Trimmings...

Admittedly, the trip itself is somewhat faded by now, but I personally think that the faded bits, the jagged edges, the dogeared memories, they're just as good, if not better, than the crisp, clean, digital photos. And so.

The trip fades.

But the bbq doesn't.

I decided that we were going on a bbq odyssey, and that's more or less what we did. A haphazard, non-linear, back and forth sort of odyssey. With the exception of an unfortunate non-bbq meal in Durham (I believe you that there's great Mexican in Durham, I just don't believe you can get anything to eat in that town after 8pm), we were basically all bbq all the time.

Now, the tricky part is this though: We happened across the best, most succulent, richest, fattest bbq imagineable on the first day. And no, it wasn't at Lexington No. 1 (though that was our first stop).

Now, I knew enough (from my research, spreadsheet) to order "outside, brown and lean."

So that's what we ordered. And the bbq came, and it was good, and we were underwhelmed, both. We ate, we appreciated, but we both raised our eyebrows at each other, in a "We drove all the way to North Carolina and all we got was this stinkin' bbq?" kind of way.

But it was ok, and there would be more, and we would watch minor league baseball. After almost renting the honest-to-god scariest motel room I've ever seen (and I've stayed in some bad, scary places), we got a perfectly respectable room and decided to hit up one last bbq joint before heading up to Winston-Salem for some baseball.

And here is where I have to get down on my knees and thank the accidental, follow-the-wrong-map path that we took.

Here's the thing. Everyone has their own personal yardsticks for judging, well, anything, but in this case restaurants. Mine happens to be filth. Not rats running through the dining room, cockroaches in your food filth, but general dinginess, sloth, and disregard for decor. In my experience, the best, most surprising, most unexpected, most beautiful (cheapest, of course) food is found in places like this. Now, the opposite is not always true (just because it's filthy doesn't mean it's good), but a great restaurant that is soiled around the edges is usually where I'll find the best food.

So of course, when I read this unofficial review, I kicked up my heels:
A miniscule joint on the E. Center Street Extension called Lexington Style Trimmings. I stopped in and to my surprise had some of the best cue I have ever eaten. I opted for the sliced cue with slaw and hushpuppies -- all three were excellent. The puppies were unusually interesting, as they had a kind of moist, melting interior, and the onion-sugar contrast was especially sharp. A word of warning: the joint is seriously grubby (italics mine).

So that was where I chose to send us before our trip up north to see the Warthogs.

Except... the joint wasn't grubby at all, let alone seriously grubby. It's old, yes, faded around the edges (again with that image!?) and I would go so far as to say dingy. But unless I miss my guess, dingy is nothing more than shabby and run down, and by no means implies grubbiness. Like, yeah, the sink was chipped and cracked, but it looked plenty clean to me. The walls were ancient "paneled wood" but they were none the worse for that.

But I lose my thread. My thread is that, were it not for the description I happened across, specifically the warning of a serious grubbiness, this would not have been on my to-hit list. This one mention may well have been the only one I came across. So except for the fact that I have a prediliction for filth, we wouldn't have wound up there. But that's the amazing part. So it wasn't grubby, wasn't filthy, wasn't anything except a little dark and shabby. But had whoever reviewed it described it otherwise, we would never have found what is, based on a too-brief (or quite possibly not brief enough) bbq odyssey, the hands-down best bbq in NC.









(NC BBQ - never photogenic)

A thousand words...and not a drop to drink?

I hate to carry a camera and look like a tourist. I also hate to interrupt whatever it is that I'm experiencing by trying to capture it on film. So what that means is that when I'm parking on Paca (and the lovely Baltimorean flags me down to have me repark my car because the way that I've parked will get me a ticket (and give her free parking)!), I leave my camera in the car. Which is all fine and good until three months later when I want to tell you about Faidley's and would like to add an extra thousand or so words to whatever I'll spill here. And there's nary a lump to be found.

