Eating Fries with Arnold

Unfortunately I can't loiter in bed til noon on a regular basis. Today I was up at the crack of 8am! I went to bed just after 11pm so I still managed a good 9 hours of superfine sleep. Once I was showered and smelling good I built a damn fine latte, poured it into my travel mug and hit the streets with Jack for an invigorating morning stroll.

You see, Gary Coleman was waiting for me.

Yep, Arnold from that iconic '80s sitcom Different Strokes. Just don't bring that up in his presence; apparently it's a bit of a sore spot--even after almost 1/4 century.

Gary flew in from Salt Lake City, his current place of residence, last night to be on set this morning for a New York Fries campaign. I'm the guy they called in to stuff the box with fries.

I didn't have to buy the potatoes. Or cut them. Or even fry them. Just arrange them attractively in a NYF container. For a food stylist this is a plum job.

Sometimes I wonder how I ever happened into this life of mine? It's a little random and a little inconsistent but a helluva good time.

And because my French fry arranging skills are pretty stellar I sat back and watched the drama unfold over wardrobe (way too big), his wig (also a little large) and a makeup artist who had to keep doing touch-ups because Mr. Coleman's nose was a little runny.

I wish all my days were this excitingly uneventful. But I'm beat, it's time for a nap.

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Keep your eyes peeled for the ads which will be out later this spring. It's all part of NYF's 25th anniversary.

"After 25 years, some things are still fresh."

Lattes in Leslieville, Breakfast in Bed

As a hedonist I think it’s important to keep things real so I’m writing this post from the comfort of my queen size. It’s now well past noon. When my alarm sounded at 8am I snoozed it, then I reset it for 8:30am, before turning it off completely. I don’t know why I set alarms for days when I don’t have to get up? It’s really just an exercise in guilt.

But I don’t feel guilty. There’s a steady stream of rain coming down outside my bedroom window and Jack (my three year-old Boston terrier) has done little more than reposition herself (yes, Jack’s a girl) for comfort over the last few hours. She’s not a fan of getting wet and is much happier passing the day under a goose down duvet (yes, under) than traversing puddles and squatting in damp patches of grass.

I’ve learned a lot from her over the years.

So what does this lazy-ass attempt at writing have to do with food? Or booze? Does it fall into the “beyond” category?

I am enjoying a delicious café latte intermittently between key strokes. That must count for something. Nothing makes me happier than starting my day with a latte—and it just so happens to be the way 90% of my mornings (or afternoons, on occasion) get started. And while I’ve never been a professional barista, my technique for making Italian coffees is down right passable. I mean, I could get a job at Starbucks if I wanted.

I was out for coffee with my friend Ryan yesterday and he introduced me to a fantastic place in Leslieville. Of course some of the details, like the name of this out-of-the-way spot, seem to escape me. (But thanks to Robin who commented below, it's Merchants of Green Coffee) Tucked away on a warehouse-y street beside the Don Valley Parkway, just north of Queen Street, this charming café buys only fair trade coffee and roasts its own beans daily. You’ll never be drinking brew from yesterday’s roast. While that might not mean much to some people, it ensures the best cup of Joe possible, as the longer coffee beans sit around after roasting the more bitter they become.

It’s like holding your mom’s purse while she shops for sweatshirts at Cotton Ginny. Just kidding, love you mom.

But I digest. . .

Wood beams, old plank floors, red velvet curtains and a smattering of round tables and cushion-y benches combine to create a warm and completely unpretentious atmosphere.

My companion raved about this place’s macchiato so he ordered one for himself and I stuck to my usual, a latte. If I was going to judge this spot (and I was) I needed a solid baseline from which I could establish my opinion. I’m not a huge fan of foam and I steer clear of cappuccinos for that reason. I’m also a creature of habit, especially where beverages are concerned.

I’ve never enjoyed a macchiato before, but after tasting Ryan’s yesterday, I’m a convert. What a magnificent bevy—all strong and espresso-like but with just a bit of steamed milk to soften the acidic and bitter edges.

My latte tasted great—all creamy, with hints of dark chocolate and roasted nuts—but it was closer to a cappuccino, arriving with much more foam than a latte should. It’s when I brought this up that Ryan laid out the Italian coffee guide for me. You see his dad used to own a coffee shop so he’s well versed in the proper proportions of espresso to milk. I’m passing on this handy-dandy guide so that you too can judge the barista skills of others. Or make kick-ass coffee at home. Whichever makes you happy.

