his hands, and only then, with a different paddle, took her pizza out of the oven, gently folding down the tray and cutting the pizza without it ever touching the board.  That's when he mentioned that 25 - 50% of his business every day is now coming from people who are celiac....

Shauna's pupils returned to their normal size.  With safety now firmly established, we embarked on the real test.  We did not wait to get home - with the car heater blasting away, we tied into the pizza, singeing both fingers and palates.

I had a bite of hers first.  Gluten free may be necessary for her, but I wanted to know if it was worth eating for anyone.  Hands down, yes.  Absolutely sublime.  "Every ingredient tastes fresh", Shauna said.  "Those green peppers aren't bitter!  How do you get green peppers that aren't bitter?"  Best of all - not a flicker of stomach-clenching pain, no poisoning symptoms - just mouthwateringly, blisteringly hot and fresh real pizza.

Mine was everything I expected.  I had to fold it, New York style, to keep the toppings from escaping onto my shirt front.  Every ingredient got it's own chance to sing out loud, and in perfect harmony with the others.  This isn't "just pizza", it's gourmet food.  Yeah, I know, pizza is pizza, no-brainer, right?  Nope - this is how it's supposed to be made.

They have a mobile pizza oven.  They'll cater your party.  They'll deliver too.  And with the price being no more than same-old, same-old Boston Pizza or Domino's, why wouldn't you go for something made by a pro, who understands that a symphony of excellent ingredients beats crappy muzak any day.  Next time you go to Lic's for dessert, why not get the main course at Avatara first....

The Celiac Conundrum - Chapter Two: Stuffing!

Having watched those with celiac disease for awhile now, it occurs to me that one of the biggest hurdles - kinda like the grieving process for any loss - is how to deal with missing the delicious stuff you used to eat.  That seems to be hardest with comfort food, or with food that is closely associated with the most heartwarming traditions - like Christmas or Thanksgiving food.  I know how much my wife misses her mom's pumpkin pie, for example, which she can never have again (not because she is now celiac, but because her mom has passed away).  She really misses that pie, especially at Christmas and Thanksgiving.

There's another thing that my celiac-afflicted community misses in much the same way.  What's turkey without stuffing?  What's Christmas dinner without stuffing, for that matter?  Sure, it's a simple dish we take for granted, but you really, really miss it when you realize you can't make those yummy cold turkey, cranberry and stuffing sandwiches later that night from the leftovers without stuffing in them!

A couple of years ago, at such a family gathering, everything at Jan's house was perfect for dinner - except that we had no solution for the stuffing conundrum.  We had an urgent conference in the kitchen.  Let's face it - 98% of what passes for bread in the gluten-free world is crap, and unworthy of anything but toasting and choking down with large volumes of peanut butter and jelly to mask the taste.  But stuffing is also about texture, not just taste, and GF bread had failed all attempts at anything evoking the comfort of bygone stuffing experiences.

Of great necessity is sometimes born ingenuity.  With an hour to go before dinner, we opened the pantry, pulled out the spice rack, and started throwing things together.

Astonishingly, it worked.  Don't ask me how, but there was alchemy in the following ingredients.  After crowing delight and moans of satisfaction from the dinner table, we decided to write this one down on a paper plate, so as not to forget it.  I am advised that this recipe has now migrated out beyond our family circle, to land on others' holiday tables.  That's pretty gratifying, I must say - given the huge value of comfort food and its place in family tradition.  Here's the recipe:

10-12 slices of Gluten Free bread - we used plain old Kinnickinnic tapioca rice, but whatever you have should work.
2 cups turkey or chicken broth
1 med onion, diced
1 granny smith apple, diced
2-3 tbsp bacon bits (real or simulated) 
NOTE:  Some people leave the bacon bits out entirely.  Me, I like the smokiness and richness that bacon adds to dishes that go with meat.  It's why I like bacon in my red cabbage, for example.  But go ahead and leave it out, if you want to.
4-5 tbsp Butter (very important...do not skimp)
1 tbsp poultry seasoning(or to your taste) or oregano, rosemary, and/or sage
1 tbsp seasoning salt

