No really, I ordered the steak

Despite eating meat almost every day of the week, at weddings, funerals and airplanes, vegetarian dishes are forced upon me.

This has been happening for years.  I have narrowed it down to the fact that I am blonde, pale and soft-spoken, but if you have any other ideas, let me know.

At a good friend’s wedding, a fist fight almost broke out because they kept bringing me real vegetarian’s entrees, all the while I was pleading for my steak.  On my most recent Porter flight, the flight attendant gave me the vegetable sandwich, put her hand on my arm, said, “Here you go, honey,” and gave me a squeeze and a tilted-head smile.  Everyone else had asked, but with me, somehow she “knew” I was a vegetarian.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  Some of my closest friends are vegetarians, and I do eat a ton of veggies a done, but give me meat – red, if possible – any day.

And though people are good intentioned, I think it is just hard to believe that I like meat as much as some big burly guy who can enter one of those stupidly huge steak eating contests – and win.  Just because I can’t pound it back doesn’t mean I don’t love it.

Partly it’s hard to believe that a woman would love meat as much as a man.  But instead of chocolate or roses, I am happiest curled up on the couch with my Meat Bible (yes, that’s its real name) or in the kitchen concocting a new spicy rub to smother our dinner with.

I know this because most of my women friends order fish or chicken when we go out to dinner.  Me?  I’m the one asking for the lamb chops, liver or roast beef.

Even when I’m reviewing a restaurant, my instinct is often to go for the homemade burger, meat pie or beef stew, though I vary my selections from week to week so that the readers have options.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not still craving it when I get home from dinner.

And while I may not get meat at every single meal, it’s just about 99% of them.  I’ll go to vegetarian restaurants with friends, but it’s like going to a place that doesn’t serve alcohol – the whole time I’m there, it’s all I can think about and later that night or the next day, I have to satiate that craving before it drives me bonkers.

My neighbours have become most used to it.  When I cook, I often leave the apartment door open so that if they want to stop in to join us, they can.  We are at the front of the building – they have to pass by our place to get to theirs, so it’s easy to lure them in.  However, most of these folks are either vegetarian or eat meat so rarely that they almost never want to partake.  And it’s made me realize just how much meat we consume.

Last month, our lovely (vegetarian) neighbours Ben and Darren dropped by to say high, and I was dredging bloody lamb loins through olive oil, garlic and spices.  It was like a scene out of Zombieland.  The night before, Paul down the hall (we love that it rhymes too) came by to see me comprising a tourtiere from scratch .  I had cooked a ton of ground pork and ground beef separately, so I had two huge bowls teaming with hot meat and deep dish pie crusts covering the kitchen table.

I think he thought I’d taken up catering.

No, it’s just for the two of us, I told him.  I got the same look that I got from the flight attendant – Of course it is, honey.  You’re making it for your husband.  You’ll just have the vegetables, he thought.

Now, I’m not a barbarian about it.  I like to be ladylike when eating meat.  I take small bites, chew politely, etc., but I’m also not adverse to getting a little gristle in there, or sopping up the blood with a chunk of fresh bread.

I know I don’t look like a meat eater.  I get it.  I have had servers in restaurants, sometimes even the managers and owners, telling me that I surely don’t want my meat done medium rare, or wouldn’t I prefer the Cornish hen.  But it’s not like a girl on a date who just orders a salad to appear dainty.  What would I be trying to prove be ordering the porterhouse if that’s not really what I want?

So I continue to go to the meat counter, while people assume that my husband must have sent me with explicit instructions.  That there’s no way that a pale blonde could love meat as much as a guy.

I don’t mind.  Because when I get home, I’ll be tucking into a juicy Venison Ragu or some Spicy Bulgogi Beef.

And there’s more than enough should the neighbours decide to join us.

Christmas dinner

Packed up and ready to take to the folks. Here’s what I made for Christmas dinner:

Pureed Vegetable Soup with Basil

Roast Turkey Breast with Lemon, Garlic and Rosemary Jus

Barley with Mushrooms and Carrots

Cornbread Stuffing and Green Beans with Cinnamon Pecans

Roasted Carrots & Parsnips in Honeyed Broth

Five Roses Prize Pumpkin Pie

What did you make this year?

My Choice for Best Pic? Kings of Pastry

If you see just one movie this year, make it Kings of Pastry.

As you know, I don’t bake. On top of that, I don’t have a sweet tooth. So when I heard about the Kings of Pastry documentary months ago, I don’t know why I thought I should see it.

I didn’t know what I expected from this film – perhaps to be educated, maybe to swoon in a world I just don’t understand. I certainly didn’t expect to be taken on such an emotional ride. A rollicking ride that I will certainly never forget.

The premise is this: There is this insane, over-the-top, gruelling in a way I could have never conceived competition in Lyon, France – the Meilleurs Ouvriers de France competition (Best Craftsmen in France). It is only held every four years (not the only similarity to the olympics I might add). So for 4 years, 16 French pastry chefs think about and work towards the goal of winning this competition (you receive a prestigious blue, red and white striped collar to wear on your chef coat), then practice for a number of weeks and then compete for 3 straight days, often with little or no food. Just sheer will and determination.

