I'm getting a little depressed by the fact that I'm all alone out here in cyberspace. Nobody's going to read me, ever. Ah, well. I can't keep up with all the trendy chemist-photographer tea bloggers out there. It's life.
I'm not actually sure if "high tea" is the correct terminology. There's some sort of complex arrangement with high and low and afternoon and somewhere-in-between tea being different things. I stick with high out of habit, and I never get around to making sure it's correct.
Tea things should be set up around scones. As such, make them well, as you would a central meat or veggie dish. Serve them with good jam and butter. (Smuckers? Not so much.) If there are homemade spreads, so much the better. Try making apple butter (quite simply a cooked-down apple sauce with the texture of butter). Quebec apples, I love you. I wish you never had to go out of season. Lemon curd is a classic. And jam, if you can cope with the whole canning thing.
That said, scones are the middle course. Start with savories. It's a broad term and covers everything from pâté de foie gras to cucumber sandwiches. There are a lot of recipes out there for little onion and beet confits and various arcane things involving asparagus tips. They're fun. But itsy-bitsy sandwiches, well, they just have this glamour, you know? Here are three "recipes".
1. Cucumber. I don't like cucumbers, but I like good cucumber sandwiches. The secret is to slice them über-thin. Use a vegetable peeler. For these, a light buttering is fairly key. The bread, to keep it classic, should probably be white sandwich, although I have resorted to challah and ciabatta in absence of non-Wonderbready type stuff. A light crack of salt and pepper. If flavourings are your dish, pulverize some mint leaves and put them in; they go well.
2. Stilton & pear. These are actually DELICIOUS. Stilton is a creamy-crumbly Brit blue cheese. With a slice of Bartlett, they're a treat. Here, any bread is fine: baguette is always nice, but "normal" white sandwich is fine too. These sandwiches tend to fall apart because the bread won't stick to the pear. For that reason, I'd recommend lightly buttering the top slice.
3. Apple & cheddar. It's a classic combo. Just make is all sandwichy. A thin-ish slice of apple on top of a cheddar slice of the same thickness between grain-product slices and you're golden. The sandwich doesn't hold together too well, but I don't like it buttered so much; I'd rather just have it be a little topply. Any bread is fine here. Something firmer, however, is preferable; baguette, say, or even matzoh, which offsets the textures rather nicely.
I think there will have to be a part three to this post.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
High tea: part 1
British tea drinking is sort of odd. I mean, mostly your real intense fanatics have left big pots and flavoured teas waaaay behind them on the road to tea zendom. But it isn't that big-pot, sugar-added brewing is contemptible; far from it. I always feel that, well, Asia is where tea comes from. They know how to handle it best. Regardless, though, and hypocritical as it sounds, the tea I drink most often is Lapsang Souchong; and the pot I use most often is big enough for two and a half large mugs'-worth. Those are my 'daily brewing needs,' as I would say if I was annoying.
So if you, like me, drink in mugs more frequently than tiny cups, only make sure you do it right. Use good looseleaf tea. Try to avoid companies like Mighty Leaf and Twinings. I'm grateful to the former for their drinkable coffee shop teabags, but I don't turn to them for actual tea. They don't REALLY understand it. Go to a teashop. Buy from an online site. Whatever, but bear in mind that supermarkets to not harbor good tea. Otherwise, boil from cold; rinse the pot with almost-boiling water, then put the tea leaves in, then pour over the water (with the exception of flower tea, which should be put in after the pot is full); never ever use an infuser or a cheesecloth sachet; brew it not too dark and not too weak; warm your mugs; and don't forget it on the countertop to cool down and overbrew. I do this once a week. It's very wicked.
If you feel that your peace of mind will be materially disturbed by the non-addition of sugar, well, I suppose it's not for the pedants to decide for you. But, I mean, come on; after that, it tastes only like sugar. You aren't drinking tea gratia tea-is. If, ah, you see what I mean.
The fun part of the 'British tea ceremony' is the food. I think the comment 'Yaaaay scones!' might be appropriate at this point. I'm a scone purist, in practice if not particularly in principle; the thing I disapprove of is dried cranberries. They are so pointless. They're dry, sad, forlorn, tasteless. Anyways. Here are the keys to good scones, in order of importance.
1. Cold butter. Everyone's been told this many times for things from piecrusts to shortbread; it makes a difference. (Always. Use. Butter. 'Nuff said.)
2. Do not knead. Whatever the recipe says, don't knead the dough. Mix it with a wooden spoon until it comes together or just shy of it; quite a number of smidgens of flour can be left, unmoistened, at the bottom of the bowl. And even if the dough comes apart a bit when you're cutting it, it doesn't matter. Just squish them a little bit and place them on the baking sheet intact.
3. You really don't need to cut it the butter that finely. In other words, don't cut the butter up fine--or else. I find that a pastry cutter works wonders. If there are any heterogenous lumps, just break them up à la main.
4. Hot oven, cold dough. It's a pretty good rule of thumb for quick breads.
5. Do it by hand. With practice, there is no time loss, and you have that much more control over the forming of gluten and butter creaminess.