Cut the bread into 1 inch cubes, Pour broth over the bread to soak. 
Season with poultry seasoning, and let it stand while you sauté the diced onions in 2 tbsp butter for 5-6 min. over medium heat (until just translucent - do not burn).
Add diced apple and bacon bits, sauté for another 3-4 minutes
Add seasoning salt, stir and sauté
In another, large frying pan, put soaked bread cubes with 2-3 tbsp of butter, over medium heat. Stir so it does not stick. 
Stir in the onion and apple mixture from your other pan. 
Dump everything into an 8 x 12 casserole dish. 
Put into a 325 oven for about 1/2 an hour, to dry it out a bit and make the top brown and crunchy


Serve to anyone...even glutenites.  They will not know the difference...


NOTE:  Some people like other things in their stuffing, like dried cranberries or celery or carrots.  If you want to add these, just sauté the vegetables for awhile before you add the onions.  Half an hour in the oven is not enough to soften them so that they feel like they belong in the stuffing.  Cranberries or raisins - probably best to soak them right along with the bread.  That plumps them up a bit, just as if they were in the turkey.

I think the trick here is in soaking the bread in broth, then letting the water evaporate out in the oven.  Maybe something to do with preserving and concentrating the chickeny goodness of the broth in the bread is what transforms it from mealy mediocrity to something worth calling "stuffing".  In that regard, I am not sure this would even work if stuffed in a turkey cavity.  I don't think there would be enough evaporation happening in there to make this what it needs to be.  If someone wants to try it, and compare the result with this recipe, I'd like to hear about it.....

Living to Eat - Tito Di Brucchietti Dario, Rieti, Italy

Having driven the Alfa Romeo at breakneck speed along the Autostrada from Rome right up the middle of the boot, we arrived in Rieti, Italy, just across the hill from Montepulciano d’Abruzzo (a fact which becomes quite important later).  I had to go at breakneck speed because (a) I was falling asleep due to excessive jet lag and (b) it was not possible to pass anyone on the two lane highway except by driving on the shoulder, or pushing the other guy onto the shoulder so you could pass.

Napping intermittently, we pulled into the city (founded by the Romans, and still sporting a huge wall), and were claustrophobically funneled through streets exactly three inches wider than the car itself, before being vomited out into an expansive square in front of our hotel.  There the car sat for the next three days, mainly because it was more sane, and more fun, to walk everywhere.

Being in the heart of Italy, I wanted to eat Italian made by Italians for Italians.  Stupidly, we asked the concierge at the hotel where we could go to get such a meal.  “Why, the best restaurant in all Rieti happened to be just around the corner”, he said, with a gleam in his eye that later proved to be caused by the kickback he obviously received from the owner of said “restaurant”, for sending gullible tourists from North America there.  Let’s just say the pasta almost ascended to the culinary accomplishment of Italian master chef  Boy-Ar-Dee, with the pizza coming just short of Little Caesar’s.

This left me pretty disheartened.  I was, obviously, in Rieti to attend an important conference on prevention of biological, chemical and nuclear threats, but secretly, as ever, I was also there to eat.

The next night, my two American and one British colleague and I set off on foot, expertly ducking into doorways at just the right moment to avoid losing a limb to a passing Fiat or Vespa, and eventually finding ourselves stopping in front of “Tito” in garish blue neon.  Being from a land in which bright neon usually advertises American beer and French fries with gravy, we weren’t entirely convinced – but the door opened, releasing a cloud of fragrance so complex and delicious it made my knees buckle.  The quick glimpse inside revealed a place packed to the gills with loud, laughing and obviously extremely satisfied people. 

We went in.  A blond man with Mahatma Gandhi glasses, but obviously Etruscan and therefore utterly belonging there, strode up to me confidently, and parked his face three inches from mine, as is the custom in all Latin-influenced places.  He didn’t have to say a word – before I knew what I was saying, I knew this place was his, and therefore I could brazenly tell him that we were travelers here for but three days, that we were not interested in the menu, but that instead, we just wanted him to please prepare for us whatever would show off the heart and soul of this beautiful region of Italy. 

