Vancouver

A day of fantastic meats.

~ wellfedemily ~ 1 Comment

If yesterday was all about vegetables, today was its happy opposite. Today we binged hard on meat, and sat in the sun and sampled beers and wines and this Serbian plum brandy that had me reconsidering my Dutchman.

You see that photo up top? That’s smoked tur-duck-in-hen-quail-con, which is a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken stuffed with a Cornish hen stuffed with a quail stuffed with a piece of pork belly. And there was sausage stuffing off to the side, and cold beer to drink with it. Apparently it took a whole week to prepare.

It was moist, and succulent, and smoky, and since there are only 12 weeks until Thanksgiving, I’ve got to get on figuring out how to do this as soon as possible.

We ate a lot. So much so that Nick’s nap has stretched into its third hour. Dinner is likely still three hours away. We sampled ribs, and ceviche.

And we had skirt steak tacos topped with homemade radish kimchi and pickled cauliflower mayonnaise, but I accidentally ate it before I could take its picture. In other news, I will be kimchi-ing radishes as soon as this meat hangover subsides.

My favourite thing, aside from the bar, was the roast pork. It changed everything. I can’t really point to specifics, but I am quite certain that my life improved for the better after my first taste of the pork. After tasting everything, we had the option of buying plates of our favourite dishes – I went ahead and bought so much pork, and decided that in my next life I am coming back as a Serbian food critic, the kind who is paid in spit-roasted piggies.

And also baked goods. The kind that are stuffed with cheese.

It was all incredibly moving. And to finish the feast, there were even cookies baked over a fire pit. Which I also don’t have photos of, because I literally inhaled mine.

Here’s more info on the event, which I can only really describe in satisfied grunts – there are almost no words. I hope they have it again next year – it was a fundraiser for Growing Chefs! Chefs for Children’s Urban Agriculture, a very worthwhile cause. In the meantime, Grace and I are on a mission to become new BFFs with the host, the lady behind Swallow Tail Tours and the Swallow Tail Supper Club.

Happy!

And since it’s now been ages since I’ve offered a recipe, stay tuned. We’re talking blueberry crisp, up next.

On the topic of picnics.

~ wellfedemily ~ 8 Comments

I meant to tell you about picnics last night, but somewhere in the hours between the time I dropped Grace off at home and then slumped into bed, I ate something mildly poisonous that left me almost certain I would die there on the bathroom floor, cat licking my face and who-knows-what stuck to it. I seem to have survived, which is kind of nice, so I took the day off because I still don’t feel or look particularly pleasant. I’m a little leery of the way the cat seems so intent on having her mouth (and teeth and tongue) on my face, so I will stay conscious as long as possible, and tell you about picnics today instead.

I had two picnics in four days last week, the first last Thursday at English Bay with take-out fish and chips, and the second yesterday, at a park beside Westham Island, with pink wine and everything you could possibly think of to eat.

I think that picnicking is what people are talking about when they’re trying to convince me that camping is fun. But how wonderful it is when you take it away from tents and the terror of being eaten by bears or mountain lions! A picnic is officially the most civilized thing you can do outdoors.

And never mind that on Thursday I was devastated at the tarragon that afflicted my tartar sauce (it tasted like potpourri), or that we’d opted to drive instead of bike and almost missed the last half-hour of Raincity Grill’s take-out operations. One of the intrinsic lessons of picnicking is that it doesn’t always go according to plan, which is something some of us need to become a lot more comfortable with. Funny how a spot of sunshine and a view of sparkles on the water can make even the worst tartar sauce, mislaid plan, or oversight be taken in stride.

Sunday’s effort was more coordinated, and full of flavour and style in a manner that is distinctly Grace’s. We sat on an elevated pier beside the water, watching birds and boats and feeling a little smug when another group of picnickers arrived, Tim Hortons’ sandwiches and bottled water in hand. While spontaneous take-out picnics can be fun, nothing trumps a fabulous spread paired beautifully with Spanish rosé and served on proper dishes.

I now know that food eaten in fresh air and above the water-level tastes better, and that sunshine does life-changing things to cold wine. These are important lessons, also intrinsic to picnicking, and how sad would it be to never have learned them? Of course, taking my word for it is cheating, and you must go out and discover (or rediscover) these facts for yourself.

