Snacks Between Meals: Hirsute Suits Me

One winter day, about three years ago, I looked in the mirror and thought, “You’re short, fat, and homely.  But, at least you still have your hair.  Heh, wouldn’t going bald just complete the picture.”

Oh damn.

The past three years have been very hard on my hair, which of course means they have been very hard on me.  I have always been “small for my age” (I still find myself considering the purchase of clothes that are too big for me, hoping that I might “grow into them”), and chiseled is a word that doesn’t describe any part of my body or face.  But I’ve always had two features I could carry with pride: my eyes (they don’t see perfectly but, naturally blue and framed by long lashes, they look great) and my hair.

My dad has a full head of hair; it’s blazingly white like the Glad garbage man, but it’s still all there.  So after more than thirty years of complete cranial coverage, I figured the follicle fairy wasn’t going to be visiting me anytime soon to fly off with fistfuls of fur in tow.  As a bonus, my mane was also maintaining most of its luscious chestnut color, a real achievement compared to how grey my brothers had been getting.  And soft!  My natural wave required no sticky or stiffening styling products, so it felt like a wig made out of kittens.  If I had grown it long and stood in a wind tunnel, even Fabio himself would have wept with jealousy.

But the first sign that something was seriously wrong (the canary in the coal mine as it were) was when I was walking down the hall at my company’s head office and a vice president walking a few steps behind me suddenly commented,

“Did you know you’re losing your hair back there?” 

I was dumbstruck, both because I didn’t want to believe him and because saying stuff like that is just not something one guy says to another.  It’s very uncool, like choosing to use a urinal right next to another man when there is a whole row of vacant ones.  Un. Cool.

Naturally, I responded by filling his office full of shampoo while he was away on a business trip, but that’s a story for another day.

I bring all of this up now because I occasionally get lulled into believing it isn’t so bad.  The frontal hairline hasn’t receded much, so unless I set the bathroom mirrors at the proper angles or step into one of those elevators with mirrored walls on three sides, I never see the damage.  Even when I get my hair cut, when the time comes for the hairdresser to hold up a mirror to show me how she trimmed the back of my head, I deliberately (this is so sad) unfocus my eyes so I can only see a dark brown blur.  (She could have shaved a swastika back there, and I wouldn't know...at least until a large member of a visible minority "informed" me later).  What also helps my denial are friends who are shorter than me.  I know, they are rarely found outside of cookie bakeries built into trees, but I do know some smaller people.  For example, we went to Karen and Heery’s place this weekend for dinner and somehow the topic of “the signs of aging” came up. I mentioned my emerging scalp.  Karen just rolled her eyes.

“What are you talking about?  Your hair is fine.”

“Really?  Watch this.”  I bowed my head.

“Gasp!  Sweet mother of....!”

Karen literally jumped out of her chair, and that’s quite an achievement in itself, since she wears an electric device to help her MS-affected leg move, and jumping usually means turning the dial all the way up.  Really, I think she was more shocked than that guy from the IRA was when Forrest Whitaker's girlfriend unveiled “her” cannelloni.  (Even worse, this isn't the first time I've elicited this response.  People are repelled and fascinated at the same time.)

The frustrating part is I know I can grow hair; the rest of my body excels at it.  I have eyebrows that (unchecked) start to climb my forehead like vines, ears that are increasingly effective at keeping out bees (who hasn’t been worried about bees flying into his ears...right?  Right?), and the once thin line of hair that starts at my chest and heads downwards (affectionately known as the “Pathway to Paradise”) has expanded from a simple pathway to a 16-lane freeway (sadly without all the traffic that metaphor implies).  Have you heard that old joke about why Italians wear gold chains? (Answer: so they know where to stop shaving.) It isn’t so funny to me anymore.

Sadly, there is really nothing I can do about any of this besides avoiding swimsuits and tall people.  Tall people, from my perspective at least, are everywhere, and I enjoy waterskiing too much to spend all year covered up.

I guess it’s just time to pull on a hat and start shopping for gold chains.

Echo Lake Cafe

The weather is cooling very quickly now, foreshadowing the coming of fall, which in these parts is virtually indistinguishable from winter.  It's a bit depressing, but it comes after several weeks of beautiful summer weather.  In particular, we were very fortunate to have temperatures in the high 20s and low 30s (80s and 90s for those speaking Fahrenheit) for the entire time we spent vacationing in Montana.  That made for perfect swimming and waterskiing conditions, and it also meant we could sit out on the "patio" at our favourite breakfast spot in the area: the Echo Lake Cafe.

I should first tell you a bit about Echo Lake, and why we go back there almost every summer.  My grandparents bought some lakefront property about 35 years ago, and their family continued to grow until sharing a camping trailer with nine grandchildren must have started to wear on their sanity.  Rainy days were especially bad, having fifteen or more people trapped in a 1970's Prowler-manufactured hell.  After my brother Brent had thrown up for the third time, my cousin Greg had bitten me once again, the baby hadn't stopped crying for a full hour, and the coffin-sized bathroom had been rendered uninhabitable by the effects of too much canned food, no jury in the land would have convicted my grandparents if they had quietly stepped out of the trailer, padlocked the door, and rolled the whole thing into the lake.

Instead, they built a cabin.