His eyes filled briefly with the kind of gratitude that happens only when you happen to say exactly the thing that someone has been yearning to hear all his life.  I just got lucky, I guess – and boy, were we about to find out just how lucky.  As he pulled out my chair, I risked another question – were the black truffles by any chance in season right now?  (I had never had truffles of any description, and it was about bloody time, being that the guidebooks were confident that Rieti is a hotbed of truffledom in Italy).  His disappointment was palpable – “No, the truffles are just out of season, but there is another mushroom now coming into its own….ah, I will show you something, please do not worry”.

One of our group, whom I will call Sarjit, (because that is his name), briefly fingered the menu on the table.  He was not entirely sure that throwing ourselves on the mercy of the chef was all that safe an idea…I couldn’t blame him, being that he had been expertly relieved of his laptop by a couple of suave and erudite pickpockets on the train that morning.  No wonder he was jittery.  He asked Tito if he could perhaps have the sautéed prawns instead of whatever other appetizer was coming.  Tito was gracious.

The prawns appeared, in full unpeeled glory, heads and antennae still intact.  Sarjit took one look, and announced to me that he had ‘just remembered’ that he was in fact ‘allergic to shellfish’.  It only took me a second to wonder how someone forgot such a thing before I graciously volunteered to eat his shellfish for him.  They were sautéed in brandy, and utterly, stupendously sublime.

Our appetizer arrived.  It was scrambled eggs on fresh bread – garnished with black truffles.  I took a bite.  Tito hovered nearby.  Time stopped.  Never, ever have I had anything so intensely, astonishingly powerful in my mouth.  I cannot describe this without becoming exceedingly graphic and intimate – and now I know why people willingly shell out hundreds, if not thousands of dollars for mere shavings of this earthy, sensual, compulsive ecstasy of taste.

Tito smiled knowingly, and disappeared.

Pasta is the next course in Italy – served before the meat course.  Our pasta came with peas and sweetbreads – thymus glands of a calf – (which is why they are called sweetbreads, because merely saying ‘thymus’ tends to put off one’s appetite).  These came in a white wine cream sauce, in a portion expertly sized to make one want more meat.

Osso buco obligingly followed.  Braised veal shanks, to be specific.  This dish made the trip to America with the first flood of Italian immigrants, so therefore its very familiarity might make one pause and wonder if traveling to Italy to experience it might just be a letdown.  No fear of that.  These calves’ calves had obviously never needed to climb any of Rieti’s pitched pastures or cobbled streets.  Coddled for hours in a red wine sauce, the veal practically slid off the bone, and gave up in a meltingly rich burst of meaty essence in the mouth.  Tito served a red Montepulciano d’Abruzzo wine, with no label.  I cavalierly asked him where I might get such a bottle to take back home with me.  “No”, he said, shaking an emphatic finger.  “We don’t send this to your country.  This we keep for ourselves….”

Dessert was vanilla gelato, flooded with espresso made tableside.  A perfect balance of deeply rounded bitterness with exquisitely sweet and creamy vanilla.

The second dessert – because Tito, with eyes shining, told us that he had rarely seen anyone enjoy food so much – was on the house.  A platter of plain, white cookies, each unadorned except for a single hazelnut, arrived.  Tito stopped us from grabbing one, patiently pouring the Vin Santo and explaining that the Italian way was to dip the cookie – like so – into the sweet wine before eating.

We dipped, and ate, and pondered again our very, very good luck.

Then came the bill.  It was my turn, since those around the table represented two companies working together now for many years.  We just took turns picking up the tab.  My palms were a bit sweaty, thinking how I was going to explain this to accounting, and honestly thinking this meal might be worth being fired over.

Sixty dollars (US).  Total.  For four people.

The next night – our last in that city – I tried to convince the group that we needed to return to Tito Di Brucchietti Dario.  I lost.  They said there was no way that meal could ever be equaled.  I beg to differ.  The reason that place has been in that family for over a century is precisely because they CAN equal that meal, day after day.  I’m going back there, someday.

Gaetano's in Brussels

The hotel I stayed at in downtown Brussels did live up to all expectations, but like all apparently seasoned business travelers, I figured the best way to experience culture when all you have in a city is approximately 48 hours is to find a “real” restaurant somewhere in town – where the locals go to get good food.