6. Finally, remember that your liquids have the major role in flavouring your scones. I use a beaten egg and skim milk. Cream will be richer. Buttermilk scones have a following. More eggy, less milky, whatever. Experiment a bit.
Next post, I'll explain a bit about my favourite meal to put together, because generally it only involves baking: a complete high tea.
So if you, like me, drink in mugs more frequently than tiny cups, only make sure you do it right. Use good looseleaf tea. Try to avoid companies like Mighty Leaf and Twinings. I'm grateful to the former for their drinkable coffee shop teabags, but I don't turn to them for actual tea. They don't REALLY understand it. Go to a teashop. Buy from an online site. Whatever, but bear in mind that supermarkets to not harbor good tea. Otherwise, boil from cold; rinse the pot with almost-boiling water, then put the tea leaves in, then pour over the water (with the exception of flower tea, which should be put in after the pot is full); never ever use an infuser or a cheesecloth sachet; brew it not too dark and not too weak; warm your mugs; and don't forget it on the countertop to cool down and overbrew. I do this once a week. It's very wicked.
If you feel that your peace of mind will be materially disturbed by the non-addition of sugar, well, I suppose it's not for the pedants to decide for you. But, I mean, come on; after that, it tastes only like sugar. You aren't drinking tea gratia tea-is. If, ah, you see what I mean.
The fun part of the 'British tea ceremony' is the food. I think the comment 'Yaaaay scones!' might be appropriate at this point. I'm a scone purist, in practice if not particularly in principle; the thing I disapprove of is dried cranberries. They are so pointless. They're dry, sad, forlorn, tasteless. Anyways. Here are the keys to good scones, in order of importance.
1. Cold butter. Everyone's been told this many times for things from piecrusts to shortbread; it makes a difference. (Always. Use. Butter. 'Nuff said.)
2. Do not knead. Whatever the recipe says, don't knead the dough. Mix it with a wooden spoon until it comes together or just shy of it; quite a number of smidgens of flour can be left, unmoistened, at the bottom of the bowl. And even if the dough comes apart a bit when you're cutting it, it doesn't matter. Just squish them a little bit and place them on the baking sheet intact.
3. You really don't need to cut it the butter that finely. In other words, don't cut the butter up fine--or else. I find that a pastry cutter works wonders. If there are any heterogenous lumps, just break them up à la main.
4. Hot oven, cold dough. It's a pretty good rule of thumb for quick breads.
5. Do it by hand. With practice, there is no time loss, and you have that much more control over the forming of gluten and butter creaminess.
6. Finally, remember that your liquids have the major role in flavouring your scones. I use a beaten egg and skim milk. Cream will be richer. Buttermilk scones have a following. More eggy, less milky, whatever. Experiment a bit.
Next post, I'll explain a bit about my favourite meal to put together, because generally it only involves baking: a complete high tea.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Cingshin 1991
Café, fumée de feu de camp, senteurs d'épices rôtissant sur le feu: ainsi se fait le résumé du Cingshin 1991, un thé qui compte parmi mes préférés.
Comme d'habitude, j'exécute l'infusion avec un ensemble gong fu cha. Le thé s’agit d’un wulong roulé cuit. (Bizarrement, je ne l’ai pas pu trouver sur la boutique en ligne; puisque j’ai oublié de noter les infos sur la carte des thés, c’est tout ce que j’en ai à vous dire.) La petite théière est blanche, ce qui sort un peu de l’ordinaire. Ce choix a bien donné un effet, car les feuilles sont noires. Elles reluisent pratiquement de noirceur. Elles seraient belles ne soit-ce que pour le drame. Heureusement, elles sont attrayantes en forme aussi : serrées en jolies boules, avec quelques brindilles plus dorées ici et là. Plus tard, quand les feuilles se sont déroulées, elles se sont montrées immenses et entières. À date, c’était très bien, les feuilles.
Par contre, il faudra que je décrive leur parfum pour justifier cet énoncé : les feuilles sont l’aspect le plus épatant de ce thé. Ce n’est pas une odeur qui se hume délicatement en petits coups. C’est une de celles qui n’attend pas, mais qui frappe le nez, le dépasse, atteint vite la bouche et remplit tout de suite les poumons. J’ai cité auparavant quelles étaient ces odeurs, mais je les redirai : fumée, tabac, épices, café. À la suite de quelques infusions, le petit pot évoquait presque le brûlé, tellement que ces feuilles n’abandonnent pas. Le cuit est présent, ainsi qu’une petite amertume de rien du tout. Je n’avais pas peur qu’elle se développe en quelque espèce de café instantané.
La soupe? À la première infusion, brun-orange, mais c’était le résultat d’une erreur de ma part. Lors des prochains essais, je l’ai plus « poussée ». (Je me croyais en danger de me retrouver avec quelque chose d’imbuvable.) La « vraie » couleur est un beau rouge-brun foncé.
Les toutes premières impressions de la tasse d’odeurs n’avaient pas grand-chose à dire. Vaguement céréalières, les notes hautes présentent seules de lointaines indices de café et d’épices. Cependant, il n’y avait qu’à attendre. Les arômes de toast deviennent riches, rondes, basses, si bien qu’on se croirait déjà en train de boire.
