Fleur de Sel

The other night Alison and I went to a French restaurant called Fleur de Sel.  It was a gift from my dragon boat team, and it was nice to finally get out and enjoy it.  It is a very small, warmly decorated restaurant where you sit so close to your neighbors that you can hear their conversations, and when the front door opens everyone shivers as the cold wind blows through the whole restaurant.  These might seem like major inconveniences, but I actually take it as a good sign: if people are willing to put up with such discomforts, the food must be pretty damn good.

I rarely order fish.  I don't dislike fish; I just like the flesh of land-dwelling beasts a lot more.  But when I saw the ahi tuna in a wasabi butter sauce on the menu, I decided to give it a try, but only after asking the waiter if it was real wasabi.

"Oui oui, but of course zee wasabi eez real." Okay, he didn't say "oui oui" but he was definitely French.  He had a strong accent and a naturally patronizing tone that made me feel foolish for asking.

But I had to ask. 

Why?  Because I had just recently learned a terrible secret: the Japanese have been lying to me for literally decades!

You've had wasabi, right?  Ha, wrong!  Almost nobody has actually had wasabi.  It turns out that the stuff they serve at sushi bars and put in those dried out supermarket bento boxes is really just horseradish, mustard, and #%!$-ing food coloring!  (FD&C Blue#1 to be exact, which is a total crock.  Everyone knows that FD&C Blue#2 is the good stuff.)

I found this out by accident when I looked up the ingredients for Blue Diamond Wasabi & Soy Sauce Almonds to see if they contained any real wasabi.  (By the way, if you haven't tried those yet, you gotta get some.  I don't even care that they don't have any real wasabi on them; they've got great bite and go straight up your nose the way I love...no, not the almonds, I mean the effects of the horseradish.)

Anyway, while searching online, I stumbled across several references to this faux-sabi conspiracy, and my eyes were opened to just how enormous the reach of this bold lie extends.  Not only is the stuff from most local providers artificial, but even the imported wasabi (you've probably seen it in those green plastic toothpaste tubes with Japanese characters boldly claiming "Wasabi!" on its front label) contains absolutely no wasabia japonica (yes, that's the scientific name).  Same thing goes for every wasabi-flavored snack I've purchased from import stores:

Wasabi peas?
Fake.

Wasabi potato chips?
Fake.

Wasabi gum balls?
Fake.  And really really disgusting.

After further research, my heart dropped when I realized:

Even though I lived in Japan for nearly two years, I have probably never tasted real wasabi!

I feel like Cookie Monster after being told, because Jim Henson didn't build him a throat, he hasn't actually ever eaten a single cookie.

First it was Pearl Harbor, now this.  (Sigh.)  What else have the Japanese lied to me about?  Is Kobe beef just mad cow leftovers from Britain?  Does Sailor Moon get sea-sick?  Is Mount Fuji only 32 inches tall?  Is tofu really the Japanese version of Soylent Green?  Maybe "banzai!" actually translates to mean "Damn, I thought I had enough fuel for a round trip."

This is why I asked my French server.

Now, it is possible that the bona fide (look at me, using French...or is it Latin?) stuff was used in the sauce.  They might have imported the raw root from new wasabi farms in Oregon (unlikely) or used the powdered variety which, unlike the paste, is sometimes the genuine article.  I'm leaning towards the powder theory because it had none of wasabi's famous sinus-scouring kick; not even a little.  This is the drawback of using anything but the freshly ground vegetable: drying, powdering, freezing, or cooking true wasabi removes most of its zing.  Only the fake variety seems to maintain its tear-inducing power over time.

Still, the ahi tuna was pretty good.  Alison gave me a taste of her maple mustard encrusted rack of lamb, and it was excellent. 

Yes, Alison and I always share each other's food at restaurants.  Now, don't be all "Eww, germs!"  That's nothing compared to what we shared after dinner.  Hey, the kids were at their grandparents for the night, there had been more than a little wine with our meal, and we were feeling naughty.   Don't judge.  We may be in our forties, but we're not dead!  You guessed it.  We had dessert.

Alison ordered the chocolate profiteroles, and I had the creme brulee.  Both were very rich and definitely worth having again.  And the creme brulee had pieces of candied ginger that were a nice touch for the holiday season.

Speaking of nice touches (no, I'm not saying anything about anything that may or may not have happened after dessert...honestly, I can't remember.  Hmm, maybe forty is closer to dead than I thought), the kitchen is open to the patrons' prying eyes, and all of the chefs wore blue and white striped shirts.  They reminded me of the gondoliers of Venice's canals.

Yes, I know that Venice is in Italy, not France, but c'mon, with the tight striped shirt, the red neckerchief, and the little hat with its flowing ribbon, even the Italians probably mistake gondoliers for Frenchmen. 

Fries & Dolls

Yes, you heard right, dragons!

Okay, to be completely accurate, I raced dragon boats, and it's just as cool as it sounds.