Notice I said cabin, not cottage.  This is the real deal, built out of alternating stacked logs like those popsicle stick shelters we've all assembled as kids.  Except, of course, if you lick the ends of the logs, there's no residual cherry or lime flavouring.  Nope, this isn't any frou-frou summer home like the ones you'll see on Home and Garden TV, and an appropriately tiny budget has been spent furnishing the place. The cabin's decor is best described as Swedish Folk meets 70's ski lodge.  I don't know where the Swedish motif came from; as far as I can tell, the Gregson clan is about as Scandinavian as Kim Jon Il.  And the 70's part just lets guests know when we last made an effort to spruce the place up.  (Actually, my cousin Laurie has attempted to add some class to the joint over the years, but it's a losing battle, like playing Red Rover against Siamese twins.)  As for appliances, supplying the place usually begins with a conversation like this:

       "We should get a new microwave oven.  Ours is making funny clicking sounds and won't 
         turn on unless you hold the door shut.  Who knows how much radiation it's giving off."

       "You're probably right.  We can look for one this weekend.  Hey, will the garbage man 
         take this one with the regular pickup?"

       "No, you'll have to bring it to the landfill yourself."

       "Really?  That'll cost $5 just to drop it off!"

       "Honey, I think you can afford $5 without cramping your style too much."

       "Yeah, I suppose.  But the landfill smells funny...hmm, why don't we just donate the 
         microwave to the cabin?  We'll pack it with the hairdryer that shoots sparks."

So, now the cabin has a microwave oven that frequently trips the circuit breakers, a variable-temperature (meaning it chooses what temperature it prefers) oven, a stove with 3 out of 4 working elements, a VCR that eats 2 out of 5 tapes watched, and a fridge that still smells like old cabbage even after applying enough Lysol to wipe out cooties in every kindergarten in the country.  But that's okay.  If all of the stupid things we've done playing on the lake over the years haven't killed us yet, an old Frigidaire sure as hell isn't going to do the job.

We've had so many near-drownings that we now know to keep an eye out for floating hats, a sure sign that a toddler has fallen unnoticed off the dock and is trapped under the dock or a boat. It's so commonplace that we just pause to carefully place a bookmark on the page we're reading, reach down in the water, pull the kid out by their ankle and shake him a few times to dry him off and get him breathing again. We've had a few trips to the Kalispell hospital, including one for 13 stitches after a bad waterskiing accident.  That last one was yours truly, and I can tell you there are few things as unsettling as having someone weave a needle and thread through your forehead while a motorcycle rider is screaming down the hall (there are no helmet laws in Montana...I'll let you fill in the details).  Oh, and once, my brother and I even tried to drive our motorboat on dry land.  "Say what?" I hear you exclaiming.

Okay, just one more story before we get back to the cafe.

My brother, Jeff, and I had a sometimes bitter sibling rivalry growing up.  I can recall a fight with screwdrivers (oh, those crazy Gregson boys!) and a trip back from a ski hill that involved a bloody nose.  (I think the number "7" is still imprinted on the back of my head where a TV remote once glanced off of it.)  The rivalry continued right into our college years, but after settling down and starting families, we finally called a truce and now get along just fine the once or twice a year we see each other.  I'd like to think we've matured and learned to appreciate each other's successes and challenges, but it might also have something to do with us living in different countries and 800 miles apart. Let's be optimistic and go with the former.

Anyway, this rivalry manifested itself horribly one day at the lake as I was driving, with Jeff in the passenger seat, our boat across the bay where our cabin is located.  What happened next depends on who you ask.

Jeff would have probably described it as him spraying a completely harmless disappearing ink on his brother as a practical joke.  His brother grossly overreacted, gunned the throttle in a fit of rage, and proceeded to pound on Jeff, leaving the boat driverless while it launched itself over several fallen trees to crash violently on the shore.  Ergo, Darin's fault.

My version went more like this: Darin was driving the boat responsibly (hands at the 10 and 2 for safety) when Jeff poured a noxious (possibly toxic!) fluid all over his brand new Quicksilver beach shirt.  In trying to prevent the spread of this staining  dark-blue sludge from making contact with the upholstery of his father's precious boat, Darin attempted to wrest the spray bottle from Jeff's hands, and, in doing so, bumped the throttle with his elbow.  The boat then launched itself over several fallen trees to crash violently on the shore.  Ergo, Jeff's fault.

We struggled out of the boat on the passenger side, and surveying the hull, we saw  - miracle of miracles - the boat appeared completely unharmed.  However, when we made our way over to the driver's side, our knees buckled at the sight of a hole in the bow big enough for a small child to climb through.  The inhabitants of Echo Lake are still haunted in fitful dreams by the inhuman wailing of two young teenage boys heard that day. 

My dad has since expressed regret for how angry he was with us.  Personally, I think the fact that Jeff and I can walk without medical assistance demonstrates great restraint on my dad's part.

For years afterwards, I blamed Jeff for wrecking the boat (and our summer), but in hindsight, I have to admit that it was at the very least a solid team effort.  In fact, maybe I should have spun it that way with my dad at the time: look, it's the first time Jeff and I cooperated on anything.  Yay us!

Then again, maybe not.

So this the scene of the Echo Lake Cafe, a bit of civilization in what is otherwise the chaos of Gregsons and watersports.  The cafe has been around in some form on and off for about 50 years, but the current incarnation first appeared in 1999.  They only serve breakfast and lunch, and we usually split the difference to join them for brunch, a truly inspired mealtime that combines two of my favourite things: sleeping in and food.

