Will Travel for Good Food

The intrepid foodie in Toronto (or any city really) knows that in a city with urban sprawl like ours, to say that you're only eating downtown can become a little limiting after a while. If you have the time, access to a vehicle, or are in other parts of the city, it might be worth it to venture out of your comfort zone to have a meal. And if you do really love food, these can become "food adventures," and a way to while away an afternoon or an evening.
I've been told that the best place in Toronto to have dosa (South Indian crepes stuffed with potatoes or other items) is on Lawrence East. I still have to ascertain the exact location from my folks, but why would I think of going to Udupi Palace on Gerrard (or Trinity Bellwoods, *shudder*), as adequate as they are, when there might be something better a little trip away . And I've known for a while that the best places to have dim sum are in North York, Willowdale, and Richmond Hill.
A few weeks ago I was at The Mixmaster's place for a relaxing weekend. Well, relaxing in that we hussled up to Unionville, which took 2 hours each way, to see the Automatistes Revolution exhibit at the Varley Gallery. The Mixmaster was eager to take me to have Gujarati vegetarian thali at Markham and Lawrence afterwards. The place is called Govardhan Thal, it is two block north of Lawrence, and their number is 416-438-0544. For a mere $5.25 we received rice, 5 puris, 4-5 subjies (vegetable dishes), daal, churdi (a savoury, milky, yoghurty dish), and shrikund (a milk-based dessert, on this occasion with dates and pistachios). The memories that were unearthed by the food, memories of my mom's cooking, of trips to Surat, India were bittersweet and healing. And the food was good, and plentiful; the one thali served me for 3 nostalgic meals. If I hadn't opened myself up to moving about the city seeking out new food experiences, I would have missed this quintessential diasporic moment.
So, check out the suburbs, revisit the haunts of your old hood, and pack a magazine or an ipod. Most of the new immigrant communities in Toronto, I feel, live in the suburbs, so supporting these businesspeople is imperative.

Mozzarella di Bufala

After a long sunday of walking around the Colesseo and checking out churches, The Mixmaster and I found ourselves nearing dinnertime with no place to eat. While perched on a ledge at the Colesseo, surrounded by tourists, I peered into one of our guidebooks and found the perfect place. A pizzeria in Testaccio, the same neighbourhood where we partied with hundreds of queer Italians at Gorgeous I Am the night before. We dragged our tired legs and our growling bellies onto the metro system, and made our way to Pizza Remo (44 Piazza Santa Maria Liberatrice).
...Only to find it closed, as many restaurants were, on this, the holy day. By now we were very hungry and my hypoglycemic self was getting a little concerned. Luckily, we found a mercato just around the corner, and decided to shop for a little picnic dinner. We were blown away by the affordable prices, particularly of the cheeses and the wines. The Mixmaster was shocked that chunks of parmigiana half the length of her arm were 1/4 of what they would cost in Toronto. We picked up two bottles of wine, one for about 3 euros, a frizzante (sparkling wine) called Primo Amore by Zonin, some salami and panna (bread) to last a few days, and then, I saw it: mozzarella di bufala. I couldn't wait to get it back to the hotel to try it.
The Campania region of Italy is famous for mozzarella di bufala, or fresh, buffalo mozzarella. These are several theories about the introduction of the water buffalo to the region, and many believe that Arab traders brought them to Italy from the Middle East. Our mozzarella di bufala came refrigerated in a bag with clear-ish fluid. It had a lightly salty taste, and was creamy, and very easy to cut. You could scoop it with a spoon even, and yes, it seemed to be perishable. It was very white, and it melted on the tongue; you barely had to chew it.
We got back to the hotel and made sandwiches of the salty, sliced salami and the mozzarella and we cut some apples. Despite her name, after a glass or two of Primo Amore, The Mixmaster got a little tipsy. Hey, it's just another night in Italy: watching news in a language we didn't understand, resting our tired feet, eating the best salami and mozzarella sandwiches known to humans, and getting drunk on frizzante.