Pourtant, quand je le bois réellement, c’est un peu décevant. Les fragrances m’avaient trop raconté à propos du spectacle à venir. Non, mais, il faut simplement pousser ce thé pour obtenir un breuvage honnête. À ce moment-là, eh bien, c’est soyeux, c’est énergétique, c’est des rôties et du café pour déjeuneur dans une bouchée—ces saveurs laissant derrière elles des subtilités épicés délicieusement entremêlées au cuir.
Flexible, ce thé! Il supporte bien les temps d’infusions longs. J’ai développé une phobie de trop laisser tremper les thés; tant d’eux se transforment en monstres.
Le qi, bien qu’il ne soit pas l’attrait qui attirera la foule, me réveille mais me relaxe.
En conclusion, il me faut une quantité de ce thé. Je l’ai siroté chez Camellia Sinensis, où j’ai mangé un scone poire-gingembre si fin qu’il faudra peut-être que je parfume mes propres scones de même. (Il a très mal allé avec le thé, mais c’est la vie.) Ce fut un vrai plaisir de rencontrer ce thé qui offre tant sans menaces. Ça me réchauffe déjà de pense à en boire pendant les longues soirées hivernales qui s’en viennent.
Comme d'habitude, j'exécute l'infusion avec un ensemble gong fu cha. Le thé s’agit d’un wulong roulé cuit. (Bizarrement, je ne l’ai pas pu trouver sur la boutique en ligne; puisque j’ai oublié de noter les infos sur la carte des thés, c’est tout ce que j’en ai à vous dire.) La petite théière est blanche, ce qui sort un peu de l’ordinaire. Ce choix a bien donné un effet, car les feuilles sont noires. Elles reluisent pratiquement de noirceur. Elles seraient belles ne soit-ce que pour le drame. Heureusement, elles sont attrayantes en forme aussi : serrées en jolies boules, avec quelques brindilles plus dorées ici et là. Plus tard, quand les feuilles se sont déroulées, elles se sont montrées immenses et entières. À date, c’était très bien, les feuilles.
Par contre, il faudra que je décrive leur parfum pour justifier cet énoncé : les feuilles sont l’aspect le plus épatant de ce thé. Ce n’est pas une odeur qui se hume délicatement en petits coups. C’est une de celles qui n’attend pas, mais qui frappe le nez, le dépasse, atteint vite la bouche et remplit tout de suite les poumons. J’ai cité auparavant quelles étaient ces odeurs, mais je les redirai : fumée, tabac, épices, café. À la suite de quelques infusions, le petit pot évoquait presque le brûlé, tellement que ces feuilles n’abandonnent pas. Le cuit est présent, ainsi qu’une petite amertume de rien du tout. Je n’avais pas peur qu’elle se développe en quelque espèce de café instantané.
La soupe? À la première infusion, brun-orange, mais c’était le résultat d’une erreur de ma part. Lors des prochains essais, je l’ai plus « poussée ». (Je me croyais en danger de me retrouver avec quelque chose d’imbuvable.) La « vraie » couleur est un beau rouge-brun foncé.
Les toutes premières impressions de la tasse d’odeurs n’avaient pas grand-chose à dire. Vaguement céréalières, les notes hautes présentent seules de lointaines indices de café et d’épices. Cependant, il n’y avait qu’à attendre. Les arômes de toast deviennent riches, rondes, basses, si bien qu’on se croirait déjà en train de boire.
Pourtant, quand je le bois réellement, c’est un peu décevant. Les fragrances m’avaient trop raconté à propos du spectacle à venir. Non, mais, il faut simplement pousser ce thé pour obtenir un breuvage honnête. À ce moment-là, eh bien, c’est soyeux, c’est énergétique, c’est des rôties et du café pour déjeuneur dans une bouchée—ces saveurs laissant derrière elles des subtilités épicés délicieusement entremêlées au cuir.
Flexible, ce thé! Il supporte bien les temps d’infusions longs. J’ai développé une phobie de trop laisser tremper les thés; tant d’eux se transforment en monstres.
Le qi, bien qu’il ne soit pas l’attrait qui attirera la foule, me réveille mais me relaxe.
En conclusion, il me faut une quantité de ce thé. Je l’ai siroté chez Camellia Sinensis, où j’ai mangé un scone poire-gingembre si fin qu’il faudra peut-être que je parfume mes propres scones de même. (Il a très mal allé avec le thé, mais c’est la vie.) Ce fut un vrai plaisir de rencontrer ce thé qui offre tant sans menaces. Ça me réchauffe déjà de pense à en boire pendant les longues soirées hivernales qui s’en viennent.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Mushroom Risotto
Risotto is very in right now.
No, I'm kidding, actually. It's just that I've only now discovered it. What with the white wine and octopus, I was inspired to make my own.
(Sidenote: most of the ingredients for this were procured on a trip the Little Italy/Jean-Talon area, among others the Milano Fruiterie. This is due for another post because it's too much intenseness to deal with here.)
My first reference for Italian cooking is always Marcella Hazan. She's a bit of a god. The first good and still the best person to write an Italian cookbook in English, she brought real Italian food, and some of its values to America. Thank you. She has lots to say about risotto, including that it's pretty unique. True enough. Every cuisine seems to use rice, from Morocco to Japan. Understandably, since it's one of the great things in life. But Italians have taken rice and made it risotto and made it their own; good thing too.