Americano

Prepared by adding hot water to an already extracted espresso. This destroys the crema (creamy foam) and is different from an extra-long espresso which is called a lungo. Flavour and taste vary depending on how many shots of espresso (single or double) and how much water is added.

Cappuccino

Prepared with 1/3 espresso, 1/3 steamed milk and 1/3 foam.

Latte

An American invention no less, the latte is prepared with 1/3 espresso and 2/3 steamed milk with a small layer of foam. A ghetto latte is created by a cheap MF who orders an espresso in a tall cup than uses the free milk at the café to build his own latte.

Macchiato

Macchiato simply means “marked” or “stained” and it refers to a shot of espresso that’s stained with a small amount of steamed milk, about a 1 tsp. (5 mL) or so.

Pull Up a Seat at the Recession Bar

This piece originally ran in The Globe and Mail on Wednesday March 11, 2009 and I was going to link to it but it still hasn't made its way online—so here's the piece, in all its glory, complete with a kick-ass banana pudding recipe.

Bargain Bar

Economic gloom and doom—not to mention an unending winter—have you reaching for the bottle? Too bad you can’t afford the Grey Goose anymore.

Yes, gone are the days of trolling the liquor-store aisles, cart at the ready, seeking out the new, the exotic, the vintage. Who can justify a triple figure booze tab in these uncertain times? For most Canadians, replenishing the California cab stock falls firmly in the category of “frivolous.”

Now is the time to get creative where your liquor cabinet is concerned and rediscover some old favourites. Bottles fall out of fashion, and once their sweet elixirs have satisfied a cocktail fad or hot recipe they stand forgotten under a layer of dust, relegated to the back recesses of the cabinet with only a few sad shots left to their name.

It’s those sweet liqueurs—the Chambords, apricot brandy and crème de banane—that linger for years. But you drank them once and you can drink them again. Or if, say bad memories render that impossible, many can be used to tasty end in the kitchen (since restaurants are no longer part of the budget, either).

And the rule is one bottle out, one bottle in, right?

First on the list is Chambord, a delicious black raspberry liqueur from France and housed in a gorgeous (albeit space-eating), bulbous bottle, decorated with bits of gold plastic. It was likely purchased to shake up the highly satisfying French Martini—a mixture of two parts vodka, one part Chambord and one part pineapple juice—which is a pleasant way to enjoy it again.

But its potential doesn’t stop there. It can add great flavour to a raspberry vinaigrette. Add one part Chambord to two parts extra virgin olive oil, one part red wine vinegar and a dab of Dijon. Season with some salt and pepper, and you’ve got a versatile and economic salad topper. Other liqueurs like sambuca and limoncello, or fortified wines like sherry and port can also add great flavour and depth to a mound of mixed greens.

Add a minced shallot or toss in some of your favourite fresh herb to build on the flavour.

With St. Paddy’s day just around the corner now is the time to bust out that bottle of electric green crème de menthe but please don’t pour it into your pint glass. Sweet and minty cocktails are a hard sell so either enjoy it over ice after a heavy meal as it helps cleanse the palette and aid digestion, or better yet, use it to flavour chocolate truffles.

You can use brandy, Kahlúa, Cointreau or any number of spirits but the combo of rich dark chocolate and cool mint holds a significant place in many a confectionary repertoire (Grasshopper Pie ring a bell?). And despite what you may think, truffles are neither complicated nor laborious.

Simply heat 1 cup (250 mL) heavy (35%) cream until it just comes to a boil. Remove from the heat and pour over 1 lb (500 g) of chopped dark chocolate—the best your thin wallet can afford. Let sit for 30 seconds, add an ounce (30 mL) of crème de menthe and 2 Tbsp (30 mL) butter, then stir until smooth.

Cool in the refrigerator until solid then use a teaspoon to scoop out small portions and shape into balls. Roll truffles in cocoa powder or chopped nuts and voila, fancy-pants truffles with just a hint of mint.

That bottle of peach schnapps, years forgotten now, may be what’s left from your Fuzzy Navel days but there’s a reason that trend gripped the ’80s like Michael Jackson’s sparkly mitt—it tasted pretty damn good. For an updated version of the classic cocktail combine one ounce peach schnapps with ¾ ounce triple sec in a tall glass filled with ice. Top with equal parts orange juice and cranberry juice and garnish with a few frozen cranberries.

