Snacks Between Meals: Leanne

It's tough to have heroes in our information age.  Even if you pick a really good one, an individual who has done something genuinely important (i.e. isn't a pop star or an athlete who plays games for a living), it is still likely that someone will eventually dig up a fact or two about your hero that will leave you disappointed and disillusioned.  Is it Steve Jobs the visionary innovator and champion of geekdom, or is it Steve Jobs the deadbeat dad and thief?  Lance Armstrong the cancer survivor and 7 times Tour de France winner, or Lance Armstrong the cheater and drug user?  And don't get me started about Chuck Norris the bad-ass martial arts expert and actor.  (He's a...gasp!...Republican.)

It starts to feel like every hero's story is just a carefully constructed fiction, making them no more real than the purely imaginary heroes I worshipped as a child.  And even the fictional heroes would sometimes let me down.  Case in point:

When I was seven, every boy in my neighborhood was crazy about Spider-man.  This was long before movie studios had even thought about trying to make a film about everyone's favorite webslinger; we just had the comics and a psychedelic cartoon that was only animated in the loosest sense of the word.  (I swear that you could almost see the fingers of the guy whose job it was to drag the paper Spider-man cutout across the badly painted backgrounds.  Even my seven-year-old mind recognized the show's creators were making this thing on the cheap when I saw the same painted backgrounds - and sometimes even the same villain spouting the same lines - appearing on Rocket Robin Hood.)  At least we can thank that incarnation of Spider-man for giving us an unforgettable theme song.

However, the problem with everyone being a fan of the same character was when we got together to play superheroes under the large trees in our backyard, everyone wanted to be Spider-man.  This meant we would often have as many as half a dozen little boys running around our backyard making web-shooting sounds (which sound a lot like flatulent birds) but no villains to take down.  It was as if Costco had just received a shipment of radioactive spiders and was selling them in bulk.

This was intolerable; how can you place your fingers against your temples - like your mom does when you play inside all afternoon with five other pint-sized superheroes - and shout, "My spidey senses are tingling!" if there is no danger present to set it off?  It's a whole superpower just going to waste, like Clark Kent using his heat-vision for nothing more than warming up the occasional frozen burrito in the Daily Planet lunchroom.

So, one time, we decided to give Spider-man (all four of him in attendance that day) a real challenge.  We were going to use Spidey's climbing power and webslinging ability to scale a skyscraper and swing over to the next towering building.  Of course, for a group of six and seven-year-olds, that translated to tying a garden hose from one tall tree to another, about twelve feet off of the ground.  You can only imagine how excited these four little Spider-men were as they lined up at the bottom of the first tree to take their turns shimmying along the green rubber tubing to the next tree ten feet away.  I think the littlest Spider-man among us might even have wet himself.  Something was "tingling", and it sure didn't smell like spidey-sense.

Anyway, I was second in line behind Fat Spider-man (every super team has one) and that proved to be a near-fatal error in judgement.  Garden hoses don't make for very secure knots at the best of times, and our limited knot-tying abilities were an embarrassment to the Spider-man name.  So all it took was one chubby six-year-old Peter Parker to stretch the knots beyond the margin of safety for the next Spider-man: me.  I had just started to make my way across, going hand over hand with my legs crossed over the hose, when it came undone and I was brought down hard on top of my right arm.

Do you remember a toy called Stretch Armstrong?  You could stretch and twist his limbs in all kinds of inhuman ways.  Well, that's what my right arm looked like between my wrist and elbow.  It lay there next to me, distended and bent into the shape of an "S", and it actually took me a moment to get over the basic wrongness of that image before I realized it also hurt like nothing I had ever experienced in my short seven years.  Fortunately, the skin hadn't broken, but both bones in my forearm were snapped clean through.  I started screaming for someone to get my mother (ok, fine, I asked for my "mommy"), but the other Spider-men and various bystanders (neighborhood kids smart enough to predict the foolishness of our plan and sadistic enough to stick around to witness its inevitable failure) were frozen by horror and morbid curiosity at the sight of my misshapen arm.  Out of the corner of my tear-filled eye, I could see one kid approaching nervously with a long stick, the kind perfectly suited for poking things with.

In the absence of empathy for my "discomfort", it took a bit more screaming and begging to shake them out of their stupor, and they finally retrieved a bonafide parent to tie my arm in a splint and take me to the hospital.