Before I tell you what the sport of dragon boating is all about, I should give you a bit of background on my relationship to sports in general.  My talents are definitely more intellectual than physical, so I have attempted to apply those strengths to sports whenever possible.  For example, when I played softball as a teen, I would be out in left field (literally, not figuratively) waiting to intercept anything the batters sent my way.  When the batter would hit the ball hard and low, it would usually sail by the knees of the second baser before it would touch the ground.  Using my exceptional spacial and mathematical reasoning skills, I could quickly estimate velocity, delta V (including effects of wind resistance), mass, and angle of descent to calculate the most likely vector of the ball after it bounced off the clumpy, weed-infested surface of the outfield.  This would enable me to place myself and my glove in the perfect position to catch the ball...

...with my face.

You see, all of this higher brain function stuff is useless in most sports if one doesn't also have something referred to by kinesiologists as "hand-eye coordination".  Without the ability to actually throw or catch, my career as an outfielder was very short-lived.  I was then moved to a position where I could do less damage: catcher.  If there was a serious play where home plate needed to be covered, the pitcher would rush in to make the catch on my behalf.  But eventually everyone got tired of waiting for me to retrieve nearly every pitch that wasn't hit because I closed my eyes every time the batter swung (I was sure someone was going to knock my head off and pop it over to the shortstop), and I would miss catching the ball.  So, it wasn't long before I spent most of my time keeping the bench warm.

Did I mention this was a church softball team?  You know you really suck at a sport when even Jesus won't let you play.

That never stopped me from trying to find my place in team sports.  When I was about eight or nine, I joined an exhibition basketball team called, no joke, Pitcher's Dribblers.   We somewhat resembled the Harlem Globetrotters, only much younger and, in my case, much much whiter.  We would travel around southern Alberta and perform "precision" basketball routines during the halftimes of highschool and college basketball games.  While the others were dribbling figure 8's through their legs, I was once again spending most of my time chasing balls. (Stop snickering.  That is in no way meant as a euphemism.)

Darin "Magic" Gregson


I knew better than to try out for the school football team, but I did occasionally join a pickup game.  It was never a question which team I would be on; it was always the team that chose last.  Once, though, I thought I had finally found my true purpose (besides pouring Gatorade) in football.  My team only had one yard and one down left to make a touchdown.  The whole field, AKA Randy's backyard, was barely 25 yards long but it was still a critical play.  We had been unable to break their defensive line on our two previous attempts (note to my American readers: the CFL only has three downs which reduces offensive rushing.  I suppose it's that way because we're compulsively nicer than you, even in full-contact sports),  so it was decided that our largest player (Kevin) would toss the ball over the defensive line.  Oh, and I almost forgot to mention an important detail: I would still be holding the ball when he tossed it.

We were sure this would catch the opposing team completely by surprise and I would be the hero for - literally - landing the winning touchdown.  As I soared over everyone's head, grinning ear to ear, I thought, "This is it!  I have finally found my place in a team sport.  I am proving my worth.  Maybe they'll even name this play after me!"  It felt great...right until the moment someone reached up, grabbed my belt, and slammed me to the ground.  I was only a foot away from the end zone, not that I even noticed.  I was too busy trying to dislodge a football from my abdomen.

Latterly, I decided to focus on non-competitive individual sports like skiing (snow and water) where the only person I could let down was myself.  A low center of gravity was a real advantage and I got pretty good at it, but I would continue to decline invitations to play squash with co-workers or to join the company softball team.

Therefore, when the opportunity to join a different kind of sports team, a dragon boat team, first presented itself fifteen years ago, I was skeptical.  But after a practice or two, I realized that this time I really had found a sport that could make use of my non-traditional athletic abilities.  In this sport, timing, not strength, is the most important factor.  And, dear readers, I was a music major!

(To be honest, strength also matters.  The burliest members of our team sit near the middle of the boat and are referred to as the "Engine Room".  When they paddle, it sounds like giant steam pistons on a great ocean liner.  When I paddle, it sounds more like a cockapoo lapping water from its bowl.)

Hey, look at that...I'm not so short sitting down.

Dragon boating has been around for hundreds of years, originating in 5th Century China (BC!!), so it is a bit puzzling that the boats have evolved so little from an original design that seems flawed somehow.  Each dragon boat holds 20 paddlers lined up in two rows, ten on each side (math...oh, goody!), plus a drummer in the front and a steers-person in the back.  However, in spite of having forty arms driving this one-tonne (note to my American readers: that's more or less a ton, but with more joie de vivre) boat through the water with their paddles, it always feels like a sluggish affair, especially when we get passed at practices by every other boat on the Glenmore Reservoir, including recreational one-man scullers rowed by senior citizens.  Maybe having so many paddlers in one boat actually reduces efficiency, and the Chinese designed the dragonboats, not for speed or aquadynamics, but as another way to try to keep their ginormous population employed.  Kind of like the way our Western cities hire fifteen guys over three days to fill one pothole.