Jack, my business colleague, and I decided en route that we needed to pick up some souvenirs for the families back home.  There was a little store just down from the hotel, which featured many kinds of liquor and only one kind of souvenir.  A small naked boy urinating.  Some were 2 inches high, and some nearly life size – in bronze, silver and copper.  Teaspoons tastefully decorated with the stream eddying down the handle of the spoon.  Snow globes (though thankfully not with yellow snow). Playing cards, aprons, espresso mugs, shot glasses – all graced with little 'Manikin Pis'. 

Some homework yielded the information that the young Belgian king, while out for a walk with his nanny, felt the urge and demanded the divine right to relieve himself now.  Despite pleas from the nanny, he dropped his pants and went in the street.  Since then, the legend has been embellished somewhat, insisting that the king was in fact instrumental in putting out a small fire that could have threatened the entire capital city, etc. etc.  (Shades of the little Dutch boy and the hole in the dike).   There was duly erected in the center of town a statue commemorating the event, and for added realism and nostalgia, the statue was afforded an additional role as an anatomically correct fountain.  Apparently the statue receives clothing at certain festive times, whether or not these are occasions during which Belgium feels a need for additional modesty is unclear.  In any case, perhaps in defiant support of that which truly sets Brussels apart from other European capitals, the man in front of us on the sidewalk unhitched his belt and irrigated the flowerpot decorating the street. 

A couple of blocks removed from any vehicle traffic whatsoever, down a darkened street illuminated only by his vertical sign with arrow lay Gaetano’s restaurant.  As we approached, Gaetano himself leaped to his feet and ushered us inside, to the strains of some particularly enthusiastic gravel-voiced Italian pop star.  We had the entire place to ourselves.  The music suddenly came to a halt, to be replaced by Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. 

Gaetano himself did not appear to be a happy man.  Upon hearing distinctly North American-inflected English, he had apparently resigned himself to serving a couple of culinary Philistines. Matters were not helped by our choosing our own bottle of Chianti.  Menus appeared, and a twinge of unease on my part.  They were printed on one single sheet of paper, laminated in the way of most chop suey houses, and advertised a scant selection of pizza, pasta, and meat dishes.  Ah well, at least the prices were reasonable.

Gaetano reappeared, detached and grouchy.  He took our order for an entrée each, and disappeared.  He deposited our pasta before us, and left again.  The tortolli with black truffle sauce was in sharp and wholly pleasurable contrast to the visual quality of the menu. It was frankly amazing, the kind of food which breeds unhealthy obsessions.  He must have heard something in our exclamations, either that or his love for fine dining drove him back to our table, where he declared, “You know, most of my customers allow me to order for them.  Then they have a cold starter, a hot starter, and a meat dish or pasta.”  A few seconds passed.  We could not pass it up, and so, while doing it backwards, we ordered the cold starter – a carpaccio, with shavings of parmiggiano reggiano.  Whisper thin and silky beef, dressed with arugula, not the bitter wilted weed that you must pretend to like in order to be properly cultured, but a muscular, earthy complement setting off both meat and cheese perfectly.

Gaetano cracked a smile, allowing that even Americans can have good taste.

“I’m actually from Canada – he’s from America”, I corrected, pointing at Jack, and ever conscious of my national inferiority complex.

“Ah, it’s all the same,” says Gaetano, “Canada, America – no difference to European people”.

“Oh, so you are from Switzerland, you said?”  I say, maliciously.

A sharp stare.  “NO.  I am from Napoli!”

“Ah, Italian, Swiss – all the same, no?”  Gaetano bursts out laughing, a high-pitched giggle. We compliment the food again, and he describes the history of the restaurant – the waiter whom, unbeknownst to the boss, has been rushing customers through their meals so that he can get out of there by 9:00 until Gaetano, with customer base dwindling away, finally catches him in the act and fires him.  Now starts the rebuilding.  Lunchtime is good, evenings still a challenge.  

He puts his hands on the table, and pointedly tells us that if we had let him choose a GOOD wine, we would have enjoyed ourselves even more.

Emboldened, we decided to ask Gaetano whether there was anything famous about Belgium at all.  He looked offended, and so we had to explain that we really didn’t know why the Manikin Pis thing was so big.  Wasn’t there anything else?