There are 16 chefs, with 3 intimately profiled in the film: chef Jacquy Pfeiffer, co-founder of Chicago’s French Pastry School, chef Regis Lazard (competing for the second time, oh Lord – there was someone else there competing for the 4th time!) and chef Philippe Rigollot, from Maison Pic, France’s only three-star restaurant owned by a woman.

What you cannot comprehend without seeing it, is the majestic quality of these creations, sculptures and masterpieces, all made out of blown and sculptured sugar. And the massive amount of pieces that they have to make in just 3 days! It’s enough to make you want to lie down and have a nap. And then have a drink. And then have another nap…

As you know, sugar, chocolate and most baking ingredients are incredibly susceptible to the conditions around it. The heat and humidity of Lyon both before and during the competition, brings unexpected results for these chefs that have been working for years at this one shot to win the most coveted title their industry bestows.

I got emotionally invested in these real people. These pastry chefs (all men, by the way) that spend 4 years thinking about the MOF competition and then a grueling couple of weeks practicing and making hundreds of desserts in order to get their time and technique down. Then there’s the exhausting 3 days of competition where, much like the olympics, you must do better than you’ve ever done in order to win. With judges hovering over your every move to make sure that you’re not cheating. These 3 days are not just a few hours. They arrive at 4 or 5 am (oh, and it gets earlier every day) and leave when it is dark again. And they are completely spent. Like bootcamp spent.

I never realized what physical strength it took to make many of the items [I cringed through them pulling candy and then when they had to carefully carry tens of pounds of their delicate work to the various stations and judging tables without anything falling off or breaking (everything is held together with sugar and other ingredients - no krazy glue or the like  allowed]. And though I have spent years behind-the-scenes in high end restaurant kitchens, I did not know the mental stamina in which it took to do something like this, compete in your field of expertise. It is one of the most painful things I can imagine putting yourself, never mind your staff, family and friends through.

They should have called it The Most Insane, Intense Thing You’ll Ever Do. Ever.

I would like to tell you more, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Because there are so many. The theater was full of people gasping, laughing, clutching one another in joy, anticipation and despair and then, with eyes filled with tears.

I get emotional about very few things, but this movie took me inside these men’s lives and incredibly personal moments – their passions and disappointments. I will never forget them and their achingly almost impossible journey.

This movie changed everything I’ve ever thought about pastry and perhaps even how I think of myself.

Laura Calder’s Bacon & Olive Aperitif Cake

Recently, I leafed through Laura Calder’s French Taste.

I deemed her too pretty, too perfect and her recipes too precious for me. I almost dismissed the whole thing, except she was captivating even on the page (I saw her on TV after having read the book, so I didn’t know she was enticing on screen as well). I was intrigued. And then my eyes fell on Bacon and Olive Aperitif Cake. Not a loaf, not bread, but a savory cake. With bacon to boot.

Well, Ms. Calder, I was wrong – you can never be too pretty and after reading your cookbook back to front, I found your recipes weren’t so precious after all. This cake is phenomenal. Thank you. This one’s going in my repertoire.  It’s not as pretty as yours, but it’s damn delicious.

Laura Calder’s Bacon & Olive Aperitif Cake

Ingredients

• 1-1/2 cups flour
• 1-1/2 tsps baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon ground pepper
• 3 eggs, lightly beaten
• 1/2 cup plus 1 Tbsp butter, melted
• 2/3 cup olives, pitted and sliced
• 4 ounces bacon, about 4 slices, cut into lardoons and fried
• 1 cup Grated Gruyere cheese or grated Parmesan
• Pinch of salt, to taste
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary (optional)

Directions

Heat the oven to 350ºF/180ºC. Butter and flour a loaf pan. Sift the flour and baking powder into a mixing bowl, and stir the pepper through. Beat the eggs into the flour. Beat in the melted butter. Stir through the remaining ingredients to distribute evenly. Spoon the batter into the pan and bake 45 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean. Cool slightly. Remove from pan. Slice, and serve with drinks.

Eight Wine Bar’s Refocus

Eight Wine Bar has gone through a ton of transformations (Doku 15, anyone?), but I think the they’ve got it this time around, with their latest refocus.

Throwing out the staid notion of big plate dinners in such a small space, Eight has gone the contemporary route with serving small plates and focusing again on their extensive wine list and wine pairings.

Eight has always had a New York feel, thanks to its high ceilings, concrete walls and narrow length. The tapas style of eating lends itself to the sensual vibe and also follows the contemporary dinner party trend of standing and nibbling on various delectables.

The new menu offers something for both herbivore and carnivore, such as Fried Tofu “Popcorn” with Wasabi Aioli & Soy Dipping Sauce and Duck Confit Samosas with Zesty Tamarind Dip.

Individual cheese and charcuterie plates (pictured above), along with Roasted Pork Belly with Sweet Potato Puree and Apple Chutney (pictured below) are on trend, while Black Truffle Ricotta Gnocchi and Roasted Lamb Lollipops with Roasted Figs and Carrot Jam sound right for this time of year .

Having tried these dishes last week at a dinner for the media, I was most impressed by the duck confit samosas (luxe bites in a street food package!) and the nuanced pork belly. They are getting closer to what the crowd wants with this type of fare for sure.

Sometimes, you want to hang out with friends (like the lovely Ms. Carmen above)  and talk with some drinks and nibblies, but you don’t want to have to shop, prep and tidy up at home. Eight gives you a great excuse to get together without the drawback of dishpan hands.