So. Risotti have a sort of fascinating basic mode d'emploi. First, sauté finely chopped onions and anything else solid that will flavour the risotto in butter (or olive oil--depends). Of course, some delicate things won't stand up to this and must be added at the end. Octopus is an example. In such a case, the brine or juices, etc, would be added at the beginning and the actual flesh a little before the rice finishes cooking.
Anyways. The rice must be short-grain, which is to say it must be cultivar destined for risotto. The popular, all-purpose variety is called Arborio, by far the most renowned. I'd no idea there even were any other suitable kinds of rice until Marcella told me so. (They are Carnaloni and Vialone Nano. Arborio is much easier to find.)Once you have all this rice stuff sorted out, proceed to sauté the rice with the onions and miscellany until the rice is thoroughly coated with delicious butter stuff.
The difficult part about this is the stirring. When they say stirring constantly, folks, they sure aren't kidding. Not only that, but a wooden spoon will not cut it. You need a firm spatula that's powerful, heat-resistant and can get that pan circumference where the rice will stick. You must keep the motion constantly; stirring, scraping, folding, and doing it fast as you can. Marcella says the bottom of the pan must be completely scraped every ten seconds. It is so, so true, but also kind of fun, so don't freak out.
So, after you've made the flavour base and added the rice, the time has come for the liquefaction. Or something. Risotti generally have beef/chicken/veal/whatever stock as their main liquid. Many have wine. Some have seafood juices, etc. The point is to give the rice soup some serious flavour.
Side note about stock: I was very wicked here and used bouillon. It's a total and complete cop-out, and I hang my head in culinary shame. But the risotto came out beautifully, so I think it's reasonable to think of it as means to an end. Next time I really will make stock, though. For anybody else, my experience was that bouillon is an acceptable substitute.
The catch about adding the liquid is that it must be added about a cup at a time, no more (although it's not necessary to measure--just eyeball it). Liquid. Stir madly until the rice has absorbed it all. Liquid. Stir madly until they it desoupifies completely. Liquid. And so on, until the desired texture has been achieved, depending if you want your risotto thick or thin, etc, etc.
A tip to make the stirring easier is to really add the next cup of liquid right after the rice has absorbed. As the dish progresses, stirring the rice without new stock makes it stick to the pan much faster and easier.
Okay, then. Say you've added all the liquid the recipe calls for, more or less, according to taste. You continue to cook the rice (um, I got a little exhausted, but that's the price to pay) for twenty more minutes approximately. Don't let up on the stirring! The same rigidity applies. Everywhere you go, they say the rice should be cooked slightly al dente. Cook it how you want it. The risotto will probably be better if it has a bit of a bite to the grain, preserving more of the dish's unique texture, but if you want it soupier, go ahead. Even more al dente? Fine. It's a matter of preference and various variables.
The final step is called mantecate. It's very simple: you simply take the pan off the heat (I used a dutch oven for its heat-conducting and heavy dutiness) and add some more butter and some grated parmesan. Cool to palatable and enjoy.
Remeber that there are more different risotti than you can possibly imagine. Some sound really weird and un-italian, but here are some ideas, just to give you an idea of the diversity: spinach & curried veal, red wine, lemon and pomegranate (okay, that sounds incredibly bizarre, I'm sorry, I'm sorry; I'm getting these off random sites), mushroom, asparagus, with raisins (?), sausages & leeks, basic tomato... I could go on forever. All of them will probably have their deliciousnesses. Try some out.
My risotto was excellent. I made it with a combination of shiitake and portobello mushrooms (the two together are supposed to resemble the flavour of porcini mushrooms, which I can't find) in the flavour base. Chicken stock, some dry white cooking wine, arborio rice. Yummy. It had a great texture (it might have been a tiny bit gummy, so more liquid next time) and was one of those things that's very very flavourful, although what flavour exactly it's difficult to say. Mushroom flavour, I suppose. Delicious. Try it yourself. Good luck!
No, I'm kidding, actually. It's just that I've only now discovered it. What with the white wine and octopus, I was inspired to make my own.
(Sidenote: most of the ingredients for this were procured on a trip the Little Italy/Jean-Talon area, among others the Milano Fruiterie. This is due for another post because it's too much intenseness to deal with here.)
My first reference for Italian cooking is always Marcella Hazan. She's a bit of a god. The first good and still the best person to write an Italian cookbook in English, she brought real Italian food, and some of its values to America. Thank you. She has lots to say about risotto, including that it's pretty unique. True enough. Every cuisine seems to use rice, from Morocco to Japan. Understandably, since it's one of the great things in life. But Italians have taken rice and made it risotto and made it their own; good thing too.
So. Risotti have a sort of fascinating basic mode d'emploi. First, sauté finely chopped onions and anything else solid that will flavour the risotto in butter (or olive oil--depends). Of course, some delicate things won't stand up to this and must be added at the end. Octopus is an example. In such a case, the brine or juices, etc, would be added at the beginning and the actual flesh a little before the rice finishes cooking.