But that's fine. You don't need one. I'll just tell you what I think. Faidley's is fantastic. Now, you natives of the Chesapeake watershed, you may not agree with me. But I come from the (actually I don't know what it would be called in Canada, so I'll just go with the Yankee term) Midwest, and we don't really do crabcakes, or shouldn't, anyway. I've had the misfortune only twice in my life to bite into what I am forced to use air quotes to describe as crabcakes, and suffice it to say they are not something I need ever eat again.

But a crabcake from FAIDLEY'S...now that's another can of worms entirely. For those of you as ignorant as I was, let me assure you that what you want to order is a Jumbo Lump Crab Cake. There are other options, and they may well be delicious. I don't know, nor do I have any pressing need to learn. (There are also other eateries at Lexington Market. You can go there. I won't sulk. Just don't pass Faidley's by.)

And for the record, my very first raw oyster was eaten during this latest (though so far away now) trip to the market. It was fine, and certainly exhilarating, and I was lectured but good about how to eat it by a couple that makes a trip down to eat raw seafood at least once a week, but bof. I've got crabcakes on my mind.

Until next time...










(My lord! Whatever might those be?!?!)

An adventure in pork, I mean, crabcakes

You never know what it's going to be that leads you to that x-marks-the-spot. You might have a map, or think you have a map, and it's true. You might. But sometimes the instructions that do direct you where you've got to go are flat-out wrong, but to further complicate matters, if they weren't wrong, you wouldn't have got there. So where does that leave you?

Still with me?

We'll get to BBQ, but first I need to pay homage to Faidley's. Oh, Faidley's, and your award-winning lump crabcakes. Oh Faidley's, how you do me wrong. I've made the mistake, on only a very few occasions, of trying to replicate my experiences at Faidley's here in Toronto and who am I kidding? Who even puts crabcakes on the menu in the middle of the continent? To what end? To mock me, I guess.

And Faidley's? You ship, do you? Oh, frabjous day, you ship... but not to Canada? You only ship in the continental US, Alaska, Hawaii and Puerto Rico? Surely Toronto is easier to ship to than Anchorage. We're really not that exotic. It's just Canada. (And believe you me, I've considered having them ship a few lump cakes to my sister to be turned around and forwarded to me, but days-old (unfrozen) seafood hardly seems like the greatest idea I ever had.)

Omar, a wise man indeed, enjoying a crabcake from Faidley's.









We stopped briefly in Baltimore before starting our pork odyssey, and it sucker-punched me again. Damn, that's a good looking town. Again, Michael got pegged as Canadian upon leaving the car and despite wearing a beat-up Orioles cap. Again, we stopped for oysters and crabcakes. Yes, lump. (You didn't really need to ask, right?) For sides? I had the collards and slaw, Michael had potato salad and something equally wild and unpredictable. The sides are stellar, but the cakes will have you on your knees. I am the Queen of condiments, and this time around, didn't even bother accepting any tartar sauce. Completely unnecessary. I guarantee it.

After some kindly parking instructions and mockery (of us), we headed south...

Tantalizing...

So, you've got your slow food and your slow travel, but I'd venture to guess that for most of us mere mortals, the latter is more of a fantasy than a reality. I myself have a mere fifteen vacation days each year, which doesn't exactly lend itself to renting a Tuscan villa and settling in for the winter.

And as for slow food...well, yeah. There's slow food, and then there's America. Personally, I am of the belief that one of the most important things in this world is balance. (Though even a cursory examination of our menus for the last three days of the trip would appear otherwise.) So in this case, balance would mean a melding of cultures. Are you with me? How does this sound: It takes 7-10 hours to pre-prepare the dish that was the focus of this trip. And after a half-day of slow roasting over a slow heat, it's then pulled together in a couple of minutes and served on a paper plate. With a styrofoam cupful of refillable sweet tea. Yeah, it's southern. Yeah, it's good. It was an NC-style BBQ odyssey:









Yeah, that's how they rock it, Lexington style.

It didn't start with BBQ, of course. Because (at least if you're me and your sister lives in Philly) the first stop is in Philadelphia for cheesesteaks and hoagies at Cosmi's deli. (I know. You've probably never heard of Cosmi's. Let's just keep this between you, me, and the rest of the internet community.)