On the surface, their menu appears to contain the typical breakfast cafe fare: omelets, pancakes, crepes, eggs anyway you want them, hashbrowns, etc.  But much of it is given a Montanan twist, like their Cowboy Eggs Benedict (gravy instead of Hollandaise sauce), and Jack cheese is a staple in most of their omelettes. However, my favourite item (and Alison's) isn't particularly "western" at all and even breaks one of my usual rules: I don't like to order vegetarian versions of dishes.  Don't get me wrong, I have enjoyed some fantastic vegetarian meals over the years, but the crucial difference is that the good ones were dishes originally designed to be vegetarian, not a pathetic attempt to imitate or replace meat with a vegetable-derived substitute.  (Pine nuts will never be able to replicate the exquisite taste of suffering found in real beef.)  However, the Echo Lake Cafe's Vegetarian Eggs Benedict is, in my opinion, the best item on their menu, and the best Eggs Benedict I've had anywhere.  Instead of ham or smoked salmon, they place slices of avocado and tomato on the egg and smother it in Hollandaise sauce.  Simple but inspired. 

As for the boys, Duncan always enjoys himself a plate of syrup (there are pancakes in there somewhere, but he isn't happy until they completely break down and dissolve under the pressure of a lake of maple corrosion), and Will experienced his first taste of huevos rancheros at the Echo Lake Cafe.    With fresh-squeezed orange juice, a generous side of nicely-seasoned homestyle potatoes, and an optional huckleberry muffin, you can roll yourself back to the cabin, more than satisfied until dinnertime.  Just be sure your hat floats, though, because you'll be sinking to the bottom of the lake if you try swimming too soon, and we need to know where to look for you.

El Topo

El Topo: the Restaurant

It’s no Salt n’ Pepper, but the El Topo Cantina is the best Mexican restaurant in Bigfork, Montana.  (Okay, it’s probably the only Mexican restaurant in Bigfork, Montana.)  Still, if you’re looking for huge portions of better than average Mexican food, this is your place. 

Get the burrito.  It’s larger than a child’s forearm and much tastier.  Oh, and be sure to get it “smothered”.  That means wrapped in a bucket-load of melted cheese and topped with their in-house special sauces: a verde salsa and a spicy red.  They offer a variety of Mexican beers (well beyond the standard Corona), but you can enjoy the meal just fine without alcohol.

El Topo: the Movie

I thought I should watch the namesake of the restaurant, and the best way to describe this film is batshit crazy.  I can only assume (unlike the restaurant) that the film was never intended to be enjoyed sober. 

Try to imagine a spaghetti western created by Cheech & Chong.  Then, take each joke and replace it with an act of violence.  It almost sounds interesting, doesn’t it?  Not when it is such a low budget affair that they couldn’t even afford acting skills.  It also appears to be have edited by the director’s nephew who had to choose between this or mowing lawns for a summer job.

The violence is gruesome and gratuitous, but not terribly realistic.  The copious amount of blood looks like tempura paint and is almost orange.  But the real violence is that inflicted upon the child actor who appears in the first scene.

A small naked boy is riding bareback behind the titular gunslinger on his horse.   

Naked.  Bareback.  

 Have you ever felt horsehair?  The stuff is so coarse that they make violin bows out of it.  And this poor kid had to straddle the backend of a horse with nothing more between his privates and equine sandpaper than regret.  If I had replaced my caribou bike seat cover with an SOS pad, I might have come close to appreciating his discomfort.

Salt and Pepper

North America is like a cul-de-sac with only three houses on it.  With no more than two "neighbours", you would think everyone would know each other really well, have close friendships, share stuff and all of that.  Instead, we treat Mexico like the third child in a family of boys; the first two sons naturally have a sibling rivalry, but they still agree on one thing: picking on the third son.

True story: my parents started their family with three boys, and I was the oldest.  (Jeff was the second oldest but has since passed me.  See, the rivalry continues!)  Once, when I was about eight, I was at a neighbour's house with Brent, the unfortunate third son in our family.  We were outside playing with two neighbourhood girls who were about the same ages we were.  (Brent is three years younger than me.)  As is not uncommon for kids that age, we were curious about the differences between boys and girls.  This led me to utter the classic phrase, "If you show me yours....

...Brent will show you his."

I know, it makes me sound like "Pimpy", a rejected character from the Little Rascals.

Well, she did show hers, and Brent did show his, and the other girl with us ran off and told her mother.  And, even though I hadn't shown anybody anything, I got in the most trouble.  And Brent?  After being turned into the Kindergarten Flasher, and, on other occasions being conned out of candy, toys, and even money, did he stop wanting to hang out with his older brothers?  Of course not. He kept coming back for more.

Mexico is kind of like that; his siblings constantly take advantage of him, but he never seems to hold a grudge and continues to share with his brothers, particularly his food.  But you wouldn't know it to look at Calgary's restaurant scene.  Sure, you can find a Taco Bell franchisee just as easily as you would a Dairy Queen, and every food court seems to be required by some Calgary bylaw to have a Taco Time.  Julio's Barrio is okay, but really good Mexican (like the much-missed Baja Bistro) just can't seem to survive in this city.

The exception to this rule is Salt and Pepper.

We first ate at Salt and Pepper when they had a location in Cochrane (a community close to the north end of Calgary).  They recently closed that restaurant but still have two Calgary locations: their flagship in Bowness and a new restaurant in historic Inglewood.  (I think it is also a Calgary bylaw that Inglewood must always be referred to as historic Inglewood.)