At a dragon boat festival this isn't really a problem, because all of the teams are quite literally in the same boat (groan).  Unusually five boats race at a time over a 500 meter course (note to my American readers: a meter is basically a...you know what, forget it, it's way past time you guys joined the rest of the world and learned the metric system for yourselves).  It doesn't sound like much, but for the First Calgary Financial Never Drag'n team, a group that is made up of mostly bankers and office workers, we find it very hard to catch our breath by the finish line.  Of course, that could also have something to do with having to wear life jackets provided by the festivals organizers, life jackets that haven't been cleaned in four summers of festivals, are tastefully decorated with mildew, and smell like a sweaty tree sloth's underarms.

But those PFDs are absolutely a necessity.  For a supposed "non-contact" sport, we have experienced a large number of collisions and near-collisions (some of them even our fault).  We have an amazing steersman now, but that wasn't always the case.  There was a time that just a little bit of wind would send us careening into the boat in the next lane.  One year, we became so notorious that we could psyche out other boats by simply having our drummer holler, "Ramming speed!"

Building up to "ramming speed".

This past summer we had our own brush with fear when high winds, whitecaps, and the wake from a large paddle-boat ferry caused our dragon boat to list dangerously to one side.  Our steersman fell to his knees (to pray?) and all 20 paddlers tried to compensate by leaning simultaneously to the left, tipping the boat even further in the opposite direction.  The boat began to fill with water, but in spite of our captain's questionable leadership (he was laughing maniacally like some kind of pint-sized Ahab....and, yes, that was me) we righted ourselves before completely capsizing.  Until that happened, we were in second place and closing in on first, however bringing our boat a complete stop mid-race dropped us down to fourth.  Miraculously, we didn't lose.

Pretty intimidating, eh?


Another reason I like dragon boating in Calgary more than other sports competitions is all the food.  In addition to the overflowing potluck our team puts together, there have traditionally been several tents/booths/kiosks onsite selling all kinds of meals and snacks.  This year, these were almost entirely replaced by food trucks arranged like wagons circling themselves against hungry natives trying to steal our women and broccoli crepes.

Having so much food at our team's tent, I didn't have the need nor the stomach capacity to try every food truck, but I did have a salt craving that led me to check out the Fries & Dolls food truck.

Fries & Dolls was pretty much truth in advertising on four wheels.  Setting up shop in a Pinky Tuscadero-inspired truck, they specialized in gourmet seasoned french fries and were staffed by attractive women with pin-up girl makeup, retro chic outfits, and just enough visible cleavage to make me briefly imagine other uses for the squeeze-bottle ketchup.  (Yes, I'm a terrible person.)  They also had a small selection of hot dogs (sorry, smokies), but I didn't need a meal, just a snack. 

I wouldn't be surprised to see her leave the truck...on rollerskates!

I tried the Audrey fries, named, as most of their fry varieties were, after a screen goddess.  They were seasoned with pink sea salt (coloured with the tears of mermaids) and black pepper, and were really quite good.  I didn't get to sample any of the other flavours, but I wasn't really sure I needed to.  In fact, this was probably my only complaint about Fries & Dolls: for a purveyor of exotic french fries, they actually had surprisingly little variety to offer.  The menu listed only four french fried options -  seven if you include the sweet potato fries - and some selections seemed to be just a slight variation of another menu item.  For example, Fergie, named for the disgraced duchess, only had the addition of vinegar to distinguish it from the Audrey fries.  Maybe we'll see more adventurous combinations in the future.

Just a quick shout out at the end here.  I want to thank a couple of fellow dragon boaters: Kent for bringing a "swackload" (trust me, that's a lot!) of Chinese food from his family's restaurant to the Calgary festival, and Amy for buying the aforementioned fries for her teammates.

Because, to paraphrase ElectroVamp, the food tastes better when it's free.

The Last Bite:

Food trucks are all the rage right now, but I haven't had the chance to try many yet.  Have you found some you particularly like?  Besides downtown and at dragon boat festivals, where have seen food trucks parked?  I'm looking for some good recommendations, particularly for weekend foraging.

New York City: Union Square Cafe

I'll admit that I place far less emphasis on the importance of good service than I do good food.  Many places we frequent - Spicy Hut being a very good example - usually have barely tolerable service but such good food that I'm willing to overlook small details like prompt service, full water glasses, or even the remotest hint of human warmth and kindness.  I can have a fantastic meal without it being garnished with smiles and friendly conversations.  In fact, I prefer an aloof server to a fawning one, the kind who compliments your every menu choice like you're some sort of gastronomic genius.

"Yes, excellent choice, the filet mignon is my favorite!  And you'd like it boiled, not grilled?  Oh, very good, sir!  And, sorry, what?  A bottle of...pardon me, ketchup?  We don't usually have any on hand, but only because we haven't as refined a palette as you, sir.  We'll send our chef out right away to get some.  And for you, ma'am?  Whatever is stuck to the bottom of my shoe, and you would like it well done. Brilliant!  I'll just go place your orders and will return in moment with your drinks and more insincere flattery."

However, if I am being served great food by someone who truly understands great service, then even I can recognize that a memorable meal can become something more: a memorable evening.

My wife.  Gosh, she's purty!

We had such a meal at New York's famous Union Square Cafe.  The food was fantastic, and our server, Patti, had a perfect blend of humour and cheekiness, while also taking care of the essentials.  I like someone who can serve up a witty "dig" as easily as they serve a meal.