Your bottle of crème de banane may date back even further (Chocolate Monkey and a swing on the dance floor at Studio 54 anyone?) and with its candied banana flavour it can dominate even the most complex of libations, but used to its full potential as a banana flavouring in a traditional cream pie or pudding recipe it’s the perfect addition. Save the Chocolate Monkey shots for really tough times.

Old Fashioned Banana Pudding

• 1/3 cup (75 mL) sugar
• 2 Tbsp + 1 tsp (30 mL) cornstarch
• Pinch salt
• 3 large egg yolks, lightly beaten
• 1 cup (250 mL) milk
• 1/4 cup (50 mL) evaporated milk
• 1 Tbsp (15 mL) butter
• 3 Tbsp (45 mL) crème de banane liqueur
• 1–2 bananas thinly sliced

Whisk the sugar, cornstarch and salt together in a medium saucepan. Whisk in the egg yolks, then gradually whisk in the milk and evaporated milk until smooth. Cook over medium heat until foaming subsides and mixture thickens, about 8–10 minutes, whisk¬ing constantly. Remove from heat and whisk in the butter and banana liqueur. Cool 5 minutes, whisking periodically to prevent a skin from forming.

Spoon some of the pudding into the bottom of four dessert glasses, add a few banana slices and cover with remaining pudding. Cover surface with plastic wrap and cool completely before refrigerating for 3 hours or until chilled. Serve with a dollop of freshly whipped cream and drizzle with just a touch of Kahlua, if desired.

The Fresh Test

I’m not one to make fun of others—to point out culinary foibles or food-related faux pas. I’ll judge you on fashion, etiquette, design choices, manners, drug habits, self control, partner selection and moral inconsistencies, but kitchen matters are off limits.

Judging the shortcomings of others is truly one of life’s joys, especially when it’s some highfalutin chef whose obvious efforts fall short of his desired outcome. Or some pompous fashion house whose latest collection ends up setting the standard of what not to wear. Riffing on those kinds of idiosyncrasies couldn’t be more enjoyable.

But when a friend invites me over for dinner I wouldn’t dream of tearing him down for his efforts. And that’s the reason—the effort. Someone opens his door to you, invites you in to share food and drink and conversation, there’s no room for culinary judgment. It’s just not polite. Don’t think it. Don’t say it. And for gawds sake, don’t write about it.

Ya’ll know where this is going?

Well just last week I was invited to some fellow curlers’ home for dinner before our Wednesday night game. I must point out that this is the first meal we’ve ever shared together and perhaps the last, if they read this.

Now Brad and Patrick are two of the loveliest people you would ever have the privilege of dining with. And the fourth dinner guest, Mark, also a fellow curler, as equally charming.

Besides the delightful company and swank surroundings (they live in a gorgeous home in Toronto’s Beach neighbourhood) the meal was absolutely great. We first mingled around the kitchen counter, sipping Chianti and nibbling on jalapeno hummus, marinated olives and old cheddar. For the main course we enjoyed barbequed salmon—each filet adorned with a charred lemon wheel and served with goat cheese mashed potatoes and perfectly al dente asparagus and steamed carrots.

It was simple, real food that not only looked good but tasted great. Fresh and colourful with textural interest, prepared simply—exactly what a good meal should be.

It wasn’t until dessert that the train derailed.

Now, I’m exaggerating a little for literary effect just to drive the point home. And because my hosts have thick skins and a wonderful sense of humour, I know I won’t offend them. Well, I’m hoping anyway.

A deliciously smooth and creamy New York style cheesecake was placed in front of us for dessert. The boys layered it with a 1/4 inch of thick caramel and Brad decorated each piece with two shriveled up and wilted blueberries. Now the lights were dim and I had indulged in at least a couple classes of wine, so I didn’t really notice the state of the berries until the conversation suddenly turned to the sad, puckered fruit.

However it was too late. I’d eaten both of mine and looked around to see that each of my companions rolled their berries to the side of the plate while they finished their dessert.

“Well you weren’t supposed to eat them. They were just for decoration!” roared Brad.

“What do you mean don’t eat them? You put them on my plate!” I laughed back. “Of course I’m going to eat them.”

While presentation is incredibly important, the freshness of your ingredients out weighs any decoration, no matter how esthetically necessary you perceive it to be. Everything on your plate should be edible. If you, as the chef wouldn’t put it in your mouth then it shouldn’t be on the plate. And if a guest decides not to eat something then that’s his choice, but he should always have the choice.

But what a great blog topic this would make! Thanks for the inspiration guys.

And I’m not too worried about a future invite—they’ll step up next time. And besides I brought a really nice bottle of wine.