Escape Cville - Vancouver Food.

When the weather threatened to get butt-hot again today, I started to miss Vancouver. Sigh. We visited for a few days a few weeks back. Seventies for a high, sixties at night. Perfect weather for strolling through gorgeous parks, gazing at million-dollar yachts, and eating. Yes, Vancouver lured me in with its gorgeous scenery, but it was the food that made me fall. Fall hard.

Asian culture permeates everything culinary in Vancouver, so I was excited before the first bite even hit my mouth. Beyond fresh sashimi, drool-worthy uni, luscious toro. You can’t throw a brick without hitting a Korean barbecue, or a pho joint, or a place specializing in yakatori. Just imagine me clapping “Hercules! Hercules!” Nutty-Professor style to get an idea of my excitement level.

Vancouver Chinatown has an open market every Friday and Saturday night (thanks Mas to Millers for the tip) with over 100 stalls selling everything from slippers to kittykat bobbleheads to BRAS (yes, bras). And FOOD! Dumplings, meat on a stick, dim sum, and bubble tea. Mmmmmmm……coconut bubble tea. Haven’t had one of those since we lived in Pittsburgh, and damn it was tasty. Amazing pork buns too, luscious barbecue-ey meat within a dumpling light as air and melt in your mouth. Scarfable.

Then there was the ramen. Kintaro Ramen Noodle on Denman Street to be exact. I’m giving the address because if you are ever in Vancouver you MUST, simply must, eat here. It seats maybe 20 people, open kitchen, and the menu is extremely limited. But eating at Kintaro Ramen Noodle should be on everyone’s “50 Places to Scarf Food Before You Die” list. It’s that good. I’m linking (above) to a guy who obviously knows WAY more about the intricacies of ramen than I ever will. But after eating at Kintaro, I’m making it my life-long mission to learn. It may just have knocked pho off my death row meal top spot.

This is NOT the 5-for-a-dollar shit you get at Kroger. I’m talking homemade noodles in rich, days-long-simmered pork broth with any ingredient you select. I opted for miso broth with extra wakame (seaweed), but you can also add extra pork, hard-boiled egg, bean sprouts, even cheese! When the server asked if I wanted my broth “light, medium, or rich” I almost kissed her. When she asked did I want my pork “lean, medium, or fatty” I did. Okay, not really (my husband would’ve applauded) but yeah in my heart I did. Rich and fatty please!

We had the best seats in the house, meaning the bar overlooking the open kitchen where our eager eyes could behold the steaming cauldrons of luscious broth. Then the bowl arrived. The meat was cut in a thick slice, with a wide ring of fat surrounding the just-pink-inside interior. Perfect. I touched it with my chopstick and it FELL apart in tenderness, the fat liquefying in the broth and the pork pulling apart like a finely smoked barbecue. Not even a cliché to call it orgasmic. We sailed out of there with full bellies and grinning smiles. Sated. Total complete foodsex.

Guu Garlic was just as fun, Japanese dinner theater. Located in the Robson section of town, that day littered with rainbow glitter and streamers leftover from the Gay Pride parade. Again, we were fortunate enough to grab bar seats and gorged ourselves on Izakaya, or Japanese tapas. Takoyaki, or octopus “croquettes”, Ton Toro, grilled pork cheek in yuzu ponzu, and Kakuni, more pork belly, in a rich broth with a steamed bun and poached egg which broke over the whole dish in an extremely sexy way. We sat there for hours, ordering when we got hungry, downing sake, and listening to the waitstaff shout orders to the sushi chefs, and the sushi chefs shouting insults back in Japanese. It was the best kind of dinner theater because it was real. And the food didn’t suck.

At Joe Fortes, also in the Robson section of town, we tasted my new favorite oyster, the Kusshi. From Kusshi Baynes Sound on the West Coast. I kept calling it “the coochie” because 1) the restaurant was crowded to the rafters and loud and my hearing sucks and 2) because I’ve got the sense of humor of a 12-year-old. Even when the bartender corrected me, I insisted they were “coochies”. Maybe it was the third martini. Lord, these oysters are amazing. Like uni married foie gras and had an oyster baby. You taste the brininess of the sea first, followed by a deep butteryness on the back end. I had an appetizer at The Greenhouse Tavern in Cleveland a few years ago. Chef Jonathan Sawyer took clams and placed a thin slier of foie gras on top. With my first taste of the Kusshi oyster my mind immediately went to that. Gorgeous. Even more gorgeous with two martinis.