When my parents came to visit us for a week in early August, we decided to take them to the Bowness Salt and Pepper.  My dad is a foodie, and we knew he would enjoy the unique (for Calgary) menu.  My mom?  Well, she usually values a restaurant, not by its selection of entrees, but by its selection of coupons.  However, in spite of a complete absence of BOGOs, I think she still enjoyed her meal.

I had forgotten to call the restaurant to make a reservation, so I dropped by in person while running errands to see if they could slide us in for the same evening.  The tall, young man who greeted me at the door said it wouldn't be a problem.

"What time will that be for?"

"7:00."

"And for how many?"

"Six people."

"Okay, we'll see you then."

"Uh, don't you need my name or something?"

"No, Darin, I've got it."

Whoa! I did not give him my name.  This guy must be psychic and is reading my mind.  I've always worried about meeting a bona-fide mind-reader, not because I carry any state secrets or anything else important (he can have my PIN number; the account only ever has about $7.43 in it), but because I might think something embarrassing.  That's all right, I'm prepared for this.  Clear my mind.  Clear my mind.  Don't think about "boobies".  Dammit, I thought about boobies!  Dammit, I did it again!  Quick, start humming!

I was about halfway through the first verse of God Save the Queen (just shows you how panicked I was; I can't stand the Queen) when Kyle reminded me that we used to work for the same company, and I had trained him.  Oh yeah, right.  In all fairness to me, I train hundreds of people a year, and context can be everything, but I did remember him as soon as he mentioned First Calgary.

When we arrived later that evening, we were taken to sit in a special waiting "alcove" in the back of the restaurant before being led out to our table on the patio.  We ordered some chips & salsa and drinks to consume while we looked over the menus.  (My mom was horrified that we had to pay for the chips. Sigh.)

Deciding what to eat was really a no brainer.  Most of us ordered the same thing: the Combination Poblana.  This includes the two best things Salt and Pepper offers, a chile relleno and an enchilada with mole sauce, among other items.

Chile rellenos can be really good or really bad.  Really good ones, like those served at Salt and Pepper, have a crispy breading, a soft tender Poblano pepper, and lots of hot melted cheese.  A bad chile relleno too often has the consistency of stewed old rhubarb, stringy and slimy at the same time.

As for the enchilada, it is really just a vehicle for the mole sauce.  Mole (if you haven't had it before) is a dark Mexican sauce made with roasted chili peppers and, get this,...chocolate!  (If you just said "yuck", let me direct you to the nearest Taco Bell so you can fill your pie-hole with chalupas.)  The owner of Salt and Pepper, Silvio, is from the Oaxaca region of Mexico, which is famous for its variety of mole sauce.  Even though I could have found this out by simply reading his bio inside the cover of the menu, I didn't need to, because my dad was already having a conversation with him at our table like they were old friends. 

My dad is always doing that, striking up conversations with complete strangers on buses, in checkout lines, at museums, pretty much anywhere and with anyone.  Sure, we've all encountered people who suddenly invade your private space to espouse their unique version of reality.  They usually smell funny and wear at least one sure sign of a two-finger grip on sanity, like a tin-foil hat or a "Vote Michele Bachmann" button.

But my dad doesn't come across that way at all.  Quite the opposite.  People love talking to my dad.  He and Silvio were comparing the merits of Mexican restaurants in Calgary and Utah, and when our desserts were taken off the bill, I'm sure it had something to do with that conversation.  It's a real talent.

We had a great meal, the service was very good (thank you, Kyle), and I'm looking forward to trying out their newer historic Inglewood location.

Boobies.

Dammit!

Snacks Between Meals: Truth in Advertising

Just a light snack this time since this really speaks for itself.  Here's a picture I recently took in Kalispell, Montana:

I swear, this isn't a joke.  They've been around for decades, so the name can't really be hurting business that much.  It does make you wonder how bad a law firm's name has to be to drive away clients.  Herpes & Hangnail Attorneys at Law?  Ebola, Ebola, and Associates?  The Lawyer Depot?

Two Sisters Cafe

It’s strange what you can find in the middle of nowhere: an oasis, a ghost town, a gingerbread house occupied by a scary-ass cannibal witch. Or even the Two Sisters Cafe.

Just south of the Alberta/Montana border, there is a very small town called Babb. (Actually, it isn't big enough to qualify as a town. It is officially a CDP, a Census Designated Place. Really. Look it up.) And just south of that, literally surrounded by nothing, is the Two Sisters Cafe. In all the many years we’ve made the trip between Southern Alberta and Echo Lake, Montana, we spent most of them driving right past this garishly painted restaurant, never thinking to stop. If we got hungry, we’d grab a bite at the A&W in Columbia Falls. (By the way, this was one of the last A&Ws in America where you could still order your food from, and have it brought out to, your car. They had those trays that would hook onto your vehicle’s open window and everything. The only thing the waitresses were missing were roller skates. As a kid, I thought I had wandered into the 50’s and expected to see Fonzie pull up at any minute on his motorcycle. What? Who’s Fonzie, you ask? Sigh, I'm so old.)

Anyway, after our trip to New Orleans many years ago, I became a little obsessed with all things Cajun. I sought out the food, I read up on the history (Did you know that the Cajuns were exiled Acadians from Canada? How crazy is that?), and I even started listening to zydeco. If you don’t know what zydeco is, it’s just about the only music in the world that makes an accordion sound cool. I know, even with a talent like that, we still kick them out of Canada. And who did we get out of the Great Accordion Exchange? Bobby Vinton. Remember him? White guy with an afro who dressed like a 70’s porn star and played polka music on his own freaking TV show! Sometimes I despair of my fellow Canucks.