Cornettos, Cornettos, Cornettos!

Well, having already touched on and analyzed the espresso, I thought I'd move onto the other half of the typical Italian breakfast, the cornetto. The word cornetto translates to what we call a croissant, and I'll tell you, I was thrilled to be given the license to eat one or more a day. Cornettos in Italy mostly aren't as light or flaky as some of the better ones I've had at places such as Pain Perdu here in Toronto or in some of the better boulangeries in Montreal, so I suppose less butter is used and the dough and cold butter are folded over into one another less in the process of making it. At good pasticcerias (pastry or cake shops) the variety of cornettos was often astounding. I didn't take any pictures within pasticcerias for fear of looking like a tourist (as if The Mixmaster's backpack and my map didn't give us away), but they often contained long, gleaming glass cases filled with every type of pastry imaginable: little tartlets fill with custard and topped with fresh fruit, these cunning little shell-like things that appeared to be filled with custard, and cakes, cakes, cakes.

On the average day in Rome, The Mixmaster would sleep in a little and take her time getting dressed, while I would shower more quickly and pop down to Squisito for my morning cappuccino. Then I would walk over to the corner of Via Merulana and Via dei Statuto where there was a lovely pasticceria (if I bought our cornettos from there, they were about 30 euro cents cheaper than if I got them from Squisito, and the selection was much better; we paid about 80 euro cents or about 1.50$ per cornetto). I went to the slightly stern woman at the cash, paid for our cornettos, then went and served myself at the counter. They were apricot jam-filled, custard-filled, chocolate-filled wonders, they were topped with apple slices or powdered sugar or chocolate crumbs; I'm getting nostalgic just thinking about it. The Mixmaster and I would eat our lovely pastries on the train to Pompei, or in a piazza as a mid morning snack, or in our hotel room, while we planned our day's excursions.
One little caveat: er, after several days of indulgence in white flour pasta and white flour cornettos, the average health conscious North American might wish that they had packed their psyllium husk along with their Gravol and Pepto Bismol. Apparently I hadn't been thinking! Because I didn't know what sort of help I'd get at the local pharmacia if I went in and said, "Mi scusi signore, vorrei Metamucil, per favore" (excuse me sir, I'd like Metamucil, please)!

Espresso, Plantations, Sambo Imagery, and Colonization in Reverse

The Mixmaster and I just got back from Italy, and yes, it was lovely. Everything I dreamed it would be. Over the next few weeks, I'll be posting on my trip, and places to eat (and places not to, of course) in Bella Italia. But I thought I'd begin my discussion of my whirlwind 8 days there with that quintessential Italian drink, espresso.
On day 2 of our trip, the first full day in Rome, I headed down to Squisito (the cafe just below our hotel) on Via Merulana and had my first cappuccino. We here in North America really drink coffee-flavoured steamed milk. The Starbucks "venti" is a travesty! The average cappuccino in Italy is about half the size of a regular ceramic coffee cup, and is drunk in a few minutes while chatting with the barista at the bar. Or, in my case, smiling shyly, and saying "Grazie, Signore," when I leave. The cappuccinos at Squisito (which translates to delicious in English), were 90 euro cents, and were frothy, not overly bitter, and creamy. The milk seemed to be full fat, which made for a silkier tasting beverage. And on offer was a dusting of premium quality sweetened cocoa powder. The baristas could even make heart shapes when pouring the frothed milk into the cup. You might want to check out this website to learn about all things espresso.

Espresso beans, sugar, cocoa: these are all goods that come from countries of the south (either the Caribbean, South and Central America or Africa). Edward Said, writer of the pivotal Orientalism, writes that European orientalists saw the East as a place of rejuventation, as a place where raw energy could come from that could invigorate the West. But we cannot forget the actual imported raw materials, that are turned into such highly prized food and other luxury goods made in Europe (this expands too to the highly regarded fashion industry, in which Egyptian cotton is a prized staple).