After all these stunning meals I seriously considered moving. But after visiting the Granville Island Public Market? I knew someday I would. Someday. Seriously guys, I’ve been to markets in Seattle, New York, Paris, London. But Granville Island Public Market is THE BEST FOOD MARKET I’VE EVER VISITED IN THE WORLD. Cherries the size of softballs. Exotic produce like currants, kumquats, Meyer lemons. Okay sure currants are everywhere in Britain, but you NEVER see fresh currants in the U.S. In the meat case? Twenty-five kinds of bacon (at least). There was one whole counter of just salmon, double-smoked, triple-smoked, jerked into candy, you name it. Pates out the wazoo. Chocolate confections and pastries, and coffees, and breads, and cheeses to die for. Eataly can officially kiss my ass. Granville Market is the shiz. God I hate that I just used that word, but after entering, within minutes we were hangdog, open-mouthed. I think you could probably visit this place every weekend for 10 years and have a different lunch each time. They even had gummy coke bottles, my absolute forevermore favorite candy.

After making the once-around, Hubby and I proceeded to create a picnic lunch of duck prosciutto, baguette, Dutch cheese, Cornish pasty (I told you they had everything), double-smoked salmon “nuggets” and other assorted yummies. We even went back for cheddar scones even though it was 2 in the afternoon.

Lounging in the outdoor seating area on the water, munching away, we longed for some wine to wash it down, the only thing missing. When we couldn’t possibly finish our duck prosciutto, we offered it to the picnicking family next to us. They gladly accepted, trading it for some French soft cheese. BUH-liss. Bliss exclamation point.

Okay, just did a read through of this post, and I’ve used the words “luscious” “gorgeous” and “stunning” more than once. Needless to say I am now completely in love with Vancouver and long for a return trip. If only to buy some more gummy coke bottles. And gawk at those cherries. 

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Thank You.

I’m thrilled to have been named runner-up in the 2011 C-Ville Weekly annual round of voting in the “Best Local Blog” category. Congrats to Mas to Millers on their win! Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou. A million blessings on your houses and in your bellies. Thank you to everyone who voted, everyone who reads my sore attempts at slapping vowels and consonants together, and most of all, thank you to all the folks who’ve sent me words of encouragement recently. They came when I REALLY needed to hear them, believe me.

I’ve found myself in a love/hate relationship with this blogging business of late. Mostly love. So maybe we’re not co-dependent, just going through some growing pains. I love writing, and I love writing about food. At one point I thought I was done, then I picked up Anthony Bourdain’s Medium Raw, and by the first chapter, the mojo was BACK. Have you read it? It’s the shit. So delectable it made me want to write about food again. A lot. It's like Ernest Hemingway and William Kennedy and Elmore Leonard were all obsessive chefs instead of testosterone-filled writers, and somehow in a parallel universe where this was even possible, they had a baby. The writing is meaty, and fast, and full of profundity without coming off as a pretentious professory-asshole. God, I want to write like that. Purdy please?

I know I’ve got a voice and at times my gut tells me it’s a good one. I just can’t hear what it wants to say these days. So I’ve been wool-gathering, daydreaming, brainstorming my ass off, wondering where to go next. I’ve made some decisions. They’re the right ones, and this blogging award is just the validation I need right now. A boost of confidence to allay my recent doubts and fears. Why yes, Jenée people actually care what you have to say. Who knew? Thanks so much for that.

Changes are coming, and I’m excited for the first time in months. No change in content, I’ll still be the same ol’ feisty bourbon girl, the same ol’ smartass broad bitching and complaining. Questioning and wondering, and praising where praise is due. But I want more. I want this site to grow. And I’m hoping you’ll be along for the ride. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…watch this space. Right now I’m going to go pour myself a snort of my favorite tequila to celebrate (Don Alvaro). Maybe I’ll see you at the party. Cheers! And thanks…

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Escape Cville. Vancouver.

