Summer,
1957. We
have come to lunch at a country house on the banks of the Rideau River, not far
from my birthplace and home town of Smiths Falls. I, a scrawny three-and-a-half
year-old with big ears and a nasty cowlick, eye the plate of sandwiches in the
middle of the two picnic tables, which have been placed end to end to
accommodate both the hosts and their guests. I am still hungry, and I’m even
willing to forgive whoever it was who spread that brown sauce (HP my mother
called it) on my favourite. Mother encourages me to speak up and ask politely,
and when it is clear she will not relay my wishes down the table, I clear my
throat and squeak “’Nother bloney
sammich, please”. The table erupts into gales of laughter, and a beefy
woman passes the plate. “I think you mean Bologna sandwich,
dear,” she says and smiles at me. I keep silent, though clearly she is wrong.
I’ve been eating bloney since, well forever, and everyone knows you don’t
eat sand.
My
brother, eight years older than I, fishes regularly on the Rideau. I come to
dread his skill, for it means another dinner of picking through the bones of a
bass, perch or pike. They all taste too much of the river for me, and it will be
many years before fresh water fish regains any appeal. Still, I revere my older
sibling and will try all manner of things that he suggests are tasty. It is he
who introduces me to the family version of French toast – bread, soaked
completely through with undiluted egg, cooked in bacon drippings and slathered
with ketchup.
Summer,
1959. On
Saturday mornings I have a special routine. I don my housecoat and slippers and,
all by myself, pad down the hallway of our low-rise Toronto apartment building
to an older, childless couple who are happy to entertain me for a couple of
hours. Mr. Adams and I watch cartoons, seated in the two big arms chairs in
front of the TV, while Mrs. Adams busies herself in the kitchen. The breakfast
she sets down on our TV tables is always the same: homemade golden waffles
adorned with large pats of butter and a generous pour of real Maple syrup.
Our
family almost never dines at restaurants. It is still early days in the cultural
growth of Toronto, and the better establishments are few and too expensive for
us. At home, our menus reflect the defining life experiences of my parents –
the depression and World War II. The food is plain and hearty: meat-and-potatoes
with a seasonal vegetable. There is no lamb, for even the smell of it cooking
reminds my father of the cold, greasy mutton he gagged on during the war. The
only spicy dish in the culinary repertoire is prepared not by my mother, but by
him – a hot, hot pasta sauce that harks back to the days he spent in Sicily
with the Canadian artillery. Meats are always well-done to kill any
possibility of bacteria or parasites.
Summer,
1963.
The menu in the seafood restaurant in New Brunswick is huge. My parents, brother
and aunt and uncle (who we have come to visit), are exclaiming over the variety
of choices. I, however, recognize almost nothing, which makes my head pound even
harder. An errant baseball in a game of catch earlier in the day produced the
headache, swollen cheek and hugely fat lip that I now sport. When it is my turn,
I order comfort food – a salmon sandwich – and resist all attempts to
persuade me to choose something ‘fresher’. When it comes, it is obvious that
they have unloaded an entire large can of salmon into this wondrous, thick
sandwich. It is utterly delicious and, though I know I’ve ‘blown’ our one
big vacation restaurant meal, I am entirely content.
Home
again in suburban Toronto, my mother occasionally experiments with the ‘new
and improved’, the ‘enriched’, and the ‘instant’. I squeeze a bag of
margarine to blend the dot of colour dye throughout. We suffer through powdered
milk, Sherrif instant mashed potatoes and ‘chip beef steaks’. Swanson TV
dinners appear in the freezer. It makes the occasional roast beef or turkey all
the more special, and my brother and I look forward eagerly to Easter,
Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
Summer,
1968.
The airy tune Sunshine and Shadows by Ars Nova has captured my
imagination and expanded my interests outward from rock and blues toward jazz,
classical and other musical genres. I purchase the ‘single’ with the last of
the money that I have brought on this trip to White Plains, New York with my
visiting English uncle and cousin. A lady friend of my uncle’s arranges for a
Jamaican medical student to take us into the heart of NYC, and we end up in
Chinatown for dinner. It is the first time I have eaten really fresh
Chinese food, and there’s no sweet red goop like the stuff that always
accompanies the Chinese delivery at home.
At
a roadside café on the way back to Toronto, we all smile when the waitress, who
has a thick, Brooklyn accent, asks if we would like more ‘cwawffee’.
The smiles turn to giggles when my male cousin from England is first mistaken
for a girl because of his long hair, and then identified as ‘from the South’ when he orders his breakfast and wants
to know if they have ‘streaky’ bacon.
Spring,
1972. I
have just turned eighteen, at a time when the Province of Ontario has lowered
the legal drinking age to that early mark. (Later, as senior high school
students start returning to class from liquid lunches, the legal age is raised
to 19). Mateus rosé has taught me that there might be more to wine than value (‘Wow,
ten bucks for that eighty-ouncer? What a deal!’) and I sign up for a Wines
and Wine Appreciation course at a local community college. At a cost of $10 plus
one bottle of wine each, 15 participants (of which I am certainly the youngest)
explore wines from before-dinner aperitifs, through the various courses of a
meal, to the heady dessert and after-dinner wines. I am young, and still favor
the sweetness of a late-harvest Riesling such as Rudesheimer Rosengarten
Spatlese. But I also acquire a new appreciation for the powerful Bordeaux and
dry Chianti’s among others.