Those other joints? With the neon and the screwy politics? Skip 'em. Go to Cosmi's. It's like a dep (corner store). With a deli in it. Order your sandwich on a half-seeded (their bread is from Sarcone's, except you don't have to deal with Sarcone's seemingly arbitrary hours or their equally arbitrary preparation conventions like, "no, even though we've been open for an hour and a half and all we serve is sandwiches, our breaded chicken cutlets aren't ready, so you can't have a chicken parm hoagie").

NON-SEQUITUR

I like to pass. For local. I don't, of course, I pass for Canadian, but I like to try, wherever I am, to give the impression (however fleeting) that I am fully of the place. Paris? My proudest moment, actually being mistaken for a Parisian. Mexico City? I think I kind of look Mexican. Philly? Well, so visiting Philly over the years, I've worked hard to master the art of tossing off a curt order of 'One American with.'

(Extra non-sequitur: Picture me at my most conflicted. I am in an excruciatingly long line at Jim's (don't ask) and, approaching the order point, I start eyeing the lovely, muscle-bound, tattooed, dreadlocked cook. Just for kicks. But the view is nice. So I keep looking, but meanwhile, I'm very, very focused on my order: One American. With. One American. With. Remember, passing is key. I'm going to pass for a Philadelphian if it kills me. Until...one of the two ladies in front of me screws up her order. She's from NYC and doesn't know any better. So the cook leans over, holds up the line, rests his hand on the counter, looks at them real mean and growls, "Baby, you got to tell me what you want."

I almost died. I collapsed back against the railing. His greasy apron. That knife. The steam rising from the grill and his patient-impatient look. I wanted him to say the same to me. Lean over the counter, exhausted with these useless customers who don't know how to order a cheesesteak, but slow down the line, spend an extra minute looking into my eyes so I can tell him what I want.

But the call was stronger. The call to pass. So I ordered: One American. With.

The line never stumbled.)

END OF NON-SEQUITUR

It's more complicated at Cosmi's (I claim) in part due to the fact that they're actually friendly (incidentally, not at all a factor in my evaluation of their food, merely a bonus) and that throws me off. In addition, unlike the more traditional haunts, at Cosmi's, unless you have a jar in the fridge at home, you order your hot peppers (long hots) on your sandwich. I blame the long hots. Ultimately, it matters very little whose fault it is (though, as mentioned, I blame the long hots). The fact of the matter is that my orders at Cosmi's have been consistently wrong for the past year and a half. (Considering the timing, if you won't accept my long-hot defence, blame my beau.)

But back to my point. Yes, my first order at Cosmi's this past trip was also screwed up. Except. Except.

Did they screw it up and how. Would I ever--ever in a million years?--ever order a cheesesteak "American with"..."with cheese whiz"??? (I actually don't even know if that's how you would order it.)

Let it be said that I am, on principle, neither opposed to nor in favour of cheese whiz. My first cheesesteak (ordered as per the instructions of a real live Philadelphian of otherwise impeccable gustatory taste) (if you'll allow that awkward phrasing), was actually a "Pizzasteak, whiz, with." (Which, if memory serves, I actually also screwed up--proving only that I have come full circle in my ineptitude--ordering a "Cheesesteak, whiz, with."). This steak failed to impress, and I never returned to whiz. Until now.

My ordering error, or perhaps their scrutiny of my innermost desires, led to a magical discovery. If you decide to order yours simply "American with" or even "Provolone with" I won't blame you. But open your heart. Open your mouth. Give "American with, with whiz" a try. (Or maybe be more specific when you order. Don't listen to me. I don't know how to order.)

I've now written hundreds of words, and we haven't left Cosmis's, let alone even gotten to Baltimore yet! Gak!

Scaredy -cat

So, my baby's birthday just happens to fall on Chinese New Year's Eve, and I had no ideas when it came to gifts. Until of course I realized that it was New Year's Eve, at which point I suggested to him that it might be fun to go to a really, really, really, really nice Chinese restaurant to celebrate his birthday. So really nice that he won't get a present, since this will really be a supreme deluxe splurge. Like the kind of fancy I've never really even considered going.