See, you cannot be too careful when choosing a hero to worship.

As an adult, my criteria for what makes a hero has changed greatly.  Superpowers are no longer required (but still an asset).  Instead, I think heroism is defined by responding selflessly to an adversity that appears independent of that person's actions.  (Gee, thanks, Mr. Webster, but what the hell does that mean?)  Here are a couple of examples:

People who have struggled against nature's most extreme environment climbing Mount Everest, sometimes losing comrades, sometimes even sacrificing their own lives to save comrades, have often been called heroes.  I strongly disagree.  They placed themselves directly in the path of danger, not the other way around.  Climbing the world's highest peak is, by definition, the antithesis of selflessness.  Great achievement?  Sure.  Heroic?  Nope.

Captain Sully, airline pilot, is often touted as a hero for landing a failing AirbusA320 in the Hudson River and saving the lives of everyone aboard.  Many will disagree with me, but I don't see his actions as being heroic.  Heroes must have a choice, a choice between a selfish (usually easier or safer) response or a selfless (more difficult and possibly requiring great sacrifice) one.  Captain Sully didn't really have a choice.  I won't be so crass as to say he was only trying to save himself, but he would have done the same thing had he been alone.  Any other pilot would have also made every attempt to land the plane safely.  Would any other pilot have succeeded as well?  Not likely.  But skill alone doesn't make heroes.

(Don't get me wrong.  I still think Captain Sully is one of the coolest men alive, and he deserves keys to cities, supermodel girlfriends, book deals, and the eternal gratitude of every passenger on that plane.  I just reserve the title of hero for a different set of criteria.)

So, who makes the grade?  For starters, my dad does.  He hasn't singlehandedly stopped invading armies or dove into freezing waters to rescue drowning strangers, but he has had his unfair share of adversity over the past twenty years, and while he certainly complains (he's still a Gregson after all), he has never chosen the many opportunities he has had to take an easy way out.  I can name many rich men, and famous men, who have no claim on my father's integrity.  His choices have sometimes come at a great personal cost, and he's my hero for making them.

On a larger scale - as cliche as it sounds - the responders to 9/11, those who risked, lost, and continue to lose their lives because of their actions, their selfless choices, are rightfully immortalized as heroes.

And on a very small scale, a personal scale, there is Leanne.

I must have first met Leanne when I was about five years old, when both of our families lived near Vancouver.  Honestly, I can't recall anything about her from that time; I was better acquainted with her older brother and sister.  Leanne was only four, and really, how well can anyone get to know a four-year-old?  Just because they can talk (unceasingly) doesn't mean they are any more fathomable than the family pet.

My time in BC was short, and we moved to Cardston, Alberta in time for me to start 1st Grade.  But our families stayed in touch, and our respective travels sometimes allowed for brief visits.  The time I remember most clearly was a trip to Echo Lake our families took together one summer.  I was probably 13 or 14, and with Leanne just a year younger, I did notice her this time.  But aside from taking the the occasional walk together, leaving my disgruntled brothers behind, I had no idea what to do about my teenage crush.

One afternoon, I had my head buried in a book (a very common state for me at that age), and Leanne wanted me to come out of the cabin to play down at the lake.  It wouldn't have taken much convincing, but she threatened to kiss me if I didn't move. Well, there was no way in hell I was going to move now!  She followed through with her threat - an innocent peck on the cheek - and we headed down to the dock for an afternoon of launching ourselves off of the rope swing. 

This was my first kiss (well, aside from games of Kissing Tag in elementary school, but they didn't really count; I was usually caught by my second cousin...yecch!).  This meant a lot to a teenage boy who rarely attracted a second glance from the opposite sex.

After that summer, we may have written each other a couple of times, but I'm pretty sure the next, and last time, I saw her was at her sister's wedding.  We talked for hours, she told me about her boyfriend (bummer), and she told me she liked my long hair (heh).

Full disclosure: this was the mid-80's so I might, maybe, have had a haircut that resembled a mullet.  Maybe.

Anyway, just a purely platonic day or two with her was once again a much-needed boost to my self-esteem.  I have heard since that she has had this effect on many people; she had an optimism that wasn't corny or Pollyannish in any way, and was inexplicably contagious.