There is no reason not to. You’ll need to prepare a bit ahead of time, unless you know of a good take-out window near the beach, and you’ll need an hour and a spot to sit on. Everything else is at your discretion, though I recommend Francis Lam’s ginger-scallion sauce on cold poached chicken, Smitten Kitchen’s mango slaw, some buns to pile both onto, and a selection of other treats – pickles, salads, watermelon (don’t forget the salt), baked goods – and, obviously, wine.

You can do this alone, but it’s better with friends. Four hours and optional napping is better than one hour, and more wine is better than none, but it’s like starting with the world’s easiest recipe and over time making it your own. My personal goal is to perfect the art of picnicking before the end of summer, which means at least seven more picnics (one for each remaining summer weekend), likely more.

If you live in Vancouver (or the valley, or Whistler or the island, or Seattle or Portland or anyplace in between here and there), where do you recommend we go? And what do you recommend we bring? It would be best if perfecting the art of picnicking was a group effort. Perhaps we should all go together?

Roasting a chicken is a very good idea.

~ wellfedemily ~ 10 Comments


Roast chicken, in theory, is the perfect food for penny-pinching households. Depending of the size of the bird and your household, you can make a single roast chicken span several (or 17?!) different meals AND end up with a freezer full of homemade chicken stock. It’s economy in a roasting pan. Sort of. I say “in theory” because for some reason, a four-pound roasting chicken that’s led a happy life, playing outside and eating real food and not taking antibiotics, costs $15 to $25 here, depending on whether you buy it at the supermarket or your favourite local butcher. Which, I guess if you can get five meals out of it is still pretty reasonable, but the initial investment can seem pretty steep, especially if you are buying other things.

Maybe that’s just me?

It probably is. I’m very cheap. Roast chicken, for me, has become synonymous with warmth and comfort and all that is wholesome. I don’t know how that happened – I don’t roast that many chickens. On occasion, I have roasted some pretty terrible ones. And Nick is pretty sure he doesn’t like roast chicken, but can’t explain why he never wants it. Maybe he ate too many roast chickens as a child – I still bear ill-will to all manner of Shepherd’s Pie (my parents think I’m joking when I tell them where they’re retiring … and it’s my sane young word against theirs that they’re not a danger to themselves and others … *insert sinister laugh here*), so I can understand if that’s the case, I guess.

I did not have too many roast chickens as a child, and may never have too many roast chickens. I even like the weirdly coloured, unnecessarily salty rotisserie chickens you buy from the supermarket. Love them. We used to get those sometimes and Dad would cut them up and we’d stuff the meat in white buns with Mississippi Sauce (which I can’t find a link to online … it’s a honey-mustard mayo-based sauce, and if you put a jar in front of me I’d eat the whole thing like pudding and then ask for seconds). It was very good.

When I got to be an “adult,” I thought roast chicken was something I should know how to make. I subsequently over-cooked, under-cooked, over-seasoned, and just plain wasted a series of chickens, never knowing where to quit with the spices and seasonings and fancy crap. A proper roast chicken is not complicated. It would be a few years before I’d figure that out.

And you don’t even need a recipe, though there are some good ones here, here, and here. Take a chicken, a fat, salt and pepper, and a spice or herb (optional), rub the first with the latter, and then place in a pan, maybe with some veggies, and cook uncovered in the oven until the internal temperature of the bird reaches 160°F to 165°F. It will take about an hour and a half, give or take, and will require an oven temperature about 400°F, which is also flexible.

Anyway. I mentioned the other day that Nick’s sister Jess, her husband Mark, and their adorable toddling daughter Elise were here for dinner, having driven from Winnipeg a week and a half prior. In my experience with vacations and driving long distances, the default food choices can wreak all kinds of interesting havoc on your digestive system. Their experience was no different, and then on top of that there was camping (read: hot dogs and chips for three days), and they were due to start their long drive back to Winnipeg yesterday. They needed wholesome.

So, roast chicken. And potatoes.

And catching up and laughing and Elise chasing the cat and the cat not minding and good wine and fresh local strawberries for dessert.

Nick liked the chicken. It turned out moist with crisp skin, which is how a roast chicken is supposed to turn out. We all had seconds. We talked about Winnipeg, and Montreal, and how Nick and I really ought to move because it’s so expensive here and roasting chickens doesn’t seem to cost as much when the cost of living isn’t so high. Our rent for our apartment is twice what they pay every month on their mortgage, for their house. We talked about the years between where we are and when we get there. The cat could have her own room if we packed up and went east.