I know it must sound a little bit masochistic, but I really do appreciate a clever put-down, even at my expense (then nobody gets hurt).  Over the years I've heard numerous attempts, mostly jabs about my (lack of) height.  The vast majority have been unimaginative and just plain irritating.  (If one more tall person leans over to rest his elbow on my head, I'm going to bite him in the ribs.)  But some have risen above the mundane and come up with some clever quips:

Once I was rejected by a prospective date when she looked down, held her arm out, and said, "Sorry, you have to be this tall to ride this ride."

More recently, I was marking attendance for our dragonboat team when one paddler asked me, "Are you making a list and checking it twice?"  To which another team member responded, "No no, Santa makes the naughty or nice list, not the elves."

These were funny, even (especially?) if I was the punch line.  So, if my waitress has similar wit and confidence to banter with good-natured barbs, there's a good chance it's going to be a fun evening.  Assuming, of course, that the food is equally impressive, as was the case at the Union Square Cafe.

I had lobster ravioli in a lemon butter sauce and was fortunately saved the embarrassment of licking the shallow bowl clean by soaking it up with a few remaining slices in our bread basket.  I was sorely tempted to order another round of ravioli, but I was trying to save myself for dessert.  And I was very grateful I did, because as much as I liked the main course, the dessert was even better!
  

I know, the focus is blurry.  Blame it on my iPhone.

 
Dessert was a two-bite Mascarpone cheesecake topped with a scoop of grapefruit sorbet. But what really made it for me was the fennel crust.  I don't know how they were able to peer into my carmelized soul and combine three of my favorite things into one dessert - cheesecake, grapefruit, and licorice - but they did.  Even though this meal was in celebration of Alison's and my anniversary, I was starting to feel something akin to love for our unseen chef.

Alison also enjoyed her meal which she finished with an intriguing dessert: a Porter Ice Cream Sundae.  This thing had pretzel-caramel popcorn and a black pepper (yes, pepper!) whipped cream topping.  Crazy good!  

It's odd.  I've read some very mixed reviews of this New York landmark, but we had nothing to complain about.

Except maybe a lack of booster seats.  (heh)


The Last Bite:
Like I said, I've heard a lot of really lame short jokes/insults, and only a few smart ones.  Have you heard any good ones?  Pass them along!  I can always use more.  After all, the best defense is a good offense.

Las Tortillas

I have a special affinity for “hole in the wall” restaurants.  These are usually family-run, offer little-to-no atmosphere, and have very limited seating.  Some also feature multiple health code violations, but I prefer the ones that have food so good that it makes you overlook the restaurant’s many other deficiencies.  Spicy Hut falls into this category.  So did another Bridgeland best-kept secret, the Cafe de Tokyo, a now-defunct sushi and ramen joint that was run by a family from Hokkaido.  There are many others, but one I been frequenting more...um...frequently (note to self: buy a thesaurus) is Las Tortillas, located in N.E. Calgary.

It’s funny when someone describes hole in the wall restaurants (AKA “dives”) from different regions.  With just a few details about the place, you can probably guess where in the world it is located.  In English cities, a typical dive (usually a pub) will be sandwiched between convenience stores or residences in a row of brownstones a la Coronation Street.  In Japan, I found most of these kinds of restaurants down alleyways, their modest neon signs reflecting dimly off overflowing dumpsters and passed-out salarymen.  In the southern United States, dives are often reclaimed farmhouses, barns, churches, or can be found in the back of gas stations.

In Canada, we seem to prefer strip malls.  I guess all the sexy locations were already taken.

Las Tortillas, like many small ethnic eateries in Calgary, also has a modest grocery section where you can purchase imported foods from Mexico.  This is great if you want to take home some authentic ingredients to make your own tacos, but it’s even better if you can actually read Spanish.  Sure, the serving directions for some things, like lime-flavoured corn snacks, are pretty self-explanatory.  Anyone who has ever popped open a bag of Frito-Lays is going to be just fine.  (By the way, “lime-flavoured” apparently has a broader definition in Mexico than it does in Canada.  In the case of these ring-shaped corn snacks, the term seemed to mean “realistic sock-sweat flavour”.)  But other items on Las Tortillas’ shelves can be more complicated than they at first appear.

For example, I thought it would be great to buy some imported mole sauce to add some variety to the Gregson’s taco night.  If you haven’t tried mole sauce, it’s an unlikely blend of ancho peppers and chocolate.  That’s right, chocolate on a taco!  It sounds revolting, but tastes crazy good…if you know how to prepare it.  Unfortunately, my Spanish starts with the word taco and ends with combo number three, so I didn’t realize that the jar of mole I purchased wasn’t exactly sauce.  After packing it against the side of hard taco shell like the reddish-brown mortar used to glue adobe bricks together, I realized something wasn’t quite right.  It tasted similar to what I remember having at restaurants like Salt & Pepper, but the texture was much closer to sand-infused toothpaste than any sauce should be.  Maybe it just needed to be heated up.  I popped a spoonful into the microwave and zapped it for about 30 seconds.  It was now considerably warmer, but it still refused to liquefy in any way.  In fact, it might have been a bit stiffer.  I think I could have shaped the lump with my fingers, nuked it for another 15 minutes, and made a nice little ash-tray or napkin holder.