“Yes!  Atomium!”  he said.  Blank looks from the ‘Americans’.  Then I remembered – something I had seen from the train window, off in the distance.  A very large, very shiny stainless steel rendering of the atom, built for Expo ’57 in Brussels, I explained, with very large spheres connected by tubes – probably 10 storeys high.

“What’s inside it?” asked Jack the ever-practical.

“Inside it?  Nothing is inside it!” exclaimed Gaetano, injured.  “It is a sculpture!”  (Culturally deficient Americans!)  And then, a long list of things which we had really never heard of, including a palace to which the king goes every day to work.  These are all glories of Belgium, apparently.

Jack, the ever-practical and now perhaps in danger of becoming Jack the little-bit-annoying-to-Gaetano, asks – “Why do they only sell the little boy peeing, then?” 

Gaetano changes the subject.

There was no way to avoid dessert.  Gaetano had poured out his soul – he wanted Belgians to know real Neapolitan cooking, this was his mission in life.  And he hovered to ensure we understood that.  We acquiesced, becoming the next essential players in Gaetano’s dream.  Vanilla gelati with white chocolate chunks, drenched with a double espresso. Sheer decadence, the soul of Italy.

Which was soon spoiled entirely by a grand gift – Gaetano’s grappa, on the house. Innocently clear, like a mountain stream, the first sip brought on the kind of heartburn that makes you wonder about calling an ambulance.  He grinned, drinking in our appreciation and ardor for this wondrous Italian invention.  We sipped more, grinning ferociously.  Hoping to deflect attention from my squirming, I asked him how grappa is made.  A detailed description followed, but basically, it is whisky make of the crap that’s left once the grapes have all been squished for wine.  Mmmm.  Faint diesel overtones, sandpaper finish.

That couldn’t wreck the evening though.  We heard Gaetano in the basement kitchen, singing loudly.  We decided on the spot to come back the next night.  This time, he chose the wine, he chose the entire altogether sublime meal, including an astonishing osso buco.  I asked for the recipe.  He said "No" and – broke out the GOOD grappa, an oxymoron right up there with “pretty ugly” and “jumbo shrimp”.  (Note to self – do not praise falsely, for this may lead to another glassful on the house).  And then he produced the bill - "Look - normally THIS is what I would have charged you.  But look what I do for you - (Slash!, Slash!) On the house! On the house!  NOW, you see what I do for you?"  We did, and we appreciated it greatly.  Our enthusiasm for a long walk to see the real Manikin Pis considerably dulled by Italian hooch, we meandered back to the hotel.

The Celiac Conundrum - Chapter One

So, in the past couple of weeks, the person for whom I enjoy cooking the most got the diagnosis - she officially has celiac disease.  That means no more food with anything related to gluten (wheat protein) in it.  The first time I came across someone with this condition, it was at a pizza buffet - where this poor kid stood with his mom, peering closely at each of the pizzas and side dishes, in earnest conversation about whether or not he could eat this, or this, or this. At the time, I thought it was like a death sentence - I couldn't imagine how you could go through life having to be on high alert before every bite.  Talk about robbing the joy of eating, the ecstasy of tasting, the abandonment of sheer gustatory pleasure.

Apparently, there are a lot of people who suffer from this condition - a lot more now than even 30 or 40 years ago.  I now have five relatives who are celiac, all diagnosed over the past 10 years.  I've quietly watched them pick substitutes, talk to waiters, read the labels on everything while shopping.  What's been most heartbreaking, from a food lover's perspective, is to see the pathetic attempts by small and lonely producers to develop gluten-free alternatives that, if you really squeeze your eyes tight and imagine as hard as you can, kinda, sorta, maybe taste like the "real thing".  Want the truth?  Most of the time, not even close.  And the bewildering instructions on how to make those things, which include fractions of gluten-free flour, an array of exotic gums (xanthan and guar chief among them), wonky baking times, and having to store almost all this stuff in the freezer at all times except when you're ready to eat it puts a depressing blanket over even trying to make something tasty.