Anyways. The rice must be short-grain, which is to say it must be cultivar destined for risotto. The popular, all-purpose variety is called Arborio, by far the most renowned. I'd no idea there even were any other suitable kinds of rice until Marcella told me so. (They are Carnaloni and Vialone Nano. Arborio is much easier to find.)Once you have all this rice stuff sorted out, proceed to sauté the rice with the onions and miscellany until the rice is thoroughly coated with delicious butter stuff.
The difficult part about this is the stirring. When they say stirring constantly, folks, they sure aren't kidding. Not only that, but a wooden spoon will not cut it. You need a firm spatula that's powerful, heat-resistant and can get that pan circumference where the rice will stick. You must keep the motion constantly; stirring, scraping, folding, and doing it fast as you can. Marcella says the bottom of the pan must be completely scraped every ten seconds. It is so, so true, but also kind of fun, so don't freak out.
So, after you've made the flavour base and added the rice, the time has come for the liquefaction. Or something. Risotti generally have beef/chicken/veal/whatever stock as their main liquid. Many have wine. Some have seafood juices, etc. The point is to give the rice soup some serious flavour.
Side note about stock: I was very wicked here and used bouillon. It's a total and complete cop-out, and I hang my head in culinary shame. But the risotto came out beautifully, so I think it's reasonable to think of it as means to an end. Next time I really will make stock, though. For anybody else, my experience was that bouillon is an acceptable substitute.
The catch about adding the liquid is that it must be added about a cup at a time, no more (although it's not necessary to measure--just eyeball it). Liquid. Stir madly until the rice has absorbed it all. Liquid. Stir madly until they it desoupifies completely. Liquid. And so on, until the desired texture has been achieved, depending if you want your risotto thick or thin, etc, etc.
A tip to make the stirring easier is to really add the next cup of liquid right after the rice has absorbed. As the dish progresses, stirring the rice without new stock makes it stick to the pan much faster and easier.
Okay, then. Say you've added all the liquid the recipe calls for, more or less, according to taste. You continue to cook the rice (um, I got a little exhausted, but that's the price to pay) for twenty more minutes approximately. Don't let up on the stirring! The same rigidity applies. Everywhere you go, they say the rice should be cooked slightly al dente. Cook it how you want it. The risotto will probably be better if it has a bit of a bite to the grain, preserving more of the dish's unique texture, but if you want it soupier, go ahead. Even more al dente? Fine. It's a matter of preference and various variables.
The final step is called mantecate. It's very simple: you simply take the pan off the heat (I used a dutch oven for its heat-conducting and heavy dutiness) and add some more butter and some grated parmesan. Cool to palatable and enjoy.
Remeber that there are more different risotti than you can possibly imagine. Some sound really weird and un-italian, but here are some ideas, just to give you an idea of the diversity: spinach & curried veal, red wine, lemon and pomegranate (okay, that sounds incredibly bizarre, I'm sorry, I'm sorry; I'm getting these off random sites), mushroom, asparagus, with raisins (?), sausages & leeks, basic tomato... I could go on forever. All of them will probably have their deliciousnesses. Try some out.
My risotto was excellent. I made it with a combination of shiitake and portobello mushrooms (the two together are supposed to resemble the flavour of porcini mushrooms, which I can't find) in the flavour base. Chicken stock, some dry white cooking wine, arborio rice. Yummy. It had a great texture (it might have been a tiny bit gummy, so more liquid next time) and was one of those things that's very very flavourful, although what flavour exactly it's difficult to say. Mushroom flavour, I suppose. Delicious. Try it yourself. Good luck!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
St-Denis and awesomeness
I'm not quite sure how to go about this city blogging part. I haven't got a specific place to review, but just some wandering on St-Denis; but I suppose that's Montreal, and that's bloggable.
Of course, the reason I head to this stretch is Camellia Sinensis. So no, I don't mean the Mont-Royal to Sherbrooke station drag. This is the span from Sherbrooke to about Ste-Catherine. Yes, it's short. But it gets really dense in there. You can pack a lot of city into two blocks and then have pointless expanse for miles--elsewhere. Chinatown is proof, although I think it's just a Chinatown thing. Whether Chinatowns/International Districts/whatever are big or small, there's more of it per square foot than there is of the Main (well, in a different way). Maybe it's a cultural thing.
Anyways, back to UQAM area. Don't you just hate the construction around Quartier des Spectacles? The 80 bus has been derouted and it took me forever to find it this one time I was going to a cupcake place on Park. (It was closed. Apparently, it's really good, but I can never catch it at the right times. Cocoa Locale, I will get to you someday. Maybe.)
Anyways. If you go the long underground way out of the Berri Metro, you come out on the stretch I was talking about. There's some attractions around there. Cinémathèque Québecoise, for one thing; and the Cinéma Robothèque. And some normal movie theatre, right across from C. M. The profusion of movie theatres may be why some of the Festival du Films du Monde is there.