So how escared am I? (Escared in a thrilled and excited way, I mean.) I want to make sure that we eat as much amazingly delicious food as possible, so I printed off all of the prix fixe menus we could order (as a party of two) and also printed the entire à la carte menu, and also printed the à la carte Chinese New Years' menu. Then I went through and made a mark beside everything I was interested in, and made my baby do the same. Then we went over it together to try and see if we should order a prix fixe (we shouldn't) and if not, what we would be ordering. (This is very atypical behaviour for me.)

It's terrifically thrilling. And nerve-wracking. So much so that I didn't find time to make the roast chicken that I was so psyched to make this weekend, or participate in some blogging event that involved a rutabaga that I was also really psyched about.

I've got a one-track mind right now. In fact, I'm going to go and peruse the menu one more time...

(The restaurant is Lai Wah Heen, in case any one of my four readers has any suggestions.)

Last week, for my birthday, my sweetheart thrilled me by taking me out for a lovely meal at Batifole, which bills itself as the "Best French restaurant in Chinatown East."

We had their delicious esgargots in garlic cream sauce, the boy had tripe (he really did, and I really tried it, but have been right in never ordering it myself). Then for mains, he had their cassoulet (which paled in comparison with the glory constructed by Veever and myself) (but which was very good nonetheless) and I had their porc confit quelquechose (Confit of pork shank slowly baked with sage natural jus & Emmenthal), paired with a delicious red whose name we never quite caught. Oh, and we finished it all off with a lovely Jean-Jacque Daniel's Crepe (a crêpe with some sort of boozy filling topped with sugary pecans) and a couple of drinks. It was perfect.

But what made it more perfect? And what continues to make it even more perfect? I got there early, it was freezing outside, and I have recently fallen in love with the anonymous Chinese grocery store on the south side of the street. You know where this is going. Strolling along, eying produce, the first thing that catches my eye is a bin piled high with chestnuts, which have been on my mind for some time. Three older women are furiously shoveling the nuts into their plastic bags, focused on the task at hand. I make a mental note.

I wander around some more and am drawn back to the chestnuts on my way to the seafood section. Then I see it. The chestnuts. They're...

Well, let me tell you. In my hood, chestnuts range from $1.99-2.99/lb. Once I saw them for $0.99, but I think it was at typo.

Where I work? They range from $2.99-$3.69, and twice I even saw them at $3.99. Per pound!

These chestnuts? Well, I grabbed a bag and joined right in. They were $0.39/lb.

And I just ate some and they were delicious.

But it gets better.

I didn't know what to do with all of my beautiful chestnuts, so I trolled around some of my favourites, and what do you know.

Brussels Sprouts were on sale for $0.99/lb (I know, them's no chestnuts, but still), so I picked some up, becuase it turns out that Kevin, at closetcooking, is on my wavelength (or me his, more likely), because he posted a lovely Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta and Chestnuts. (It would appear that the only recipes I am ever to follow are Kevin's recipes for Brussels Sprouts, and the only photos I am to display are also his.)

It's that convergence. Chestnuts and Brussels Sprouts. You gotta love it.

Happy birthday to me.

By popular request: The funniest mutter paneer ever

I don't think this picture does the dish justice (since four eaters had already picked it over trying to get any little mutters they could find) but can you see what I'm getting at? Look at the ratio of sauce (gravy? curry?) to mutter. Look at the ratio of sauce to PANEER!

None of the eaters assembled that night could immediately identify the dish as mutter paneer, not even yours truly (whose favorite dish it is and who makes it to varying degrees of success on a very regular basis). After we established that we had in fact received the right order, we sat and stared at the remaining soupy dish, trying to figure it out. Finally someone found a pea. We looked at each other in disbelief. "That's the mutter paneer?" I gasped incredulously, "There are only enough mutter to give us each a single pea!"