But lately, the big producers have begun to notice that there is an expanding market of people who, being required to eat this way, are willing to pay for things that taste good on their own merits - not just as pale copies of what they're trying to copy.  Specialty Gluten Free (or "GF") stores have sprung up, giving dedicated, individual experimenters a place where they can sell their taste breakthroughs to an appreciative and relieved celiac community.  Even the big chain stores are starting to carry not only GF prepared foods, but also ingredients that you can pick up to make your own meals.

Now we're talking!  Here's a chance to get back to the joy of eating, even though you are celiac!  So - while I am not celiac myself, I love nothing more than watching people enjoy good food (except enjoying it myself, that is).  Life really is too short to eat bad food - and that goes for making bad food as well.  I'm going to accept the challenge of making homemade GF taste great.  The blunt and honest critics living in my house will be the judges - and judge they will, for which I am deeply appreciative.  For the ones that pass the test, I shall post the recipes here - maybe they can help someone else looking to turn food from enemy to friend again.

Here's the first one - Five-Cheese Meat Lasagne

Ingredients:

1.5 lbs. lean ground beef
2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
3 large cloves of garlic, crushed
1 tbsp seasoning salt (Hy's is GF)
1 tbsp paprika
1 tsp allspice
1 tbsp poultry seasoning
1/2 cup Port, Madeira, or other dessert wine
1 tsp fresh ground pepper
1 lb. fresh white mushrooms
2 cups cottage cheese
2 cups freshly grated Parmesan or Grana Padano or Asiago cheese
2 jars Catelli Four-Cheese Pasta Sauce (any four-cheese pasta sauce will do)
2 eggs
1 box Rizopia Brown Rice Lasagne Noodles
4 cups grated cheese (Mozzarella, Colby, Marble, Cheddar, Monterey Jack - whatever you like best)

Preparation:

• In a large, heavy saucepan over medium-high heat, heat olive oil till it starts to quiver - not till it smokes - and add onions and garlic.  Stir-fry until just soft, then add ground beef.  Season with paprika, seasoning salt, poultry seasoning, fresh ground pepper and allspice.  Stir-fry the meat just until the pink is gone.  Add Port (or other wine).  Add two jars of pasta sauce.  Turn heat down to medium-low, and let the mixture boil gently, stirring occasionally.
• In another bowl, beat two eggs, and blend in the cottage cheese.  Season with pepper and salt, and blend in one cup of Parmesan (or Grana Padano or Asiago) cheese.
• Slice fresh mushrooms into 1/8-inch slices.
• Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
• In a 9 x 13 lasagne pan, scoop in enough meat sauce to cover the bottom to about 1/4-inch deep.  Don't skimp.
• Lay in the first layer of uncooked Rizopia Brown Rice lasagne noodles, leaving about half an inch of space between the side of the pan and the noodles, and between the noodles themselves.  You'll fit three in lengthwise, and one crosswise (breaking the crosswise one to the right length).  NOTE:  Rizopia brand, available in Canada, makes outstanding rice pasta for lasagne - they have a great al dente bite to them, with none of that unfortunate, gummy, sloppy mess that too many GF pastas have.
• On top of the noodles, spoon all the cottage cheese/egg/grated cheese mixture.  Cover everything - not just the noodles.  
• Lay in all the fresh mushroom slices on top of the cottage cheese mixture.
• Spoon in another layer of meat sauce, to cover.
• Lay in your second layer of lasagne noodles.  Cover them completely with meat sauce.
• At this point, depending on how deep your lasagne baking pan is, you might have to stop, and put the cheese on.  If you have a deep pan, go ahead and put in a last row of noodles, and cover with sauce.  N.B. - it is vital that you thoroughly cover the noodles with sauce - it's the liquid that cooks the noodles to an edible state, so don't leave them to bake out in the open.  If your pan is shallower, you will have sauce left over.  Save it to eat on something else.
• The crowning layer is the cheese.  Put it on thickly - your grated mozza, followed by the rest of the Parmesan.
• Cover the pan with tin foil.  Bake in the oven for 30-35 minutes, then remove the foil, and bake for an additional 15 minutes, until bubbling.  For the last minute or two, turn on the broiler and brown the cheese on top.  Careful not to burn it.
• Let stand for 10 minutes before cutting and serving.  This should comfortably serve six to eight people, especially with a nice salad.

Try it, and let me know what you think....