When you turn onto St-Denis from St-Catherine, there's a little green space in front of a building--part of the UQAM campus. There's a cool thing going on there right now. The design school is doing something it calls 40 ans, 40 chaises; I assume it's celebrating it's fortieth anniversary. And yes, with chairs. They have perfectly normal metal framework chairs, just without seats (I guess there are forty. I didn't count). But they've woven seats into the chairs, so that they're actually quite comfy. It's done with some kind of red seat-belt material. But it doesn't end there. The chairs are woven in to the place--into the storm drain here, the chairs connected by one woven-round strap. The trees are tied full of them. Some is woven into the upper balcony, some into the ironwork fence. And mixed in, tied in, woven in, are pretty neat, bright red chairs. You should really go check it out.
Right across, there's that neat church building that's attached to a newer bâtiment. Entering through the pretty old front-of-a-church brings you to it.
The next stretch is the nice part. It's a lot of old, colourful, beautiful houses, except filled with stores. That's past and present meshed if I've ever seen it. They remind me of the houses outside of Square St-Louis (the most awesome place ever. If you've never looked at the houses around it, do). The awnings, the terraces, the people, the narrow street, the cars. Somehow it's very, very Montreal. The kind of place you bump into someone and they'll say 'Scusez and you'll say Sorry at the same time and you'll both understand each other. It has the coffee shops and the sketchy shops and the shisha places. This is the Plateau. Je suis bien au Quartier Latin. It's pretty damn difficult to get better than this.
Le Commensal--a famous buffet-style vegetarian restaurant--is here. There are a lot of cool restaurants; this place is mostly restaurant, in fact. Part of what makes it so pretty is the color, and the levels. That's what always strikes me. These shops don't make a row, they make a commotion.
There's a little Tibetan hole-in-the-wall clothes shop north of Emery. It's really small, but it's really nice; I just got a gorgeous headband there for 8$. The prices are all reasonable, and the clothes are all gorgeous, if not all wearable. There's interesting Tibetan traditional stuff, but also bags, wallets, pretty things.
That's really all I have to say. I hope the first Montreal post is all right.
Of course, the reason I head to this stretch is Camellia Sinensis. So no, I don't mean the Mont-Royal to Sherbrooke station drag. This is the span from Sherbrooke to about Ste-Catherine. Yes, it's short. But it gets really dense in there. You can pack a lot of city into two blocks and then have pointless expanse for miles--elsewhere. Chinatown is proof, although I think it's just a Chinatown thing. Whether Chinatowns/International Districts/whatever are big or small, there's more of it per square foot than there is of the Main (well, in a different way). Maybe it's a cultural thing.
Anyways, back to UQAM area. Don't you just hate the construction around Quartier des Spectacles? The 80 bus has been derouted and it took me forever to find it this one time I was going to a cupcake place on Park. (It was closed. Apparently, it's really good, but I can never catch it at the right times. Cocoa Locale, I will get to you someday. Maybe.)
Anyways. If you go the long underground way out of the Berri Metro, you come out on the stretch I was talking about. There's some attractions around there. Cinémathèque Québecoise, for one thing; and the Cinéma Robothèque. And some normal movie theatre, right across from C. M. The profusion of movie theatres may be why some of the Festival du Films du Monde is there.
When you turn onto St-Denis from St-Catherine, there's a little green space in front of a building--part of the UQAM campus. There's a cool thing going on there right now. The design school is doing something it calls 40 ans, 40 chaises; I assume it's celebrating it's fortieth anniversary. And yes, with chairs. They have perfectly normal metal framework chairs, just without seats (I guess there are forty. I didn't count). But they've woven seats into the chairs, so that they're actually quite comfy. It's done with some kind of red seat-belt material. But it doesn't end there. The chairs are woven in to the place--into the storm drain here, the chairs connected by one woven-round strap. The trees are tied full of them. Some is woven into the upper balcony, some into the ironwork fence. And mixed in, tied in, woven in, are pretty neat, bright red chairs. You should really go check it out.
Right across, there's that neat church building that's attached to a newer bâtiment. Entering through the pretty old front-of-a-church brings you to it.
The next stretch is the nice part. It's a lot of old, colourful, beautiful houses, except filled with stores. That's past and present meshed if I've ever seen it. They remind me of the houses outside of Square St-Louis (the most awesome place ever. If you've never looked at the houses around it, do). The awnings, the terraces, the people, the narrow street, the cars. Somehow it's very, very Montreal. The kind of place you bump into someone and they'll say 'Scusez and you'll say Sorry at the same time and you'll both understand each other. It has the coffee shops and the sketchy shops and the shisha places. This is the Plateau. Je suis bien au Quartier Latin. It's pretty damn difficult to get better than this.
Le Commensal--a famous buffet-style vegetarian restaurant--is here. There are a lot of cool restaurants; this place is mostly restaurant, in fact. Part of what makes it so pretty is the color, and the levels. That's what always strikes me. These shops don't make a row, they make a commotion.
There's a little Tibetan hole-in-the-wall clothes shop north of Emery. It's really small, but it's really nice; I just got a gorgeous headband there for 8$. The prices are all reasonable, and the clothes are all gorgeous, if not all wearable. There's interesting Tibetan traditional stuff, but also bags, wallets, pretty things.
That's really all I have to say. I hope the first Montreal post is all right.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Soufflé au citron
Je me sens tellement Gordon Ramsay en ce moment.