So, one day I stumbled across a review in Bon Appetit. (“Oooh, Darin reads Bon Appetit! Isn’t he hoity-toity!” Now, don’t start picking up your pints of lager with your pinkies sticking out on my account. I was waiting to get my haircut, and it was either Bon Appetit or Field & Stream. And I just wasn’t that interested in reading “Long Legs and a Big Rack: The Joys of Hunting Moose”.) This review just happened to be about an isolated Creole and Cajun restaurant opened by a pair of sisters in Montana. Well, that caught my eye. Even more so when I saw mention of a familiar place called Babb, a town (sorry, CDP) whose only claim to fame up to that point was giving itself a four-letter name using only the first two letters of the alphabet.

The next summer we passed through we made sure to time it so we would be good and ready to have lunch just before we entered Glacier Park and started up the mountain road to Logan Pass. (If you live within driving distance of Glacier Park and have never been there before, you have to make the trip at least once. We live near Banff National Park, and even it pales next to the experience of winding your way up and down the side of a mountain on a narrow road with sheer 1000-ft cliffs where the road's shoulders are supposed to be. Can I tell you a secret? You know that feeling you sometimes get when you stand on the edge of a precipice and have the urge to jump? Intellectually, you know it means certain death, and you – probably – wouldn’t ever do it, but the compulsion still makes itself felt. Well, if my family only knew how strong that feeling is for me frequently when I drive us over that mountain pass, they would be horrified. Huh, I probably shouldn’t let them read this.)

That first stop at Two Sisters was nearly fifteen years ago, and we’ve eaten there every summer since. The outside of the building was painted much like Keith Haring’s graffiti art, but in bright pastels. The restaurant has been repainted a few times over the years, and always in colors and designs that make it look like the Easter Bunny channeling Woodstock. The inside is equally an assault on tasteful interior design, and is best described as frat-house chic. Inflatable cows and aliens (co-existing surprisingly well considering what aliens usually do to cattle), strings of Christmas lights, and skull-headed marionettes hang from the ceiling; and the walls are covered with license plates and bumper stickers. There is even a yellow brick road painted on the floor which leads the patrons to the washrooms located outside. (I know there is a joke in there somewhere. Something about The Wiz? Hm, can’t quite find it. Sorry.) 

And yet, somehow it all works. 

Besides, we saw stranger things on our first visit: particularly an animal that would go from table to table begging for food. I know, not the most sanitary arrangement. But if you try to imagine a traditional New Orleans eatery, I bet somewhere in that dreamt-up scene you picture a hound-dog cleaning up scraps dropped from the patrons’ tables. Kinda works, don’t it?

Except this wasn’t a hound-dog. Or any other kind of dog for that matter.

It was a bird.

The Two Sisters Cafe has no A/C, so they have to keep their windows open on hot days. Occasionally, a bird will fly in, cause a big fuss with owners and customers alike, and then fly right back out. Well, this one bird (a robin, I think) decided to stay. It had resolutely retired from flying and would simply hop away anytime someone tried to shoo it away. Since it stayed earthbound, people eventually stopped worrying about the bird, and it spent the rest of the day feasting on the crumbs of hand-made potato chips that fell to the floor. Now, knowing what high cholesterol can do to a human (e.g. give a guy a fatty liver), I could only imagine what was happening to that little bird. I’m sure if we had stayed a few more hours, we would have seen its cholesterol level reach critical mass and witnessed the robin exploding like a piñata right after the fat kid was given the stick.

So, Darin, you’ve painted such a lovely picture of this place. What keeps you going back?

The food. Hell yes, the food.

They specialize in two things: diner fare with a Cajun twist and pie. 

My perennial favourite (does that mean I order it every year? Yep!) is the Red Burger, a 1/3 pound of beef - or bison, if you prefer - with pepper jack cheese, all of the fixin’s (it’s Montana; the “g” is optional) and drippin’ in the sisters’ secret Creole red sauce. The side is now a plate of home-cut fries instead of the chips they used to serve. (Probably because of what happened to the bird.) Alison usually gets something that involves their chili, such as the chili cheeseburger, a bowl of chili, or her personal favourite: chili with a side of chili. The boys like the quesadillas and the pulled pork sandwich.

I rarely have room for dessert, so I haven’t ordered any in a few years. But even when I did, it was usually their lemon-huckleberry bread pudding or their hand-made ice cream sandwich. The ice cream sandwich was nearly as big as the Red Burger and was made from huckleberry ice cream pressed between two expansive chocolate chip cookoeojerhhf…..oops, got some drool on the keyboard there. Sadly, their ice cream sandwich is now just a memory; and they just don’t make it anymoreroeef…..sorry, those were tears this time.

As for the pie, what can I say? It’s happiness on a plate.

Oh, there has also been another change to the place in the past decade: they installed these magical devices on their windows called “screens”, greatly cutting down on incidents of “poppin’ jays”. (Heh.)

  

Snacks Between Meals: The Importance of Clean Underwear

Just when I thought the whole “kidney thing” was over, I got a call from the Health Research Centre at the Foothills Hospital to setup an appointment to meet with a specialist. That meant a third round of tests, but I didn’t really mind. I figure all of this peeing in cups will prepare me for a future career in sports. (I was thinking I would try luge. Really, how hard could it be? I can lie down like nobody’s business.)