It’s been a week since we got back, and still no “Escape Cville” entry from me. Until tonight. Still trying to process it all I guess. The Hubby had a conference and I tagged along. Love the tag-alongs, they’re the best part of his job, especially if it’s a city I’ve heard good things about. Especially food-wise.

I knew I’d have fun. I knew I’d like it. I just didn’t expect how MUCH I’d like it. Turned out to be similar to my first Vegas trip. We went once, figuring we’d have a good time, never to return. But I left Vegas completely floored. Overwhelmed. Astounded. Blissful. Like I’d just had the best sex of my life. Vegas was freaking awesome.

Except I’d never want to live in Las Vegas. All that hooch and bling in your face every minute? Nu-uh. Now Vancouver? I’d totally live in Vancouver. You know I mean it when I say totally. I never say totally. Even when it was 1982. So yeah, I’d totally live in Vancouver.

It’s just so damn cheerful there. God that’s lame. Who moves to a place because it’s cheerful? But it REALLY is. The weather is sunny and 70’s cheerful, the people stroll cheerfully, even their clothes were fashionably cheerful. Nutty-crunchy-outdoorsy-wear, and all week I never saw ONE pair of those icky gorilla-feet shoes. A huge plus.

Now I’m sure Vancouver winters aren’t “damn cheerful” probably more “Seattle sullen”, but August? It was heaven. Strolling along the neverending seawall trail that rings gorgeous (and cheerful) Stanley Park I saw about a hundred gazillion fashionable, cheerful people who I wanted to grab and ask, “WHERE did you get that outfit?” The Sartorialist would have a field day. But no, this was not “La Passegiatta” in Rome. It was a park in Vancouver. And it was damn cheerful.

The downtown Bayshore area where we stayed is smack dab on the water and chock full of green space in addtion to the seawall and StanleyPark. On any given day you’ll find hundreds of bikers, runners, walkers, anyone needing to grab some rays. Within Stanley Park? I’ve never seen so many micro-climates.

At one point I was ogling the most gorgeous roses I’ve ever laid eyes on, and the next minute I was strolling along desolate trails lined with centuries-old redwoods. Alone. I was in a major urban city on a Saturday afternoon, but I was completely alone. It was surreal. As the trail approached the sea, all I could hear were waves and I swear for a minute I felt a little of what Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea must’ve felt. Hokey yes, but no shit, it was just that spectacular. The dark, moss-covered trail opened out onto a bright expansive beach and I felt like I’d entered another world. Or crossed a continent.

The other side of Stanley Park was equally stunning. Although we never made it as far as the cliffs and lighthouses, we spent every evening walking the seawall past the sea-planes and million-dollar yachts docked in the harbor. Hundreds of them. Holy crap! So that’s what all the fuss is about. And the whole time we’re strolling, I’ve got that Andy Samberg SNL song going in my head, “I’monaboatI’monaboatI'monamothaeffinboat…” Oh yeah baby. A girl can dream. Don’t wanna own a yacht. Just wanna know someone who does. Hint. Hint. Hint.

So yeah, Vancouver was pretty damn spectacular. Here's a link to my Flickr album if you want to swoon. I'll warn you, I took so many shots of roses park officials thought I was a stalker. And you know what? I haven’t even talked about the food. Ah, the food. That deserves its own entry. Next time...

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Still Life.

When I was 19, I dated a photographer at the School of Visual Arts in New York. By dated, I mean I took the train up to visit him in Brooklyn and hang out and pray he’d notice. It was really more a friendship. He tolerated my hick Southern ways, and I pretended to be more worldly than I was and flirt like mad. It never worked. He was one of those obsessive artist types, who live for the work and focus on nothing else.

Those trips were quintessential 80’s vignettes. I’d arrive at Penn Station, subway out to Brooklyn, and literally run to his apartment because his neighborhood resembled Beirut, all bombed out buildings and burned up cars. He’d meet me at the door in his giant blond Mohawk and leather jacket. Punk rock dreamy. His roommates were painters. She was a hippy blonde who focused on giant flowers resembling vaginas and Charles was African-American, a political artist who specialized in distorted portraits of black men wearing KKK hoods pushed up on their heads like some kind of demented bee bonnet. It was 1986, and I thought they were the coolest people I’d ever seen.