Là, j'exagère. Mais je ne peux m'empêcher de sentir qu'un soufflé réussi constitue un milestone dans mon éducation culinaire. À vrai dire, c'est un tout petit peu triste que je n'en avait fait aucun à date. Aucun réussi, plûtot: même si j'en ai fait quelques-uns au chocolat, ils manquaient le drame essentiel du soufflé, et en plus goûtait l'amidon.
Peu importe. Je préfère toujours le citron au chocolat. C'est plus facile d'arriver à un goût intense. Le chocolat, quand c'est réussi, whoa! c'est réussi--mais si c'est ça moins, alors je resterai agrumoholique. Mais il est vrai qu'avec des quantités généreux de zeste et de jus, vous êtes pratiquement garantis un bon dessert. Souvenez-vous en.
Cette recette n'était pas tout à fait conventionnel. Une autre recette de Cook's Illustrated (elles sont toujours intéressantes à essayer, mais parfois un peu surcompliquées) avait pour but de démystifier et apporter au peuple le soufflé qui éclate de prestige. En faisant, on a totalement éliminé la base de crème pâtissière. Je n'en suis pas trop dévasté. Mes skills ne couvrent pas 20/20 la crème pâtissière parfaite. La raison principale pour ça serait d'éliminer le risque de starchiness et de permettre au saveur citron de briller sans être soumis au lait.
Alors: mélange de jaune d'oeuf et de sucre, ajouté ensuite de zeste, jus, et farine. Rien d'autre, sauf les blancs d'oeufs monté en neige. Petite indice, particulièrement quand les blancs d'oeufs devront être incorporés à quelque chose d'autre. Battez-les à main, avec un batteur d'oeufs, ou à mi-vitesse sur un malaxeur. Comme ça, les bulles d'air seront plus petits et moins facile à éclater: plus stable.
En tout cas. On fait fondre du beurre dans un poêlon de dix pouces. Faut que ce soit ces dimensions exactes pour assurer la cuisson bien arrangée. Une fois fondu et chauffé, le soufflé et cuit sur la poêle à peu près 2min, durant quel temps les cotés prennent et forment un peu des bulles. Ce n'est qu'après ça qu'on glisse notre futur soufflé dans le four.
Si le soufflé n'avait cette hauteur incroyable qui me fait toujours rêver dans les photos des lives de recette, c'est à cause du poêlon. Il forme un dome merveilleusement doré, avec un peu la surface d'un lemon meringue pie, sauf plus jaune. Il s'est bel et bien gonflé. Une cuillèrée confirme que le goût était loin d'un échec lui aussi. La texture va presque sans dire. La seule plainte que j'ai pu avoir, c'est qu'après plusieurs minutes sur mon assiète, la texture s'est comme dégonflé. Pas gommeux, exactement, mais certainement avec une lourdeté dans la bouche. Probablement que tous les soufflés ont ce destin. Vaut la peine d'en faire, par contre. Vous allez vous sentir tellement Gordon Ramsay.
Là, j'exagère. Mais je ne peux m'empêcher de sentir qu'un soufflé réussi constitue un milestone dans mon éducation culinaire. À vrai dire, c'est un tout petit peu triste que je n'en avait fait aucun à date. Aucun réussi, plûtot: même si j'en ai fait quelques-uns au chocolat, ils manquaient le drame essentiel du soufflé, et en plus goûtait l'amidon.
Peu importe. Je préfère toujours le citron au chocolat. C'est plus facile d'arriver à un goût intense. Le chocolat, quand c'est réussi, whoa! c'est réussi--mais si c'est ça moins, alors je resterai agrumoholique. Mais il est vrai qu'avec des quantités généreux de zeste et de jus, vous êtes pratiquement garantis un bon dessert. Souvenez-vous en.
Cette recette n'était pas tout à fait conventionnel. Une autre recette de Cook's Illustrated (elles sont toujours intéressantes à essayer, mais parfois un peu surcompliquées) avait pour but de démystifier et apporter au peuple le soufflé qui éclate de prestige. En faisant, on a totalement éliminé la base de crème pâtissière. Je n'en suis pas trop dévasté. Mes skills ne couvrent pas 20/20 la crème pâtissière parfaite. La raison principale pour ça serait d'éliminer le risque de starchiness et de permettre au saveur citron de briller sans être soumis au lait.
Alors: mélange de jaune d'oeuf et de sucre, ajouté ensuite de zeste, jus, et farine. Rien d'autre, sauf les blancs d'oeufs monté en neige. Petite indice, particulièrement quand les blancs d'oeufs devront être incorporés à quelque chose d'autre. Battez-les à main, avec un batteur d'oeufs, ou à mi-vitesse sur un malaxeur. Comme ça, les bulles d'air seront plus petits et moins facile à éclater: plus stable.
En tout cas. On fait fondre du beurre dans un poêlon de dix pouces. Faut que ce soit ces dimensions exactes pour assurer la cuisson bien arrangée. Une fois fondu et chauffé, le soufflé et cuit sur la poêle à peu près 2min, durant quel temps les cotés prennent et forment un peu des bulles. Ce n'est qu'après ça qu'on glisse notre futur soufflé dans le four.