In the past several years, this positive outlook was put to the test when she was first diagnosed with cancer in 2006.  She fought back with a combination of modern medicine and determination, and her "charm offensive" seemed to work on the cancer. It looked like she had beaten it.

Sadly, this wasn't meant to last.  Leanne was again diagnosed in 2008, and once more she faced it down.  Then, in 2011, the cancer returned with a vengeance, appearing in her arm, spine and liver.  This time it was going to require more help than she could find in this country, and her sister led a fundraising effort to send Leanne to a specialized clinic in the states.  After a series of aggressive and alternative treatments, it looked like she might beat it again.  Her optimism throughout the program so impressed the clinic that they filmed short interviews with her to promote their services.

If life were a TV-movie, this would be the part where image on the screen freezes and the closing credits tell you that Leanne goes on to live happily ever after, spending all of her waking hours supporting others in their fights against disease.  Instead, the reality was that her last reprieve proved to be a very short one, and Leanne died on June 27th of this year, leaving behind her husband and two young children.

We had lost touch over the past couple of decades, so I didn't even know Leanne was ill, and only found out a week after her funeral.  Honestly, I hadn't even thought of her for years, and I was therefore surprised to feel such a sense of loss at the news.   I still don't receive second looks from women, I still need my confidence boosted from time to time, and hers was a friendship I now wish I had rekindled.  If for nothing else, I might have learned to suffer the shittier parts of life more gracefully.  (I know, referring to them as "shittier" shows how far I still have to go.) 

Can one person's dignity and hope in the face of death change the world?  Not likely. Still, Leanne wasn't given a choice of destination, but she did choose the brighter, yet harder, path to get there.  It's something I constantly fail to do, and I bet most of the nearly six hundred people who attended her funeral struggle with it too.  But we recognized someone who chose to be better.  Having met Leanne, we feel more optimistic about our own chances, and we aspire to be the kind of hero she will always be to her family.

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.

Snacks Between Meals: Wildlife

We spent yesterday, Canada Day, in Banff National Park.  We mainly went to enjoy an evening of live music and fireworks in Central Park (much smaller than its New York namesake), but we also took in a hike up Johnston Canyon in the early afternoon.  As we were driving to the hiking trail, and as we were hiking up to the Lower Falls, I noticed something about the wildlife signs throughout Banff.  They have become very species-specific.  It used to be that you would see a general "Don't Feed the Animals" sign everywhere, with an occasional "Beware of Bears" or "Deer Crossing" sign thrown in for special effect.  But now they have signs for goats, sheep, wolves, moose (mooses?), squirrels, and even occasionally specific varieties of bear (i.e. brown, black, or grizzly).

Here's a small sampling of the ones I saw:

BEAR

WOLF

DEER

SHEEP

COUGAR

Please use common sense when faced with one of these warnings.  The life you save may be your own.

Snacks Between Meals: Slim Piggins

I was foraging through our fridge the other day when a small jar, shoved way in the back behind half a dozen varieties of mustard, caught my eye.  At first, all I could see of the label was the word "Baconnaise".  Yep, the special ingredient in our mayonnaise isn't love; it's pig.

I'll admit I was surprised to see such a low-brow condiment in our kitchen.  Actually, I should rephrase that: I was surprised to see such a low-brow condiment in our kitchen that wasn't brought home by me.  When I tell people I have a problem with "hitting the sauce" too much, I mean it literally.  The sauce to food ratio in our refrigerator is at best 3:1 in favor of the salsas, dips, ketchups, marinades, glazes, toppings, gravies, spreads, dressings, and bottles of spicy liquids from every corner of the globe.  Admit it, some foods were invented solely as a means to transport sauces to your mouth.  It can't be a coincidence that celery is both flavourless and shaped like a trough.

Since I couldn't really imagine Alison bringing home a jar of ham-flavoured heart disease of her own volition, I figured Duncan must have seen it at the grocery store and begged to bring it home.  Our 10-year old truly believes everything tastes better with bacon - he might have a point there - but I didn't yet understand why it was hidden in a dark corner like the mutant offspring of a pair of woefully inbred first cousins. 

Then I saw the rest of the label and knew Alison's secret shame.

It didn't just say Baconnaise.  It said Baconnaise Lite.