Remember when your mother told you to always wear clean underwear whenever you went out just in case you were in a car accident? I can only assume mothers imagine some version of reality where the paramedics arrive, are about to administer life-saving first aid, but have to suddenly stop when they get an eyeful of your less-than-fresh briefs. (As you would expect, the collision was so bad that it blew your pants right off.)

          “Everyone back away! Back away, dammit! We’ve got day-old tighty-whities here.
          Nobody, and I mean nobody, approach the patient until we break out the haz-mat suits!”

          (Then, in a low whisper for your ears only.) “If only you had listened to your mother,
          we could have saved the leg….”

Well, this motherly advice is doubly valid when it comes to appointments with medical specialists: be sure you have clean underwear!

Let me take a moment to interrupt your thoughts briefly (pun intended). I might be giving you the wrong impression. My personal hygiene is impeccable, but the principle still has relevance…. You see, there is clean underwear, and there is (also clean) underwear that you only wear when there is no clean underwear left.

We’re talking about back-up underwear.

These are your boxers festooned with shiny hearts, your leopard-print banana hammocks, your studded leather thongs, and the heavily-logoed polyester panties commemorating 25 year of Hooters distracting its patrons from its crappy food. These are the options that are only marginally more desirable than going commando. 

In my case, it is Superman cotton briefs.

No, these aren’t innocent underpants featuring scenes from Actions Comics. Nope, these are bright blue with red trim and Superman’s famous symbol emblazoned on a general area that all men like to think is “super”. I didn’t buy these for myself, and don’t start attributing any kinkiness to Alison (we’re actually more into Batman). Instead, these were a gift from my sons. Whether it was a prank on their father or a genuine expression of how much they think of me as their hero is still unknown. (I strongly suspect the former.)

So, this rare morning arrived when, due to a laundry backload, I found myself peering into a nearly empty underwear drawer. I had three choices: long-johns (on a summer day? Forget it.), a pair of unmentionable horrors that will not be described here or anywhere, and those special undies that would make me stronger than a locomotive. 

Of course, I went with the super-shorts.

It wasn’t like I had been given much of a choice, but the consequences of my undergarment decision didn’t hit me until Dr. Sarni, the kidney specialist, left the room to let me undress for an examination. I swore loudly when I undid my belt and caught a flash of the bright red waistband. It hadn’t even crossed my mind when I was getting dressed that morning that my appointment would naturally lead to this moment; my only thought had been my mother’s concern about traffic safety. 

Dr. Sarni had given me a hospital gown to put on but had asked me to only tie it at the back at my neck. So, when she returned, I must have looked like someone’s mentally challenged adult son playing superhero on a really warm day, wearing the cape backwards. 

To Dr. Sarni’s credit, she didn’t let giggling get in the way of her professionalism.

And what was the result of this latest batch of tests and examinations? My kidney was once again declared normal and healthy. (I wonder if she thought a 40-year-old wearing Superman underoos was normal and healthy.) However, she did mention one odd thing: she said my liver has too much fat (???). I didn’t know such a thing was possible, but apparently this is usually due to high cholesterol. My cholesterol is perfectly normal, so I’m bracing myself for a call from my doctor to deliver him yet another cup of urine.

With this latest revelation, I’m beginning to suspect I’ve inadvertently become a member of some kind of Columbia House CD and Defective Organ of the Month Club. I think I forgot to send back July’s card, so I should soon be receiving (depending on my selection category) either Kool & the Gang’s Greatest Hits or an irritable bowel.

If it’s the irritable bowel, next time I’ll wear the long-johns.

The Keg

Have you ever wondered who the guy was who first ate a lobster?  (And yes, we know it was a guy.  Only men, dared and double-dog-dared by other men, will consume things that a starving coyote wouldn’t touch.)

Think about it.

You have an entire ocean of tender, easily caught fish to choose from, but instead you watch a gray, spiny insect (with eye-stalks and everything) crawl out onto the beach.  And what is the first thought that comes to your mind after you finish recoiling in horror?

 
“Hmm.  I wonder what that tastes like with butter.”

Whoever he was (drunk on meade or ale or whatever it was they were drinking back then), let us give him thanks.  And let us also thank the person who finally suggested cooking the critters before eating them.  Without those pioneers, our anniversary dinner at The Keg the other day would have been a lot less surf and a lot more turf.

Calgary goes through food fads, most of them familiar to anyone who lives in a large-ish city.  These fads usually begin in funkier locales like Seattle or New York and then make their way through the rest of North America.  We’ve been through a bagel knoshery phase and a Krispy Kream (i.e. glazed orgasms) phase. We endured an explosion of martini bars, we’re finally at the tail-end of a cupcake craze, and there are still plenty of places where squishing your ice cream together with a few gummy bears on a marble countertop warrants doubling the price.  These trends are all marked by turning a relatively ordinary culinary object into an overrated, overpriced, and ultimately, overexposed fad.  And we all know who first started this nonsense.  Yes, Starbucks, I’m looking at you.

So, now that Calgary is in full-swing “enjoying” a steakhouse (sorry, chophouse) fad, I’m happy to have a reasonable alternative to $50 steaks.  (I’ve met whole cows that weren’t worth that much.)  I’m even happier when I just so happen to eat there the one time of year when just about every meal comes with lobster.