Si le soufflé n'avait cette hauteur incroyable qui me fait toujours rêver dans les photos des lives de recette, c'est à cause du poêlon. Il forme un dome merveilleusement doré, avec un peu la surface d'un lemon meringue pie, sauf plus jaune. Il s'est bel et bien gonflé. Une cuillèrée confirme que le goût était loin d'un échec lui aussi. La texture va presque sans dire. La seule plainte que j'ai pu avoir, c'est qu'après plusieurs minutes sur mon assiète, la texture s'est comme dégonflé. Pas gommeux, exactement, mais certainement avec une lourdeté dans la bouche. Probablement que tous les soufflés ont ce destin. Vaut la peine d'en faire, par contre. Vous allez vous sentir tellement Gordon Ramsay.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
White wine and octopus risotto
I went the Claremont (5032 Sherbrooke) recently. I know it's been a Westmount institution for ages. That means it's good, established, chic, and expensive. I don't mean Toqué or Buona Notte expensive--far from it--but just that you will pay more than fifteen for a main course. This meal was worth it, though; a real treat. You may be wondering about the title of the post. I'll get to it.
The menu is surprisingly short. This place seems to describe itself as an eclectic urban bistro, and while that's a pretty pompous thing to describe yourself as, "eclectic" certainly fits. We have "Claremont Poutine" right next to shrimp cocktail with chili and horseradish sauce. I would say that the majority is probably something like Italian; pizza, pasta, are creative, but not world fusion in any big way. They have different burgers, and various weird and tempting pastas, but I am attracted to Risotto of the day, which has an excitingly mysterious market price. I am actually kind of ravi by risotto as an of-the-day. I'm not above thinking it's downright nifty. Anyways. Today's risotto is the aformentioned white wine and octupus. Well. I could hardly pass that one up, especially on enthusiastic recommendation from the waitress.
I had actually never eaten risotto before. I know what it is, vaguely: a sort of Italian stew made from short-grain arborio rice gone all épaisse and crémeux and gloopy. I sort of had the impression it always involved tomatoes, but apparently this couldn't be farther from the truth. The plate presented me was lovely sort of lilac color. It was smooth with the unique texture of the rice grains in there. I'll have to try making it on my own. It had, as all restaurant dishes should, a sprig of parsley and a lemon wedge. I remember very distinctly that my first bite was phenomenal (don't worry, the subsequent bites were phenomenal, too). I feel like I need a new interjection of deliciousness, but yum. Laced with coriander (I think), interspersed with lots of delicious bits of octopus, sweet and seafoody, but with the delicate astringency of white wine without a trace of its alcoholy tang, and with a melt-in-the-mouth texture, this. dish. was. awesome. The portion wasn't gigantic, but it suited me perfectly. I ate every bite.
So! Go here, I guess, when you want a nice meal out. I'm not a big fan of the music, but then I never am. Other people at my table had a burger, which they enjoyed, and mussels in red thai basil sauce, which I tried (the mussels were excellent and so was the sauce; however, I don't know the briny mussels really needed the curryish sauce, or vice versa). Nice service, nice place, institution. I certainly had an exceptional meal here.
The menu is surprisingly short. This place seems to describe itself as an eclectic urban bistro, and while that's a pretty pompous thing to describe yourself as, "eclectic" certainly fits. We have "Claremont Poutine" right next to shrimp cocktail with chili and horseradish sauce. I would say that the majority is probably something like Italian; pizza, pasta, are creative, but not world fusion in any big way. They have different burgers, and various weird and tempting pastas, but I am attracted to Risotto of the day, which has an excitingly mysterious market price. I am actually kind of ravi by risotto as an of-the-day. I'm not above thinking it's downright nifty. Anyways. Today's risotto is the aformentioned white wine and octupus. Well. I could hardly pass that one up, especially on enthusiastic recommendation from the waitress.
I had actually never eaten risotto before. I know what it is, vaguely: a sort of Italian stew made from short-grain arborio rice gone all épaisse and crémeux and gloopy. I sort of had the impression it always involved tomatoes, but apparently this couldn't be farther from the truth. The plate presented me was lovely sort of lilac color. It was smooth with the unique texture of the rice grains in there. I'll have to try making it on my own. It had, as all restaurant dishes should, a sprig of parsley and a lemon wedge. I remember very distinctly that my first bite was phenomenal (don't worry, the subsequent bites were phenomenal, too). I feel like I need a new interjection of deliciousness, but yum. Laced with coriander (I think), interspersed with lots of delicious bits of octopus, sweet and seafoody, but with the delicate astringency of white wine without a trace of its alcoholy tang, and with a melt-in-the-mouth texture, this. dish. was. awesome. The portion wasn't gigantic, but it suited me perfectly. I ate every bite.
So! Go here, I guess, when you want a nice meal out. I'm not a big fan of the music, but then I never am. Other people at my table had a burger, which they enjoyed, and mussels in red thai basil sauce, which I tried (the mussels were excellent and so was the sauce; however, I don't know the briny mussels really needed the curryish sauce, or vice versa). Nice service, nice place, institution. I certainly had an exceptional meal here.
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