So, figuring I wasn't about to be bestowed with the gift of tongues needed to read the preparation instructions on the jar, I asked the all-knowing wizard, Google, what was wrong with my mole.  Turns out it was jar of mole paste, not sauce, and I needed to thin it with chicken broth.

Anyway, this wasn't Las Tortillas' fault.  Their menu is much simpler, mole-free, and pretty much foolproof.  The only items available are: a beef taco, a chicken taco, a pork taco, a shrimp taco, a chorizo taco, a beef tongue taco, and a tamale.  (I think it's hilarious that they recently added the tamale to give their menu so much more variety.)

The tortillas are handmade and they use a variety of red and green salsas that are also created from scratch right in the store.  And their final touch is serving each taco with a slice of fresh lime.  Tara, a celiac friend of mine, introduced me to Las Tortillas because everything there is also gluten free. That doesn't really matter to me; in fact, I would order extra gluten with gluten on the side if I could.  But this will be a bonus for many patrons.

The tacos are very tasty, but be sure to order at least two because just one isn't very filling.  Plus, if you want to try both their red and verde salsas, you'll need to order a beef taco and one other variety.  Also, be prepared to get your tacos to go.  Seating is scarcer than a stable Kardashian marriage, with just six haphazardly placed chairs around a small table, uncovered and bare except for a pile of loose napkins in the middle.

Hm, loose napkins?  Hey, I bet me and my lump of mole paste could do something about that.

New York City: Japadog

The Japanese are well-known for taking western ideas and developing them into something that is familiar but unmistakably Japanese.  For some things, the results have become synonymous with improved design and quality.  Sony and Honda are perfect examples.  Another lesser-known example of Japan taking a western invention and helping it fulfill its potential is the vending machine.  In Japan, people aren't content to use vending machines to just buy soft drinks and snacks.  When I lived in Hokkaido, vending machines carried a much wider assortment of products including hot coffee (or cocoa) in a can, batteries, laundry detergent, and finger puppets.  For a few thousand yen (not nearly as much money as it sounds), a five-year-old could also buy enough sake from a street-side vending machine to put her entire kindergarten class into a coma.

Of course, if you want a soft drink, those are also available but in intriguing varieties like Pocari Sweat (not a typo...it is Sweat, not Sweet), Muscat Melon, Calpis (say it out loud for the full effect), and Cucumber Pepsi.  And we think we're so innovative when we add a bit of cherry to Dr. Pepper.

In food, the results are a bit more mixed.  McDonald's serves a teriyaki burger in Japan that isn't too bad, and their melon flavoured milkshakes are really good.  The Batman movies are hugely popular in Japan, and just like here, each new film is accompanied by an enormous cross-promotional marketing campaign.  We've all bought snacks, usually some kind of chip, that features a movie scene on the front of the bag and a collectible card or sticker inside.  Well, I collected a few cards - featuring characters from the Batman movie - found in bags of crispy snacks when I lived in Japan.  Only instead of corn or potatoes, these were made from dried squids.  They were actually better than you would imagine.  (They would have to be, wouldn't they.)

So, when we saw a hot dog place in the East Village called Japadog, we were naturally intrigued.  Japadog, founded in Vancouver B.C., takes your traditional beef wiener and bun combination and gives it a washoku twist.  They offer over 20 varieties, half of which were available at their NYC location.  Some options sounded like crimes against nature - the Yakisoba noodle dog sounds about as appetizing as an iCarly spaghetti taco (I have kids; don't judge me) - but we each ordered different versions that looked like they had real potential.  Alison picked Japadog's signature dog, the Terimayo.  It features Japanese mayonnaise (apple cider vinegar gives it more bite than its western counterpart) and teriyaki sauce over a beef sausage, all garnished with a small nest of nori seaweed.  I selected the Tonkatsu which replaced the wiener altogether with two small breaded pork cutlets, buried under a big pile of shredded cabbage and drizzled with a sweet tonkatsu sauce. 

I'll admit I had much higher hopes for Japadog than Alison did.  I expected a culinary experience that would be both nostalgic for my days spent in Japan and exciting in a way that "adventure eaters" everywhere can appreciate.  So when I try to describe to you just how disappointing it was, English fails me and I need to use a word that has the kind of depth that can only be found in a language where each character (each "letter", if you will) in a word contains a multitude of meanings.  The Japanese have such a word.  I can't display the Japanese kanji, but I can tell you how it's pronounced:

"Blecchhh!"

Japadog's first mistake was to boil the wieners instead of grilling them.  That was followed by a bland-as-white-bread (literally) bun, untoasted and unappealing.  Finally, as fun as the  East meets West combinations sounded, the hot dogs were still very much like Skyping or phoning my parents with both of them on the line st the same time.  Separately, they're fine, but together they spend much of the time bickering with each other (usually over whose fault it is that the webcam isn't working properly), leaving us to sit back and observe the whole scene with dismay.  The two aspects of the Japadog are similarly conflicted.  Sampled separately, the flavours were fine, but together...well, you'd think they had been married for 40 years.