But most of all, we watched Elise, who ages six months between each visit, and who is just freaking adorable. Also we talked about the cat a lot because we’re a little weird. Non-fussy dinners like roast chicken make it so that you can really enjoy your company, which is perhaps the most wholesome thing about it. And if you drink much too much when your company is over, as can happen from time to time, a roast chicken makes a marvellous hangover soup the next evening.

Agriculture: I’m doing it!

~ wellfedemily ~ 9 Comments

When I was sixteen I wanted to be a hippie like Jenny from Forrest Gump except without the domestic violence and heroin later on. Mostly I wanted her outfits, and to move to San Francisco and write poetry and wear flowers in my hair. It was all very awkward and embarrassing and I discovered that I need to actually brush my hair for it to not look like a nest for many small rodents, I don’t like Birkenstocks, and meat can be really, really tasty.

The hangover from that badly dressed time is a fantasy in which I am able to live in a cozy little house on a large plot of land (overlooking the ocean and not far from the water slides) and all my friends are there and we have goats and kittens and grow our own tomatoes and make cheese and bake bread and do artistic things in the sunshine. There is a permanent rainbow. And we never have to buy anything.

So when Nick’s friend from work, Kerri, offered us a plot in her garden, I imagined us becoming completely self-sufficient, most likely by September. In my mind, we were sitting in dirt, eating perfect vegetables fresh from the ground, and singing something by, like, Jefferson Airplane or Iron and Wine or something. In the background, the kittens and baby goats were frolicking, and the escalating chords of a movie soundtrack were bringing us to that revelatory moment, the climax of our entire lives, and it was carrots.

I went to the garden shop and bought seven kinds of seeds, and then we went to Kerri’s house and she showed us to our plot, which was bigger than I anticipated. She said it would take us a little over an hour, but thanks to Nick and my two to three hilarious jokes about Nick’s instincts for gardening stemming from his Dutch heritage, we had the whole thing weeded and turned and hoed in under an hour. We made a path of bricks, and then laid what was probably too many seeds in tidy little rows marked with popsicle sticks.

A great day. And my shrieking and enthusiasm didn’t even ruin it, for once.

So, please think happy thoughts for me. We planted late, and lack experience. I see no reason why we still shouldn’t end up with so many veggies.

I am such a creepy, creepy weirdo.

~ wellfedemily ~ 3 Comments

As long as my real-life friends continue to not disown me/answer my calls and occasionally succumb to my edible whims, I’ll continue to think that I am a normal, healthy, well-functioning member of society. The Internet was made for harmless stalkery, and what better insight into the humans behind the blog posts than a glimpse into their fridges? A glance into mine reveals a sordid sort of laziness, pots with lids containing contents I was too distracted to scrape into containers, too many cartons of eggs, and condiments I like to pull out and admire more than I pull out to cook with. The idea comes from @kickpleat, via her post at ReadyMade, and it piqued a curiosity I hope you’ll indulge.

Fridge voyeurism. It’s getting to know you, in a peaking-through-your-underwear-drawer kind of way, but with food. Won’t you peak into my drawers doors?

A lot of children, none of whom are mine.
Those stupid bagels are always moldy. Even when the spot is occupied by brand-new bagels.
Fancy a bit of syrup? This is usually where we keep the wine, but we sort of ran out.
Nick organized the freezer, and I haven't had a chance to mess it all up.

Why don’t you share your fridgey little secret, and post it over at ReadyMade? I don’t think you’re allowed to self-edit, but isn’t that part of the fun? I think being honest about how many eggs and cheeses you eat or those food stains on the bottom shelf you were hoping someone else would deal with is kind of the point, right? Anyway. I’d love to snoop on you next.

The good tuna.

~ wellfedemily ~ 1 Comment

I’ll admit, there hasn’t been much cooking around here this week. This year I committed to a lot more writing, and had given myself a deadline for one of several writerly milestones; this week, I met the very first one – the most intimidating one. I feel good about it, but my goodness, am I tired. I’m such an awful procrastinator, I could have mitigated all the turmoil by simply following that schedule I made – but no matter now. As long as it gets done, right?