This is an image of the sugar packets at Squisito. I quickly snapped a photo, and brought one home with me, for my research. Racist imagery of black people (and others) in food is not new, of course. We here in Canada and the US have seen smiling black people feeding us everything from table syrup to rice (I'm thinking of Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben respectively). And the less critical among up might say, "What of it? It's just a happy man in a hat!" without knowing of the history of caricatures of blacks. And they're always happy. If "moca" man wasn't smiling, we'd have to think of the conditions on his sugar plantation, Italy's (albeit limited) past forays into imperialism in such places as Libya, and our espresso might start to taste a little bitter on the tongue.
But one of the most exciting things I found in Italy was the scores of people of colour! I had thought that The Mixmaster and I would be stared at, and possibly experience racism in Italy, but Rome had more people of colour than Montreal, easily. There were sushi restaurants, and "Cinese food" (sic) places, and it made me think of a poem I read for one of my comps, Colonization in Reverse by Louise Bennett, in which the poet speaks of how the Empire "strikes back". I'm including a few stanzas here (the full poem is available online):

Wat a joyful news, miss Mattie,
I feel like me heart gwine burs
Jamaica people colonizin
Englan in Reverse

By de hundred, by de tousan
From country and from town,
By de ship-load, by de plane load
Jamica is Englan boun.

Dem a pour out a Jamaica,
Everybody future plan
Is fe get a big-time job
An settle in de mother lan.

What an islan! What a people!
Man an woman, old an young
Jus a pack dem bag an baggage
An turn history upside dung!

Yes, struggling African Italians, and Asian Italians might find it hard to challenge the hegemony of Italy's history and culture, but they speak back to the narrative of the Dolce Vita and make it their own, by adding "Cinese" food to the menu, or lapsing into Hindi when selling Venetian masks (as one vendor did with us). The Venetian South Asian we spoke with spoke Italian, some English, and Hindi. And it got me to thinking about what his life might be like. Similar to what mine was in Montreal, I guess, a riot of multiple languages and cuisines. Colonization in Reverse, indeed.
God, I wish I wasn't so jet lagged...

Food Memory, and Two Indian Salads

A few weeks ago I had made a minor Indian feast, and thought that a katchoombar, or onion salad, might go well with it. I whipped one up quickly. The interesting thing is, I've never been given the recipe. No one ever said to me, "You take half an onion..." and so on.
This got me thinking of all the things that I know how to cook, some of which I've still not made yet, just by watching my Mom do so for years. Food memory, I call it. Just this last year, I made stuffing from scratch for the first time, because the memory of being in my parents' kitchen, holiday season after holiday season, watching my Mom do so had practically coded the recipe into my DNA. I also moved to Toronto with her homemade chicken soup recipe embedded in my brain. And food memory continues on as an adult. I now know how to make an Anglo-Indian curry, having watched the Mixmaster do so over and over.
The thing about food memory is that it is not static, it is fluid, it adapts with the times, and tastes. I've tweaked a recipe or two, made them healthier, or modified them. And another thing about food memory is that it is meant for sharing. So my mom's raita recipe is happily passed along to a friend, who can pass it along to another friend.
Finally, here are two simple Indian salad recipes, a Raita and a Katchoombar. The recipes are imprecise because, as with many food memory items, you just eyeball as you go along. Though if you have any serious concerns, please do write a comment. The raita is often used as a supplement for very fiery dishes to cool the tongue, just so you know.

Raita:
Take 1/3 of an english cucumber. Peel and grate. Discard peels and take grated bits and squeeze out water; place in a small bowl. Take about 1/2 to 1/3 of a tub of yoghurt, place in a bowl, and beat with a fork until smooth. Add cucumber, salt to taste, and freshly cracked black pepper, to taste. Mix well. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Katchoombar:
Take half of a white onion and cut into thin slices. Place in a small serving bowl. Add 1/3 of a grated carrot. Mix. Add a good long squeeze of apple cider vinegar. Add salt, pepper, and paprika to taste. Mix with a fork. Can be made an hour or two before serving.