I thought I avoided the mystery meat scenario with my dog's pork cutlets, but the first cutlet had a bit a gristle in it, and the second cutlet had a bit of meat in it.  I ended up throwing away half of it, and we both left Japadog feeling queasy and very disappointed.

I have since learned that Japadog also serves specially spiced fries, and others who agree with our lackluster assessment of the hot dogs have admitted to loving the fries.  That just makes me even sadder;  I would have liked to have tried the wasabi fries, since I can no longer find one of my favorite snacks, wasabi potato chips, at any of Calgary's Japanese importers.

If I can offer some advice, if you find yourself in New York and feeling a bit "peckish for tubesteak" (nope, not a euphemism), skip Japadog and visit Sigmund twice instead.

New York City: Nikas versus Sigmund

Naturally, most of my restaurant reviews have been for locations found in the Calgary area, with the occasional Montanan eatery thrown in for good measure during the summer. 

That’s about to change!

For the next several blog entries I’m going to bring you along for a trip to New York City with Alison and me.  Five days.  Five reviews.  Four nights.  (Couldn’t afford the extra night.)

Let's start with the knish. 

I will freely admit I had heard of knish, but knew nothing more than the following: it's edible and...well, that's about it.  Calgary just doesn't have a large enough Jewish community to support a dedicated knish food cart, let alone achieving the market penetration of, say, the Tim Hortons chain of Canadian coffee and baked goods.  And the Ukrainians who immigrated to Alberta generations ago have been really (some might say obsessively) focused on dominating the perogy niche.  So, having access to knish on just about every street corner in Manhattan was a clear sign we needed to give it a try. We decided on a late lunch/snack after building appetites navigating 6 floors of the Museum of Modern Art.  (When even a Mondrian starts to look like a cheeseburger, it’s time to eat.)

Now I know that buying food off the street can be a risky proposition, but the vendor we chose had bright, cheerful umbrellas; and just because his name was Nikas didn't mean we weren't going to get authentic traditional Hebrew cuisine.  He could have been Jewish.  Why not?  You would never guess I was part Welsh, wouldja?  I don’t have long blond hair, pointed ears, or magical powers.  (Wait, maybe I’m thinking of Elves.  Hmm...no, I was right the first time; that’s definitely the Welsh.)   Sure, my middle name, Lloyd (the double "L" signals the mandatory addition of phlegm to the pronunciation and gives the name more “impact”) is a dead giveaway, but it's not like I share that information with just anyone.

Well, I don't know how typical our knishes (pluralized like "fishes", right?) were as far as preparation and presentation, but we each received a slightly grainy, doughy dumpling filled with mustard.  The knish itself was pretty bland and its mild flavor was completely overwhelmed by the mustardy center.  As a whole, it reminded me of an undercooked jelly donut filled with whatever could be found in the fridge when the raspberry jam ran out.  Oh look, another reference to Tim Hortons!

If we had left the experience there, with indifference, that would have been fine.  But within 15 minutes of eating our street dumplings, we were both feeling pretty queasy.  (No, I'm not holding all knish-mongers responsible for our rumbly tumblies.  Like I said before, we knew there were risks eating something found, as it were, "on the street".  If everyone subscribed to such a negative attitude, people in the southern United States would have quit barbecuing armadillo after just their first roadkill.)  So, we weren't exactly racing each other to the next street vendor, but we also weren’t about to let some mild stomach upset keep us from trying another one if the opportunity arose to sample a higher grade of knish.

At least that was my philosophy until later that evening.  Both of our unsettled bellies - and appetites - had returned to normal by dinner time, so we kept our reservation at a restaurant recommended by friends.  I don't want this restaurant painted with the same brush as Nikas’ unfortunate delicacy ("best paired with a red, may I recommend a late 2011 Pepto Bismal?"), so I'll  save this restaurant's name for another blog entry.  Alison and I both had wonderful evening meals, but my nausea from earlier in the day returned with a vengeance, and in homage to the action painters of the early 20th century we had seen at the MOMA that very morning, I proceeded to create my very own Jackson Pollack in the hotel bathroom after we returned to our room.

You probably think I got what I deserved.  A pretty umbrella has never been a guaranteed seal of approval from the local health inspector, so what the hell were we thinking? 

Our expectations were actually set pretty high because of the street meat we had enjoyed just the day before in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Sigmund is a well-known purveyor of pretzels in the New York City area.  They are also known to sell the occasional tubesteak.  But when they combine their specialties into a single product,  you get the best hot dog I have ever eaten. 

Imagine an all beef wiener (stop snickering right now; I'm not going there) couched in, not a half-soggy half-stale hot dog bun, but a fresh bun-shaped pretzel.  Then smother it in fresh ground mustard and spiced sauerkraut.  Before I had tried this...this miracle, I barely tolerated regular hot dogs.  Now Simund has rendered the standard variety nearly inedible for me.