Baconnaise.  Lite. 

Really???

That makes about as much sense as creating a whole wheat Twinkie.

Snacks Between Meals: The Avengers

Just got back from seeing the The Avengers movie, and the verdict is:

My inner child wet himself.

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.

Snacks Between Meals: Death Au Gratin

I have come to the realization that I might be giving everyone the impression that I spend most of my days, and even some nights, doing nothing but dwelling on the horrors of mortality.  That’s not true.  In fact, I can sometimes be quite positive about death.  Being raised a Mormon, I actually learned to recognize funerals, an event where everyone in attendance is forcefully reminded of their own "best before" dates, as a time to celebrate.  My siblings and I would often even look forward to funerals.  Was this because of the comforting words that came from the pulpit, the strong religious belief in a life after death, an eternity spent basking in the presence of God?  Was it the assurance of a paradisiacal world that awaits the righteous, a world without pain, sickness, or suffering?  Was it the promise of a heavenly reunion with all of your departed loved ones?

Nah, it was the funeral potatoes.

What are funeral potatoes, you ask?  Well, let me first give you a culinary glimpse into the kind of subculture that evolves when a society doesn't have extramarital sex, alcohol, or HBO to keep it occupied.

I think the psychological term is called sublimation.  Everyone needs a vice.  For some it's smoking, for others it's $10 hookers.  And for many it's an addiction to watching professional dancers dumb-down their art so that their recently-released-from-rehab C-list celebrity partners can stumble through 3 minutes of whoring for an additional 15 minutes of fame on a reality TV show.  Okay, not so different from the $10 hookers after all.

For many Mormons (at least the ones who haven't admitted to discovering free porn on the Internet), they have transferred their more carnal desires into food.  That's why I don't attend church anymore; much as I try, I can't maintain the minimum weight requirement.

And it's not just any food - sure, who doesn't love barbecue, fresh lobster, or a plate of perfectly sauced home-made pasta; these are givens - no, Mormons, much like their mortal enemies, Southern Baptists, have refined two of the three core food groups of church potlucks into something that exists between alchemy and art.  Of course, we're talking about casseroles and Jell-O salads.

By the way, if you are wondering what the third food group is, it's dip.  Dip has been a popular staple of potlucks for decades, but it didn't really come to prominence at church events until Mrs. Edna Lovely Pennybacker realized she had used all of her serving bowls to separate and store her scrap-booking supplies and, out of desperation, carved a bowl from of a stale round of bread to hold her trademark spinach dip.  She even tried to hide what she had done by stacking the tiny fistfuls (she had very small hands) of bread innards around the bowl, and she served it with a beautifully arranged selection of fancy crackers (savory biscuits, not uppity rednecks) to scoop up her dip.  So imagine her surprise when members of the church choir (always the first to the buffet table) ignored her Ritz and Bretons wreath and started dunking the chunks of bread into the dip.  Some even started tearing pieces of bread out of the bowl itself! 

The rest is potluck history. 

Sitting at the top of the potluck food chain, well above pineapple encrusted Jell-O molds and lemon squares dusted with powdered sugar, is the dish known as funeral potatoes.  As I understand it, the ingredients are simply a bag of frozen hashbrowns, cheddar cheese, sour cream, corn flakes, and cream of mushroom soup. (I've heard that only 2% of canned soups sold in Utah ever actually become a bowl of soup; it seems that every casserole recipe in the state begins with the phrase "One can of Campbell's...".  Fancy recipes start with "Two cans of Campbell's...".)  Brigham only knows what the pioneers must have eaten on their long journey west to settle by the Great Salt Lake before the invention of can openers.

Yet, in spite of its humble ingredients, funeral potatoes are truly greater than the sum of its parts and have somehow become as integral to Mormon funerals as organ music and pregnant mourners.  So long as the deceased wasn't someone I knew too well (a second cousin usually fit the bill; I had hundreds of those), I would eagerly put on my Sunday best on a Saturday afternoon, knowing what I would soon find in its customary place between plates of rolled cold cuts and bowls of cottage cheese a la Mandarin orange slices, keeping itself warm under a thin veil of aluminum foil.  Sure, funeral potatoes would sometimes appear at wedding receptions and church picnics, but they always tasted best under the pall of death.