The Keg is technically a “chain restaurant” but it has only a handful of locations outside of Canada.  There are three locations in Calgary, the downtown restaurant having been around for about 30 years, and two in Banff that I have been to.  It’s a bit odd that there is more than one Keg in a small townsite like Banff.  They are literally close enough that you could order an appetizer at one location and simultaneously order an entrée at the other; you can eat your appetizer, pay your bill, and walk over to the other restaurant before your main course even hits the table.

Anyway, I know what you are thinking: franchised steakhouses are infamous for cuts of meat that are barely thicker than the floormats of your car and even less tender.  They can be flavourful (if you make generous use of the A-1 sauce at your table and the two next to it), but biting into a live chipmunk produces less squeaking than the sound of your teeth grinding into the gristle of a Sizzler special.

This is not so with The Keg.

Usually, when we eat there, I order the blue cheese encrusted filet.  Steaks don’t come any tenderer and only The Keg’s “Baseball Sirloin” comes any thicker.  The quarter-inch layer of blue cheese yumminess (Yes, I said yumminess.  You try coming up with an appetizing synonym for “encrusted”.)  is a nice alternative to ruining your meal with steak sauce.

I say usually, because as I mentioned before, The Keg was taking advantage of lobster season and was offering a whole menu of crustacean-laden (ooh, nice turn of phrase!) specials.  Alison had a sirloin topped with prawns, scallops, and lobster (naturally).  I’ve had it before, and it’s very good, if a bit light on the lobster.

I ordered what can best be described as the dinner theatre production of Alien Autopsy.  Somehow I thought if I had a steak and a half-lobster, I would get the best half.  You know, the tail half.  But no, what arrived on my plate was the 3D equivalent of a diagram right out of a marine biology textbook.  With CSI-like precision, the kitchen had managed to perfectly saw the lobster in half length-wise, giving me Sebastian’s entire right side to dissect (sorry, Ariel).

It was good, but I don’t think I’d order it again.  It was a lot of effort for relatively little lobster meat.  (I enjoy playing with my food, but when I imagine wrestling while covered in melted butter, believe me, a lobster is not who I picture as my opponent.)  Also, the steak was okay but not their finest cut.

Fortunately, a slightly disappointing entrée was book-ended by two excellent courses: escargot with mushroom caps for the appetizer and key-lime pie for dessert.  Alison and I revert to kindergarteners whenever we have The Keg’s escargot, carefully counting how many the other has eaten and jealously guarding the pools of garlic butter left behind to sop up with bread.

                “Was that your third escargot?”

                “No, that was only my second.”

                “Are you sure?  I’ve only got one left!”

                “Yes, I’m sure.  What?  Do you need me to take a urine test to prove it?”

                “Well, I did bring a cup with me…”

The conversation for the rest of the meal was more mature.  Alison later asked:

                “Are we sure about this?”

The meal was nearly done, so she couldn’t be referring to our choice of restaurant.  Ah, but it was our anniversary as well…

                “After 19 years, isn’t it kind of late to back out now?”  I asked.

                “No, it isn’t too late.” (ouch) “But that’s not what I’m talking about.  Are
                  we sure about the drums?”

Oh yeah, the drums.

Our oldest son isn’t so much a person in our house as he is a sound.  We won’t see him for hours but we can hear his presence.  He has decided to teach himself the guitar, and in all fairness, he is getting pretty good.  But the same guitar riffs played over and over (I know, that’s what practice is all about) get old sometimes.  I heard somewhere that, while growing up in Nijmegen, even little Eddie Van Halen’s parents would send him into the Black Forest to practice, just so they could have a few moments of peace.  I’m also pretty sure that’s where he first met Valerie Bertinelli.

So, there are ways to reduce the sonic assault of an electric guitar.  Headphones work well in place of a guitar amp (thank you, iRig and iPhone!), and when things get really bad, we can also banish Will to my soundproofed studio.  (Sadly, there is no Black Forest in Calgary.)

But our second son, Duncan, isn’t interested in guitar.  Nor piano.  Nor anything that can fit easily into my studio.  Duncan wants to play the drums.  An instrument that can only be played loud.  (The one time I sympathized with the Grinch in the Dr. Suess tale was when all those bloody Whoville brats started playing their obnoxious, eardrum shattering instruments.  “The noise! The noise!  The NOISE!” he cried.  I can totally understand why he tied them all to his sleigh and pushed it off the mountain.  What?  He didn’t do that?  Well, he should have.)

But, before we invest in buying a complete set only to watch them turn into a very expensive battlefield for his action figures, we are renting a drum kit for two months to see if Duncan is serious about it.  I have visions of our 9-year-old pounding furiously on the toms while hollering “Woman! Woman!” like a certain Muppet he often resembles.

So, no, we’re not sure about the drums.

Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, we shared a slice (actually, it was more like a “slab”) of key lime pie for dessert.  This was not your typical Jello-and-Cool Whip concoction.  This was the heavy, rich variety with a consistency that approached baked cheesecake.  We didn’t really have room for it, but for key lime pie, we were going to make the effort.  It hurt so-o-o-o good.  Even better, because we let slip it was our anniversary, the pie was on the house.

Groaning, we left the restaurant, and I thought back to my anatomy lesson during dinner.  Having no ears, I bet lobsters don’t even care if their sons take up the drums.

Lucky bastards.