A Sunday Trip To The Best Croissants in Town

I've been working quite intensely at a summer job the last few weeks, so when I have the odd day off, it's much appreciated. A week or two ago, the Mixmaster and I made this lovely wilted greens dish, along with a whole wheat meat sauce and spinach lasagna. The escarole is a rather quick dish to make, and substitutions can be made; I didn't have a red onion, so I used white, and while eating it, I mused at how lovely a scattering of toasting of pine nuts would taste over it.
Last week, I yet again had one day off on Sunday, and thought heading over to Pain Perdu for their mouth watering croissants would be great. I've heard that Bonjour Brioche (812 Queen Street East) has a pretty good croissant too, but for my money, PP's croissants are the best in town. As you bite into one, a small shower of pastry flakes will dust your shirt, as they should. It tastes mildly of butter and bread and yeast and nothing else. No preservatives. The croissants are obviously lovingly and meticulously made over the course of a day, by folding chilled butter and dough mixture over and over, quite patiently. Don't believe how time consuming croissant making is? Watch this long-ish video, and you'll get the drift...

Pain Perdu's croissants are perfect to grab for a stroll down St. Clair West, and there's even a little bench outside PP, for you to sit down and people watch while eating your pastry. And if plain croissants are a little ennuyeux for you, try some of their other viennoiserie.
Croissants were said to have been created in 1686 in a rather interesting and mythic story. As the story goes, a baker working late in Budapest, Hungary heard an alarming noise and alerted the city officials. It seems that the Turkish army was tunneling under the cities walls, and this lone baker saved the day. He was asked if he wanted anything, and all he asked is that he could make a special pastry to commemorate the occasion- in the shape of the Islamic crescent.
Neat little tale, eh? Too bad it's all a zenophobic myth. There's no documented proof of the thwarted invasion in history books, and croissants recipes were first found in France around 1850.

In Crustum Veritas (In Bread, The Truth), Part 1

So, my first blog post got me thinking about baguettes in Toronto. Perhaps I was a bit harsh, after all, there are several French bakeries scattered around the city. So, I decided to test and rate some of the more popular baguettes. I'm probably going to stay away from grocery store varieties (though I've heard that quintessential Montrealais bakers Premiere Moisson are now serving their baguettes at Toronto area Metro stores).
There are a few things that one should know about a good French baguette. It should be very hard and crusty on the outside, and on the inside should have very soft doughy bread, with medium-large air holes. A good baguette should be a serious time commitment; none of this easy-chew Dempsters stuff. It should be a workout for your teeth and your jaws. It should "snap" when you break it apart, and it should have a mild flavour to it.
You should finish your baguette on the day that you buy it, as the bread is only meant to last one day. Most bakeries throw out their day olds, as you can't sell a second day baguette. If you do have leftovers, put it in a tight plastic bag (a Ziploc Freezer Bag would work), and put it in the fridge. It will probably lose its lovely crust, but c'est la vie.

Contestant 1:Pain Perdu
This baguette was on the economical side; it only cost $2.20. Pain Perdu is found at 736 St Clair Ave. West near Christie Street, and has been at that location for 5 years. Their baguette was dappled a white and fawn colour, and had several slashes on it. It had the satisfying snap of a good baguette, a hard, mostly golden crust, and the insides were soft and filled with air pockets. One criticism that I do have, lovely as it was, is that it was a little on the small side; though the length was fine, the width was a little over an inch in some places. The taste is a little on the mild side; I kept wondering if there was adequate salt in it. But overall, it's a solid stick, and tastes fabulous with butter. If you're in the St Clair West area, do make the trip to this bakery, because the grocery stores in the neighbourhood won't do you any favours in the French bread department. Check out their website for the times that they're open. Overall rating: 8.5 Nostalgia for Montreal Factor: 9