The photographer and I would spend our days scouting out dirty landscapes, which wasn’t hard to do. I remember a freezing night on the Brooklyn Heights walkway, the traffic rushing under us while he attempted to capture the Manhattan skyline in time-lapse. I was colder than hell, but there was no way I wanted to leave. I felt like I was in a movie. A really cool Jim Jarmusch one.

We’d ride the subway in every day. 1980’s Manhattan, before the big Disney cleanup. I marveled at Charles. He fearlessly made small talk with other passengers. They thought he was crazy, so did I, but for different reasons. Didn’t he know you’re not supposed to even make eye contact? Charles was unfazed. Smile on his face and in his heart. When he asked how you were, he genuinely meant it. Every conversation was a precious stone. I envied him.

I distinctly remember one afternoon spent photographing cookies in the depths of the SVA studios. The photographer had a box of Entenmann’s, and spent hours arranging cookies and box on a high platform surrounded by white canvas screens and lights on tripods. Adjusting the lights ever so slightly, crumbling some, arranging the crumbs, opening the box, then deciding it looked better closed. Stacking the cookies, then unstacking them. Taking hundreds of pictures. This was a film camera remember. He’d have to look at tiny samples on a contact sheet later, then decide which ones were best for submission as his class assignment.

I didn’t see the point. Let’s just take the pictures and go. I was beyond bored, ready to get something to eat and attempt once again to bore behind those eyes and that gorgeous Mohawk and get to know the person inside. The photographer was having none of it. All he saw were cookies.

Now each time I attempt my own food porn these vignettes pop up. All those rides on the subway. All those cookie crumbs. All that arranging. Will the carafe of sangria look better with the handle arranged this way? Or that? Should I turn the peach so the crease on its skin is showing or is that too pornographic? What perfect arrangement of food and light can I create to elicit the most amount of drool from the onlooker? How can I make someone actually do a Pavlovian stunt the minute they look upon my masterpiece? What photo will get my blog a rating of “M” for mature?

I think back to the photographer’s efforts and laugh. He was trying to do the same thing. What any good photographer will do really. Elicit a response whether cerebral or physical. The food porniest of food porn. I do wish I could go back in time and tell him daylight is really the best. You’re never going to light cookies as well using 10 gazillion flashes or lights on tripods. Fake is fake and it always looks fake.

Why all the effort to elicit such an illicit response? What are we all trying to do anyway? We’re not selling 7-up for chrissakes. I’m thinking specifically about the 1970’s ads showing ice in a glass, but if you looked closely, you could see naked ladies. Google “subliminal advertising” if you’ve no idea what I’m talking about. Subliminally it was supposed to get you REALLY thirsty for 7-Up. Hell, it was MY favorite soda growing up ;)

I guess to some extent I’m selling my product, my writing. My ability, my expertise in talking about food. Trying to get people excited, inspired by looking at some picture of a cocktail I had one summer afternoon a few weeks ago.

What about the great artists of long ago? Like Adriaen Coorte or Willem Kalf? Feast your eyes on masterful works of still life if you want to sink into some truly great culinary porn. What were they selling? Their expertise and ability to paint glass? This astounds me. How in hell do you take paint and create something transparent? Maybe it was more than just bragging. A statement on luxurious waste. On the fleeting nature of living things. Or was it just a commission? Because some rich lady wanted a picture of apples and grapes for her drawing room.

Are all food photographers just modern day still life artists? Rather than dead game and diamond-encrusted goblets, we showcase cupcakes, cocktails, whoopie pies, and handfuls of flour thrown oh-so-expertly on a well-worn Pottery Barn cutting board. What’s it all for? To make people hungry? To create art? Or just a cute pin for our next Pinterest pinboard?

I wonder if that photographer’s cookie picture got a passing grade. I wonder what the purpose was. I wish I could go back in time and ask him. I wish I could ride a subway train and run into Charles. In 1986 I was frightened church mouse quiet, but now? We'd have quite the conversation. And I'd thank him. For showing me you can smile at strangers. For teaching me to speak. And to walk around with an open heart.

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