Big T's BBQ & Smokehouse

Here’s an interesting number: 10,400.  That is the number of calories, according to my teammate Steve’s very fancy watch, each of us burned on the Ride to Conquer Cancer.  (In winter, when I am in full hibernation mode, it usually takes me three weeks to burn that much.)  This meant that my metabolism was fired up to the point that food would literally vaporize before it even passed my tonsils.  This also meant that immediately following the big ride, I could eat obscene quantities of anything I wanted.  Yes, this was a job for southern barbeque.  And in Calgary, southern barbeque is Big T’s BBQ and Smokehouse.

There is a litmus test that all restaurants claiming to serve good southern cooking must pass:  they must deep-fry at least one weird thing.  Not too weird, mind you.  Not Calgary Stampede weird where they started deep-frying Snickers and jellybeans a few years ago but will now deep-fry anything from small children to home appliances.  (Not brand new appliances; we’re not barbarians!)  But any self-respecting southern BBQ joint should deep-fry something that probably started off as a dare.

Big T’s does pass the deep fryer test.  One of their specialties is deep-fried (you know, I think just used the phrase “deep-fried” enough to make me an honorary Louisianan.  Three more times and I’ll be bestowed with the title of “Bubba” and all the perks that come with it!).  Anyway, Big T’s has deep-fried pickles.  Dill pickles, of course, because deep-fried gherkins is just crazy-talk.  These are always a big hit with Alison, and she reluctantly shared them with the rest of the table.  They are served in a paper cone atop an iron spire with a cool “ranchy” dip on the side.  I love them too, with one caveat: the breading loses heat much faster than the encased cuke, deceiving you into believing (erroneously) that the pickle has cooled below the temperature of napalm and is ready to eat.  Fortunately, the skin inside my mouth grows back quickly.

The atmosphere of Big T’s is a big part of its appeal.  It has a bit of a roadhouse vibe…well, as much as a restaurant located in a strip mall can have any vibe that isn’t created by the stomping feet of twenty people trying to drop 30 pounds at the step class two storefronts down.  The wood-lined walls are decorated with jazz, blues, and Motown record covers; and the kitchen is open for all patrons to see and drool over.  The ambiance was enhanced at our table by the friends we were dining with, particularly Karen, an actual Southerner with a Deliverance-style accent and everything.  Alison has known her longer than she’s known me, and Karen is quite possibly one of the bravest people I know.  Not because she is fighting MS (which she is).  And not because she recently toured the Middle East (which she did).  No, Karen is the bravest person I know because I’ve watched her scream at complete strangers in New Orleans.  Alison and I visited her a number of years ago when she was living in the Big Easy, and Karen did most of the driving.  The other drivers she shared (I use the term loosely) the road with were a constant source of extreme irritation for Karen, and she would let them know in no uncertain terms, questioning the marital status of the parents of anyone who merged incorrectly and calling on Jesus to strike down those who didn’t have their exact change at the ready when approaching a toll bridge booth.

Don’t get me wrong.  We love Karen, and her pedigree allowed her to order hush puppies like a real pro, giving our meal extra authenticity.  (It also didn’t hurt that she and Heery paid for dinner.  Thanks!)

Speaking of hush puppies, if you don’t know what they are, hush puppies are round pieces of deep-fried (“Bubba!”) cornbread served with maple syrup for dipping.  An angioplasty can be added for a nominal fee.  The hush puppies are the source of one of my few issues with Big T’s.  No, they prepare them perfectly, so that isn’t my complaint.  It’s that every meal comes with a non-negotiable side of cornbread, and then you get to choose from additional sides (one of which is hush puppies).  Even considering my new title of “Bubba”, that’s a lot of corn in bread form.  C’mon, Big T’s, let’s make the first side a choice of cornbread or hush puppies!  Just saying.

My other concern is slightly more serious.  Big T’s naturally serves breaded catfish (an animal that has been beaten mercilessly with the ugly stick, but is a southern staple), but this they do prepare wrong.  It isn’t entirely fair to Big T’s to say this, because I’m comparing their preparation method to Dan Akroyd’s House of Blues.  My first encounter with catfish as a food (instead of a freakshow at the aquarium) was at the House of Blues in New Orleans, and they breaded it in cornmeal.  Big T’s uses a flour-based breading.  I know! What’s wrong with these people?   What’s next, pulled pork served in a pita pocket??

These are actually very minor complaints, and they were completely erased by the full rack of ribs I ordered.  If you ever find yourself at Big T’s, you must have the Carolina Mustard ribs.  (I’m having a Pavlovian reaction even as I write this.)  I’m a big fan of dark reddish-brown barbeque sauces on my ribs (hell, on my anything), but this mustard yellow sauce beats them all.  The rack was enormous, extending beyond both sides of my plate like the love-handles of an American tourist in a beach lounger, but due to my super-charged metabolism, I demolished them in about 7 minutes and didn’t feel a thing.  Only a critical glance from Alison stopped me from ordering another round.  Fortunately, Will was running out of steam, so I helped him finish his ribs, and I stole a hush puppy from Duncan.  Will had chosen the spicy ribs, and they were also excellent with some real burn that increased with each bite.

We finished our meal by sharing a Wild Turkey Pie (think pecan pie with chocolate…giddy up!), and when I say share, I mean I devoured half of it before everyone’s glares finally broke me down. 

Hey, I still had at least another 6000 calories to recover!

Snacks Between Meals: Merry Christmas 2010