The last meal I made was Sunday night, for Chelsea (seen beaming and blurry, below). It was a linguine using the good tuna, and I wrote about it at Granville Mazagine’s Secret City blog. Go check it out – I hope you like it!

And I promise, once I get settled back down, things will return to normal. At least until the next milestone; for now, I am relaxing with a little too much caramel ice cream. Thank goodness.

Lobster and sake: So this is February?

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

I wanted to show you something today, but I decided against it. I have a recipe I am working on, and I thought it was perfect, but the more I nibble, the more I think it could use another round and some new ingredients. So instead, I am going to show you what I did and drank today.

Those daffodils? They appeared in a garden outside one of the buildings on our block. It’s marvelous out, really fantastic, and spring has sprung, more than a month ahead of schedule.

We hopped on our bikes this morning, without our jackets, and we rode around in the sunshine, and ended up at Granville Island, which is a place I love very much, with its markets and fish mongers and wonderful places to buy beer, wine, and sake. It also doubles as a tourist destination, which is something I forgot about today, as it was crazy there, crammed full of Olympics-related festivities.

We bumbled around the market, eating free samples and soaking in sunshine, and happened upon The Lobster Man, where they were barbecuing lobsters, oysters, and other fishy things. We grabbed ourselves some lobster roll, and looked at all the delicious seafood swimming in its tanks.

We stopped in at all the usual places, and then detoured onto Railspur Alley, where there is an artisan sake maker who will let you sip from his whole collection for five dollars. Not small sips either – we were both slightly buzzed as we stumbled around the rest of the island afterward.

The sake is delicious, all of it, and quite worthy of the praise heaped on it by local media. We tried all three standard flavours, as well as the sparkling sake, which was so lovely I’m considering switching it in for regular sparkling wine come New Year’s eve. It was cold, and bright tasting, dry on the tongue but lively and slightly fruity, like sake but also like something else, though I’m not sure what. I wanted to take everything they had home with me, but I was on my bike, and had forgotten a bag.

It was a good day, and while I have no recipe this afternoon, I promise I will have one for you soon. I’ve been hoarding the good tuna, so I’ll have at least a spin on tonnato sauce to share, and maybe a fancypants but inexpensive tuna melt. Maybe. Or maybe something else! When it’s like this out, it’s hard to know where the mood will take us. Wheee!

Things that are delicious: Pork belly.

~ wellfedemily ~ 1 Comment

Right up until the Olympics, every talking head on television and quote in the paper was saying that Vancouver would be nightmarish during the Olympics, and that residents should expect delays and difficulties getting around, and that they should leave their cars at home. The whole city (me included!) bought the hype, and now it’s quite easy to get around everywhere but downtown, where there isn’t much fun to be had on a Wednesday night anyway. So last night, I dragged poor, sick-day Nick out with some friends to the Westender Korean Café on Denman Street, where there is a place that only sells pork belly, and for which we had coupons that bought us 50% more pork belly.

Do you know what a pork hangover feels like? It’s as glamorous as it sounds.

The Westender Korean Café is a place that only sells pork belly, and they bring it to you with those hot-pot grill things that you use to cook it at your table. They bring you daikon pickles, kimchi, this shredded-lettuce salad thing, rice, and lettuce leaves, and you cook your pork belly and either pile it up with the Korean condiments on your rice, or load it into the lettuce leaves to eat like Korean fajitas.


From the outside, it doesn’t really look like anything but a dodgy old diner, which is perhaps why I’d never noticed it before Sooin brought us there about six months ago. On the inside, it’s usually packed full of young Asian ESL students from the various English schools in the city. They play nonstop Korean pop music videos – Sooin informed us that there are no fewer than twenty major girl groups in Korea, and as many boy bands, and that pop-culture is a huge deal there. She helped everyone out by pointing out which girl groups were comprised of girls too young for Nick to be ogling, and which boy-band stars we should pay attention to for dance skills and hotness. She says we can go to Korea and get thousand-dollar nose jobs and form our own group. If they’ll throw in free liposuction, I’m in.

When I say that it’s a pork-belly-only kind of place, I really do mean just that. When you sit down, the waitress will pretty much just bring your table a certain amount of food, which is determined by how many people make up your party. Be sure to also ask her for beer or shoju, which is also pretty cheap, and which you simply must have as an accompaniment to a pork binge.