I
take a date to the farewell pot-luck dinner for the group, where we try to
condense ten weeks of newly acquired knowledge into a single evening of wining
and dining pleasure. It is well that we have taken the bus, rather than my
little motorcycle. For we are clearly intoxicated. Later, in the carport of her
home, I can still taste the ruby port on her lips. When a light flicks on in the
house, she twists away with a smile, squeezes my hand, and is gone. And though
it is late and I live miles away, I walk, luxuriating in the glow of the feast
and the kiss of a young woman.
Fall,
1972. The
three-thousand or so inhabitants of Sawston, a small village outside of
Cambridge, England, seem to split their allegiances comfortably between the
eight churches and nine pubs. Most nights my uncle retires to ‘his’ local
while my cousin chooses a different establishment frequented by the younger
crowd. Neighbours and relatives disappear into various and sundry others. I have
come to Sawston, to my aunt and uncle’s, to launch whatever exploration of
England and Europe I can manage with just $175 and a cut-rate rail pass in my
pocket.
My
aunt dotes on the men and serves up dinners as only a true daughter of County
Cork, Ireland could – there are at least two types of potatoes with every
meal: boiled and hash-browns, chips and mashed, scalloped and baked. Thursdays
is ‘fry-up’ night where everything left in the refrigerator goes into two
big cast-iron skillets. Outside of my uncle’s home, I find that the Monty
Python song SPAM is not so far from the truth, but it’s not Spam that
accompanies every meal, it’s ‘chips’. Fish and chips, steak and chips, egg
and chips, kidney pie and chips, Spam and chips, and more recently, hamburger
and chips. In nearby Cambridge there is greater variety, including some ‘cheap
and cheerful’ curry places frequented by the students. But I’m saving most
of my pennies for the continent.
Despite
the cost, I eschew the youth hostels in Amsterdam in favour of a dorm bed at the
Hans Brinker Student Hotel. Over Heinekens and ‘toasties’ (a sort of grilled
ham and cheese) in the basement bar, young travelers from the world over
exchange notes on inexpensive restaurants and not-to-be-missed sites. Indonesian
food turns out to be one of the better bargains in the Netherlands, and there
are plenty of those establishments to choose from. For a group, the traditional
Rijstafel (rice table) is an amazing culinary experience.
In
Trier, Germany – the heart of the Mosel wine region – I am disappointed to
find that my meager funds are better suited to the local beer than the wine. No
matter. The beer is excellent with the marvelous schnitzel that I order for
dinner.
In
Brussels, I accompany an Irish girl (someone I’d met back in Amsterdam) to a
baby-sitting job at the home of an Irish diplomat. The master of the house has
the most upper crust English (not Irish) accent I have ever heard. “I
say,” he says, “do you imbibe?” I can think of only one reply appropriate
for such a situation. “Scotch, please.” But he, dressed in his tuxedo for
the evening out, has sized up the scruffy jacket and Greb Kodiak boots of this
eighteen-year-old Canuck, and he pours from the bottle reserved for ‘rubes
from the colonies’ and the like. I will not sample from his collection of
single malts. Still, as the lass and I sip our Scotch in front of the fireplace
of this magnificent home and listen to Leonard Cohen records, I think that there
are many less desirable places to be tonight.
Spring,
1974. I
am thinking about dinner in my basement bed-sit in the west end of Vancouver.
What shall I cook on the little hot plate in my aluminum camping pots purchased
for $5 at the army/navy surplus? There’s not much to choose from in the
cupboards or refrigerator, and my $100 paycheque for this week is two days away.
But I don’t mind so much. I’m devouring novels by Solzhenitsyn and, in
comparison to life in the ‘gulag’, I know I’m living a charmed life.
Chinatown
Vancouver is where I experience Dim Sum for the first time. My girlfriend and I
are the only non-Asian faces amongst the 400 or so people seated here. We’re
ravenous, but we eye the carts of unfamiliar offerings with some hesitation.
Fortunately, we have come with a Chinese co-worker who acts as our guide. The
first dish she selects is beef-filled noodles in oil. There are no forks here,
only chopsticks. We learn quickly.
An
early version of a ‘trendy’ restaurant opens up next door to where I work on
Robson ‘Strasse’. Cher Ton-Ton is a Japanese restaurant styled like a
French Bistro with an eastern flair. Traditional Japanese dishes such as Chicken
Donburi are given fanciful names like ‘Geisha’s Delight’, and there is no
raw fish on the menu. Nonetheless, the food is very good and it inspires a
sustained passion for Japanese cuisine.