For my entire childhood, I assumed we had coined the casserole's morbid moniker ourselves in our small town of Cardston.  Turns out the name was so well known throughout  the wider Mormon subculture that a collectible pin was fashioned in shape of a baking pan filled with funeral potatoes for the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics in 2002.  Even outside the cloistered LDS community, others (gentiles, heathens, philistines...pick your favorite) have begun to discover and share this culinary treasure.  I once saw Nigella Lawson, celebrity British cook and naughty kitchen goddess (there's something about the way she uses her hands to blend ingredients and kneed dough that is borderline obscene; she's like a cross between your childhood friend's hot mom and Chef Boyardee...but in a good way.)  Anyway, I watched her describe and prepare funeral potatoes on international television.  She even used the proper name!

Yep, after a long hiatus since the cancellation of the Donny & Marie show, latter day saints are returning to the cultural zeitgeist.  I can only imagine what we might witness next.  Maybe a broadway musical about the Book of Mormon?

Nah.

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.

Snacks Between Meals: Where in the World is Darin Gregson?

I’m sure all of my readers (all four of you) noticed that I have been silent for several weeks now.  I feel I owe you an explanation.

I have been recovering from a sudden health “crisis”.  It kept me away from work for a full month, but it didn’t really allow me to use the time to be very productive at home. If it sounds to you like I’m being evasive about the details of my condition, you are very perceptive.  It really took the mickey out of me, and I’m not quite ready to go into the specifics.  Maybe there is a superstitious part of me buried deep beneath the layers of sediment and skepticism that is worried I might invoke disaster by speaking its name.  Call it my Voldermort moment.  Someday, I might view things more irreverently and joke about it on the blog, but that post will have to wait awhile.

(Oh, and for those keeping score at home, I will tell you this much: it had nothing to do with my kidneys.  ‘Cuz that stuff was hilarious.)

My doctor approved me to return to work as of about 2 weeks ago, and I’m feeling more than 90% restored to normalcy, but I don’t mind saying that a month laid-up with a disabling illness made me carefully consider my own mortality.

Who am I kidding?  I’m a Gregson.  We spend half our waking hours silently railing against our inevitable demises.  You should see our family crest.  Against a tartan background, it features the Grim Reaper trying to reach the original Son of Greg with its scythe while my ancestor lies in his death-bed, legs raised in air and kicking frantically at the Angel of Death.  (I don’t know who the artist was, but he really captured the supreme exasperation on Death’s bony face.  Greg Jr., and every Gregson since, would happily surrender dignity for a few extra minutes in this mortal coil.) 

Actually, when I think about it, my recent brooding about my eventual “lateness” started a couple of months before my disability leave.  I was reading The Lord of the Rings for the fourth time when…sorry, what?…yes, I said fourth time.  I know, I know, that brings me perilously close to being a punchline on a sitcom like The Big Bang Theory, but it’s not as bad as it sounds.  I first read it when I was 12 (that’s decades ago!), once more for a university English class, and once more before the movies came out.  But I have never written my full name in Dwarven runes, I have never removed chest hair only to tape it to the tops of my feet, and I couldn’t tell a silmaril from a smial if the entire fate of Middle-Earth depended on it.  (Also, I have never been able to remain conscious trying to get through Tolkien’s exhaustive and exhausting Appendices.  Truly obsessive fans have them highlighted using at least three fluorescent colours.  Mine are only marked with dried puddles of drool.)

I just happen to enjoy the books.

However, when I recently turned the final page at the end of The Return of the King, I realized that this was my fourth and (gasp!) final time I would read the trilogy.  Sure, nothing is stopping me if I want to pick them up again, but I don’t want to.  At least not until after 75 years or so, when I have forgotten enough to make them fresh again.  I have to face it: I don’t have that kind of time left.

This realization of course led me to consider other “lasts” ahead of me: last screenings of my favourite movies, my last ride around Echo Lake on a waterski, the last healthy follicle on my failing scalp, and worst of all, my last bite of solid food.  It’s all very depressing.

You know what, it may only be 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon, but if you need me, I’ll be in bed curled up in a fetal position, slowly rocking back-and-forth with the covers over my head.  That is, unless my health takes a sudden dramatic turn for the worse.  Then I’ll have my legs in the air, kicking like my life depends on it.

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.