I mean think about it:  Pretzel. Hot dog. Together!  It's as inspired a combination as root beer & ice cream, Captain & Tenille, or volleyball & nude beaches.

It does make me wonder what other alternatives to unappealing hot dog buns we might be able to wrap around a pork sausage....pizza crust?  French toast?  Garlic bread?  Or...(wait for it)....knish!

Hmm, something tells me that might not be exactly kosher with a lot of customers.

Bolero

I have long held a grudge against the Brazilian people for introducing string bikinis to geriatric Germans.

When you are lying on your stomach to work on bronzing your back, and your exposed buttocks look like two unbaked dinner rolls that flew out of the Pillsbury tube and landed in the sink when you struck it too hard against your kitchen counter, well….it’s time to get a proper swimsuit.  A bikini bottom should never require more string than a yo-yo factory in order to make it all the way through the valley between Mt. Rodgers and Mt. Hammerstein (“The hills are alive..!”), just to reappear some yards later attached to a tentative triangle of cloth in the front as a nod to the wearer’s long-dead dignity.

But I have now chosen to forgive.

This is in no small way due to another gift the Brazilians have given the world, a gift of inspiration, a gift of good taste: churrasco, also known as all-you-can-eat rodizio-style barbecue!

Alison and Duncan were in Edmonton for a swim meet (Duncan was doing the swimming, in case you were wondering) for the weekend, so Will and I decided to make a reservation at Bolero, a churrascaria located in Calgary.  Will is now at an age where all-you-can-eat is a lifestyle, not merely a menu choice.  With the more delicate constitutions out of town, it seemed to be a good opportunity to check it out.

If you haven’t been to a restaurant specializing in Brazilian barbecue, this is how it works: at your table you have a little red, yellow, and green “widget”.  If you turn it to have the green end at the top, your table will be visited by a...server?...no, that’s not right.  Oh, I know: your table will be visited by the “meat fairy”.  The meat fairy carries an oversized skewer of, you guessed it, meat balanced on a wooden base.  In the meat fairy’s other hand is a large knife that is used to peel off slices of animal flesh in a similar fashion to those guys in donair shops.  So long as you keep the green side up, more meat fairies with a dizzyingly variety of protein will appear.  This will continue until you either turn the widget to red or begin to shake and perspire from a bad case of the meat sweats (also known amongst carnivores as an “epic win”).

After seeing the racks and racks of skewers (16 varieties!) in a restaurant like Bolero, one can be forgiven for believing the Last Days are finally here.  How does that prophecy go?  “And the lion shall lie down with the lamb.”  Okay, Bolero didn’t serve lion, but broiling side by side in a culinary demonstration of inter-species harmony, there was  lamb, beef, chicken, pork, and even pineapple!  Yes, when pineapple is elevated to the same status as meat, the Second Coming can’t be far behind. 

Bolero probably has the loneliest salad bar in Calgary.  When you’ve paid $40 to eat all the meat you can, you don’t want to waste too much space on...(shiver)...vegetation.  Actually, the salad bar was pretty swanky and had a nice selection of foodie items like fennel salad, grilled asparagus and sweet coconut rice.  I tried about a tablespoon of most of the choices available, giving me some variety of flavour between visits from the “meat fairies”.

Overall, most of the rotisserie meat varieties were quite good.  (Strangely, the filet mignon was our least favourite.  I'm not sure what was done to it, but it tasted almost "gamey".)  I preferred the picanha, which is supposed to be an inferior cut to the filet mignon but suited me much better, especially when prepared with garlic and parmesan.  Will particularly enjoyed the linguica, a nicely spiced Brazilian pork sausage.

There is a widely circulated theory that Ravel's famous orchestral piece, Bolero (which is basically just a fifteen-minute crescendo ending with a raucous climax), is a metaphor for...ahem...the sexual act.  Personally, I think Ravel was inspired to write it as a cautionary tale after he tried to eat 80 francs worth of meat at a Paris churrascaria.  It's a different kind of build-up to be sure.  

Just don't try to think too much about what the release at the end of the piece represents; it's even more unpleasant than the more commonly accepted theory.

Raw Bar

Christmas means different things to different people.  Some traditions and memories belong to a collective experience that, with the briefest mention, much of the population can relate to and fill in remarkably similar details.  Stockings, shortbread cookies, inedible fruitcakes, turkey leftovers, and crying babies on the knee of a mall Santa.  Just to name a few.

Then there are Christmas trappings that are somewhat more unique.  For my family that has included things such as lobster, home-made root beer, new pajamas on Christmas Eve, piñata parties, and vomiting.

Yes, I said vomiting.

(Before I go any further, I want to assure you that this is not meant to be reflection on the Raw Bar.  As far as I know, no-one threw up at the Raw Bar when we had breakfast there, but the events leading up to Alison and I having breakfast there are relevant.  Stay tuned.)