Spring
1985. At
my suggestion, we have come to A La Broche, down the street from my tiny
bachelor apartment on Bayview Avenue in Toronto, for our blind date. Over
wonderful ‘country French’ fare and the restaurant’s excellent house wine
(which they import and label), we chat about our jobs at competing book
publishers – she in the editorial ranks, me in advertising – and many other
interests and experiences. We have a lot in common, she and I, but neither of us
suspects just how successful my matchmaking sister-in-law has been. A couple of
weeks later, my future wife reciprocates with a home-cooked meal that really
does remind me of home. And with such gustatory accord do we begin our lives
together.
Spring
1991.
In what passes for a restaurant in Arad, a city in post-Ceaucescu Romania, a
grayish-brown, inedible bit of boot-leather stares back from the bottom of my
bowl of clear ‘beef’ soup. I will remember this meal months later, back
home, at a dinner held for a doctor and Director
of Romanian orphanages, brought to Canada on an ‘information exchange’. Our
hostess, the daughter of a beef farmer, serves a succulent, tender roast. The
Romanians tuck in eagerly, but seem a little perplexed. Finally, one of them
asks in halting English what kind of meat has been served. “Prime rib –
beef,” replies the hostess. They confer together in Romanian, flash
incredulous looks and try again. “Do you mean from a cow?” the doctor asks,
as they help themselves to seconds. In their wildest dreams, they had no idea
beef could be like this.
Food
is not uppermost in our minds for the three weeks we are in Romania. For we have
come to adopt a baby girl from the orphanage here in Arad. In between
appointments with the lawyer and the interminable ‘paper chase’, we camp out
at the orphanage, not only bonding with the 2-month-old that we hope will come
home with us, but feeding, burping, and walking many of the twenty or so babies
in the nursery. The staff child psychologist arranges for us to lunch with the
orphanage staff. Meals such as a soupy chicken risotto – the chicken consists
mostly of skin and bone, and the rice sports a ‘slick’ of chicken fat –
are barely palatable. Dessert is a few small, scabby apples. But they are doing
their best with the ingredients they can get, and we are grateful for their
hospitality.
And
yet there are a few pleasant surprises. We have never eaten such fresh,
delicious yoghurt as that which arrives in little glass jars for our breakfasts.
And we delight in the loaves of sourdough, even if the locals scoff and call it
‘Communist bread’. Later, in Bucharest, we board in a home where the family
matriarch manages culinary miracles amid the constant shortages and rationing.
Summer
2002. It
almost doesn’t happen, our trip to Italy. In the aftershock of 9/11 and a
downturn in the Telecom industry, the small software company where I manage
product development eventually falls months behind in payroll, and I quit just
weeks before our vacation. But I am convinced that we need this trip, as much
for my wife and I to take a breather as for our daughter (now eleven!) to see
another part of the wide world beyond her little neighbourhood and clutch of
friends.
We
base ourselves in a rented apartment in Florence for 12 days, with a few trips
into the Tuscan countryside (Siena, San Gimignano, Vinci, etc.). The art,
history and culture are breathtaking. And the food – oh, the food! Most days
we shop at the local butcher, baker, green-grocer, cheese-shop, wine shop,
market and so on, and cook in. The produce is wonderful, and certain items (such
as the fresh ricotta) are unparalleled in our experience. Our restaurant
experiences are more expensive (Florence is not for those with thin wallets),
but some of the meals are absolutely delectable. In preparation for the trip, I
had read a mystery novel that featured a cook in one of the great palazzo’s in
Renaissance Florence. And when some of the fictional cook’s recipes (such as
roast duck’s breast in balsamic) appear on menus at local restaurants, I
cannot resist. But the most memorable meal is a savory veal bracciola at a
family-run trattoria on the outskirts of the city.
Spring
2003.
For most of our marriage, my wife has been ‘Queen of the Kitchen’ and
we have been wise to encourage it. For she comes from a large French-Canadian
family with a definite flair for cooking. Over the past couple of years,
however, her career has become increasingly demanding – late evenings, working
weekends, travel. And I, with more time at home, have tried to step into the
culinary breech.
It
is not an easy thing for a man, almost 50 years of age and with nothing but
‘short-order’/barbecuing skills, to suddenly start preparing varied,
nutritious and toothsome meals. I have made my first pasta, eggs running out of
the flour ‘well’ and flowing everywhere toward the edge of the counter.
Spanakopitas have taught me to be very well prepared before working with phyllo.
I have undercooked and overcooked and set off the smoke alarm with overflowing
desserts in the oven. I have sautéed, flambéed, and puréed. And still, I am
but a rank beginner.
My
family endures the experiments good-naturedly. They cheer my successes, and
suffer (mostly) in silence when the results are somewhat dubious. They humour me
when I become the frantic ‘Kitchen-Nazi’, desperately trying to time
everything right and barking orders to set the table, put out the parmigiano,
pour the wine. “C’mon guys – dinner’s almost ready!”
I’m
not sure that I will ever become completely comfortable in the role of ‘chief
cook’, although I already prepare six out of seven dinners on average. But I
will concede one thing – to watch someone obviously enjoying a meal I have
prepared (and perhaps even remarking on it), is an immensely rewarding
experience – one worth pursuing again and again.