It was dismal. I cannot tell a lie. But the weirdest thing is that by and large, all of the other dishes from this restaurant are amazing. It's the best Indian restaurant I've found thus far in Toronto. (Of course nothing compares to you, Bombay Mahal.)

I'll just find me another place for my mutter paneer fix.

In the same vein

I had the opportunity to be taken out for the loveliest lunch this week. It was not visionary. It was not innovative. What it was was impeccable.

Normally that's not so much my thing, but when a light salad topped with mixed berries and goat cheese is followed by a succulent honey-dijon salmon steak, I'm not one to complain.

And the gravelox? Divine? And le tout served by an adorable, charming and knowledgeable server? Sigh. Bring it on. The only other patrons were a table of elegant seniors who have been coming there since they were knee-high to grasshoppers, I'll bet.

This hushed and intimate little restaurant couldn't possibly seat forty. Thirty? Maybe. Did I mention it's another secret location? That I never would have noticed, nestled as it is on the ground floor of a condo tower? Maybe. Actually, I'm not even sure that I know where it is. I probably couldn't find it again (except for the fact that the name of the restaurant cleverly doubles as its address).

Did I mention the velvet flocked wallpaper? Classy, elegant, yet somehow bordello chic at the same time? What's not to love?

Unsung

I kind of don't want to say anything, because I don't want the word to get out. Maybe the word is out, and I just don't know because my ear isn't exactly to the ground, but still. I stumbled into what I had assumed might have been a cafeteria-style restaurant almost entirely by chance tonight, but which turned out to be, well, exactly that, but also a very nice surprise.

First, I wasn't sure it was a restaurant. From the window (there is no sign, there are no hours of operation posted) you can see a long counter with some beautiful pastries displayed in front of what appeared might be, could be some sort of dinner-type fare behind it.

I admit it. I was intimidated. I didn't have the secret password, and many of the other joints I've stepped into on that uppity stretch of Yonge north of Rosedale have given the distinct impression that no password, no service.

Today, with the mercury hovering a around 60 degrees, the front door was open and I found myself sauntering in.

I'm glad I did. I wound up with a simple salad combo, but I'm sure that everything else on the menu is equally delicious.

My salads? It was the green bean salad that seemed to be calling my name, but it was the most pedestrian of the bunch. Avocado, red pepper, a light, creamy dressing...no complaints, but it paled in comparison to the:

Endive and apple salad. I kid you not. Endive twice in two weeks in two wildly various guises. It was the sharpest, cleanest, most refreshing thing I've eaten in months. But even then...

I don't normally care for "curried anything" salads. Yet I was drawn to the curried chicken for some mysterious reason. And I was not disappointed. It had a sweet edge, with two kinds of apples (!) and strawberries (!) and (I even asked, and was proved right!) manadarin orange juice (mine had a sliver of mandarin orange in it, the canned kind I guess--let me tell you, I'm not complaining).

I was a little leery when I got my plate, because it didn't seem as though there was any place to keep a kitchen. I guess they hide it downstairs.

I can't tell you where exactly it is (north of Rosedale station, west side) or what it's called, but the lady's name is Linda.

There is no secret handshake.

Why am I the world's worst food blogger?

Deciding to be more proactive in the area of food photography (we all know that food blogs are much like personal ads: No picture = no interest), I brought my camera to work yesterday, since my partner and I were planning on eating at Epan before catching the Blue Jays (5-4 over Tampa Bay, for anyone who's interested).

(Aside: Epan is a Chinatown anomaly. Located right on Spadina, it is impeccably clean (Think mirrored walls being fastidiously wiped down, think non-overlooked bathrooms), it's spare and elegant, and it's ridiculously delicious and affordable. I'm on a quest for hot and sour soup, and they have the best I've found since the closure of the Montreal restaurant that served the best ever.)

We ended up going to Banjara, probably the best Indian I've found so far in Toronto. We ordered a ridiculous amount of naan (the menu item of theirs I'm least crazy about, though I hear loads of chowhounders love it), a lentil spinach dish and their chicken korma. Oh, and the thickest straw-sticking-straight-up-until-you-physically-reach-in -there-to-grab-it-and-only-just-barely-have-the-strength-to-move-it mango lassie ever.