One of the early beginnings of this unpleasant Gregson Christmas tradition has been recorded on film.  Long before the invention of video cameras, my dad would capture our holidays on good old-fashioned 8mm film.  This would require some setup, including some very powerful lighting.  On Christmas morning, my siblings and I would wait anxiously at the bottom of the stairs while our father arranged his lights and camera.  It couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes to prep, but it was an unbearably long wait for pre-teen kids.  By the time we were allowed to climb out of the basement, Jeff and I were starting to fight, Brent was burning off nervous energy leaping from one piece of furniture to another, and my sisters had tears in their eyes from giggling like a pair of hysterical stoners.  (Sorry, Ryan, you weren’t born yet.) 

Finally, the main floor of our house vanished in a flood of blinding white light, our signal to ascend the stairs, and we entered the celestial glow with one arm outstretched to feel for the last step of the stairs and the other shielding our eyes like Richard Dreyfus entering the mothership at the end of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  We moved slowly, tentatively reaching out for furniture and adult relatives to guide our way, being very careful not to brush up against the floodlight.  (That thing could burn off a layer of skin with the slightest touch; the fact that none of us were permanently scarred is nothing short of a Christmas miracle.)

One particular year, when Jeff and I were still only about 6 and 7 years-old respectively, we must have waited a moment or two too long on the basement landing, because we were positively vibrating by the time our vision cleared and we saw what Santa had brought us.

On the DVD (transferred from the original 8mm film), you can see Jeff and I in matching PJs (his blue and mine brown, as usual) standing on the step leading to our sunken living room.  There is an identical expression on both of our faces, something between rapture and distress.

Then, suddenly, there is an abrupt cut in the film, and a few minutes of missing footage that was likely excised for the benefit of viewers with weak constitutions.

Now we see Jeff and I standing on the same step, each of us sporting a large wet spot on the front of our pajama tops.  And thus a tradition begins.

(I’m a bit sorry the actual event has become a deleted scene; according to our parents, we tossed our Christmas cookies simultaneously with a precision that would have made an Eastern Bloc synchronized swim team proud.)

Anyway, once doesn’t a tradition make, so many yuletides followed that reinforced the importance of not swallowing large pieces of candy cane (in case they need to make the return trip).  I even remember one year when our paternal grandfather, Papa G, stepped up when all of his grandkids appeared to be keeping down their Christmas spirit.  Of course, I think his bout was flu-related and not brought on by too many Linzer Schnittens or too much excitement.  And, making the next generation proud, my sons have found several opportunities to spread a bit of Christmas cheer around our home and vehicles over the years.  Just a few days ago, Will ate too much heavily-spiced Thai food on New Year’s Eve and cauterized his sinuses with the Spicy Hut take-out that revisited him like a vengeful Ghost of Christmas Past.

I always thought this was a relatively unusual way for my family to greet the season, but then I started attending company Christmas parties (now more commonly known as non-denominational “winter” or “holiday” parties.)  These events rarely have open bars - due to liability issues - but alcohol is typically sold at greatly discounted prices, and let’s just say that “other duties as assigned” takes on a whole new meaning when you are helping your manager by holding her hair.  (No, I didn’t have to hold my manager’s hair; he couldn’t make it to our most recent Holiday Celebration and besides, he keeps his hair very short.)

You would think this type of behaviour would be frowned upon at corporate gatherings, but it is actually expected.  So much so that the CEO and other executives made themselves scarce well before things really got going.  I think it’s called “plausible deniability”.  I’m sure many of our employees are very grateful for the consideration, especially that one guy who was carried out by four of his co-workers and dumped unceremoniously into the back of an awaiting cab.  I knew he was headed for trouble when I ran into him earlier in the evening and he tried to hug me.  Everybody in our company knows I don’t do hugs.

My company's party was hosted by Hotel Arts, a very funky downtown establishment that decorates its lobby and halls with retro-chic furniture, original artwork, and handblown glass light fixtures.  They put on a great Christmas buffet that finished with Egg Nog Creme Brulee served in individual wonton spoons.  (Yes, it is definitely possible to stack five spoons so you only have to make one trip to the dessert table.)

As guests attending the party, we were also offered a special room rate if we wanted to spend the night.  (This was presumably offered as an alternative to waking up in a pool of "frankincense and myrrh" on the backseat floor of a moving taxi.)  Alison and I didn’t need to stay for that reason, but we like the hotel’s modern, Bauhaus-inspired rooms; and our boys were having a sleepover at their grandparents. 

The hotel also has a couple of restaurants/bars onsite, and the Raw Bar, done up like a muted version of an Austin Powers set, serves breakfast.  Our expectations were high based on the meal the previous evening and the tastefully fun decor, but we were unfortunately disappointed.  The thin layer of Hollandaise sauce on the Eggs Benedict was dried up like the filmy stuff on a paint can lid, and the egg yolks were overcooked.  Also, the Montreal smoked meat (a thick slice of ham) on mine overpowered the rest of the ingredients.  Alison had Raw Bar's vegetarian version; we traded one English muffin’s worth with each other as we typically do, but my wife quickly repossessed her half after tasting mine.  On the side, the thickly cut hashbrowns were okay, but nothing special. 

Breakfast didn’t spoil our stay at Hotel Arts, but it did border on the anticlimactic.  It’s just a good thing I didn’t get overly excited looking forward to our morning meal.  It certainly wasn’t worth tasting twice.