All that food, and it costs practically nothing. Dinner for five, including four pitchers of beer, and more food than we could eat, was $125, including tax and tip. The only problem was that we were in such high spirits after dinner that we thought the fun ought to continue, so we stumbled down Denman past Robson to an izakaya Paul knew would be open, and then there was sake, and Nick held his head in his hands and waxed poetic about bedtime, and then Steve ordered us mackerel sashimi and a big bowl of edamame, and I was all, “We just ate and I’m too full!” “But we didn’t eat JAPANESE,” Sooin replied, and so we ate even more and drank the best cheap sake ever and now this morning I am not sure if I should bother eating or just go back to bed because I am still so full. I am not even sure I want bacon.

I’m sorry. I should never talk like that. Of course I want bacon. But maybe this morning, I’ll wrap it around a vegetable.

Tangelo Tart: Not just an amazing stripper name.

~ wellfedemily ~ 3 Comments

Okay, so, I’ve been trying to mostly eat locally and sustainably and good crap like that, at least as far as meat and produce are concerned, but sometimes the city kicks my ass and the clouds are so dark and dense that I’m all, “ALL I WANT IS AN ORANGE IN MY MOUTH!” Already the Olympics are starting to make my neighbourhood really annoying, and no one has seen the sun for days. Wouldn’t you want a tangelo? Me too, and so I tumble off my high horse and tear savagely into as many tangelos as I can get my hands on at once.

And it’s worth it.

In addition to juicing them, and gnashing at their flesh with my menacing fruit fangs, I also turned them into a gooey orange tart, which was shared with Nick and Paul and Grace at Grace’s dinner party last night. I am literally still full after Grace’s succulent roast leg of lamb, buttery lemon potatoes, and creamy spinach and gailan gratin. But since my only contribution to the night was a bottle of Riesling and the tart, I am going to tell you about that. One day perhaps Grace will guest post. I will work on that.

So here you are: Tangelo Tart.

Tangelo tart

Crust

  • 1/2 cup packed brown sugar
  • 1/2 cup ground almonds
  • 1/2 cup butter
  • 1 egg
  • 1 cup flour

Custard

  • 3 large eggs, plus 3 additional egg yolks
  • 1 cup granulated sugar
  • 1 tbsp. tangelo zest
  • 1/2 cup fresh tangelo juice
  • 2 tsp. lemon juice
  • 1/2 cup butter, cubed and chilled

Preheat your oven to 350°F.

In a large bowl, cream together butter, almonds, and sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg, and beat until thoroughly combined.

Add flour, and stir until a crumbly dough forms. Press dough into a 9″ tart pan. Line the crust with a piece of parchment weighted with pie weights or dried beans.

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, or until golden brown around the edges. Remove from heat to a wire rack to cool.

Check your large bowls against your pot tops. Find one that fits nicely.

Into that fitting bowl, whisk eggs, yolks, sugar, zest, and juice. Place bowl over a pot of simmering water, and whisk, almost continuously, until mixture has thickened. At first, the mix will seem frothy, as if there is a layer of foam atop a layer of juice, but don’t worry. Your constant attention will ensure that the bottom layer joins the top layer in yellow creaminess. You’ll know it’s done when the mix is of a uniform thickness and texture, and when it coats the back of a spoon.

Remove the bowl from the heat, and whisk in butter, one cube at a time, until the butter has melted into the mix. Pour into a different bowl, cover with plastic wrap (make sure the wrap covers the surface of the custard or else a skin will form and it will look gross). Refrigerate until cooled.

Pour cooled custard into cooled pie crust. At this point, you will notice that you might have made too much custard, and you may find this annoying. But there’s a reason. Turn oven to broil.

You see? This is where it gets tricky, especially if you are easily distracted.

Place tart in oven under broiler, and allow top to brown slightly.

Operative word: SLIGHTLY. You want it to be a marbley kind of goldenness, not unlike creme brulée. If you get distracted and singe the top of the tart, the extra filling will come in handy as you scrape off the ugly bits and try again. It did for me. If you’re not a broiler failure, save the extra custard and either drizzle it over the whipped cream you’ll serve with the tart, or store it in a ramekin and eat it on your own later. There should be about one cup extra.

Chill tart for four hours before serving. Serve with whipped cream. Sigh heavily over its punchy fruitiness, its ooey-gooeyness, its “I can’t believe it’s not August” splendor.