But the korma. Everything else I've had there is good, but the korma is to die for. We cleaned our plates (and I joyously ripped out a tupperware container from my bag which I proceded to fill with the leftovers, feeling very pleased with myself for this accidental green gesture), paid the bill, packed up to leave...and I remember my camera.

No pictures of a mouth-watering korma for you.

Poutine Quest II

Seeing as how I spent essentially all of my adult life in la belle province, and seeing as how I have a friend who wanted to eat with impunity throughout her pregnancy, we decided some months ago that it would be a good idea for us to hunt down the best poutine in the city. Strange rumours abound: Costco? Dangerous Dan's? I warily read reviews upon reviews of poutine (sceptical of Ontarians' take on the Quebec classic) and then set off with my trusty sidekick to eat some goddamned poutine. The verdict?

Dangerous Dan's: Excellent classic squeaky curds. The portion was huge, the fries frozen, the sauce brune overly thick: Thumbs down.

The Chinese/Canadian joint with homemade burgers on the west side of Coxwell just north of Gerrard: Fresh-cut fries. Excellent. Mozarella (I do not approve, but my dining partner gushes at the fromage fondant). The weird thing was the gravy. It was clearly homemade but it had an unmistakeable and regrettable sweetness. The owner proudly explained that it was basil. Unfortunately: Go back for the fries, try the burger, avoid the poutine at all costs.

British Style Fish & Chips: (Full disclosure: This fish & chips joint tops my list.) (Yes, I am also on a Fish & Chips quest.) (My longest-standing quest is for hot and sour soup.) (Suggestions welcome.) British Style was easily the best of the three. They did have curds, albeit of that odd variety of intensely flavoured cheddar (purists out there—is this wrong?). The sous chef is a Quebecker who wheels and deals to work cheese curd miracles. The gravy? Excellent. Thick, but not too thick, salty, but not too salty. The classic poutine brown. A thing of beauty. Also to be mentioned are British Style’s fries, and here is where the trouble lies. Their fries are a force to be reckoned with. However, based on this one experience, it seems as though the fries are fried in the same oil used for the fish. It isn’t something you’d notice when eating a classic fish and chips meal, but in the context of poutine (and sauce brune), there’s something a little odd. That said, it was still my hands-down winner. But the quest doesn’t end there…

I have a source who scoped out Costco and their reputedly amazing poutine, but he claims that reports of its superiority are greatly exaggerated.

So, killing time on Yonge between St. Clair and Summerhill, I noticed that the lovely Rebel House boasted a true curd-based poutine. And off I went.

It was the oddest poutine I have ever had. Odder even than the basil inflected poutine on Coxwell. First, the fries aren’t even remotely fry-shaped: Slightly thicker than bagged potato chips, they are essentially chips and essentially the same temperature. The curds did appear to be curds (of the British Style extreme cheddar variety), but it was hard to be sure, given their lack of integrity due to the heat of the sauce.

Right. The sauce.

It almost knocked me off my chair. I was eating bacon. Bacon sauce.

Upon consideration, I realized that no pigs had in fact been harmed in the making of this sauce. It was a typical sauce brune that had been jazzed up with a dollop of hickory smoke.

WILL SOMEBODY TELL THESE CHEFS THAT POUTINE DOESN’T NEED JAZZING UP ALREADY!??!?!! Forget your godawful three-pepper sauce. Forget your shiitake mushroom sauce. (And while you're at it forget your bacon and your hickory smoke.) It’s real simple: Take some potatoes. Turn them into french fries. Take some sauce. Make it brown. Throw some squeaky cheese on top. If you must jazz it up, you may: Add chicken, small peas, ground beef, onions, or a combination thereof. Although I strongly advise against it, you may: Replace the sauce brune with spaghetti sauce. That’s it.

Next time you’re in Montreal, head up to Laurier and St. Denis, walk into the building with the conspicuous orange siding (Chez Claudette) and order a petite poutine avec des petits poids. You won’t regret it.