Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Meals for two
I haven't posted for three weeks (I feel very guilty, and will resume) because somehow I've been feeling lassée-d about cooking. It's slightly nerve-wracking to cook for real people. Has anybody noticed this? Still, I am trying to get into it again; I have much, much, left in my myriad cookbooks that I would like to explore. That, and new things I'd like to try, off the top of my own head, for no reason in particular. But, as I say, I feel nervous about taking risks. So...
Cooking for two people is a fine balance. First, there is portion size to consider. When there is an excess of leftovers, there is always a slight discouragement when the eaters realize what a small dent they have made in the victuals. But the trimming of servings can easily be overdone, so both sides--"too much" and "not enough"--are worth watching. Then there is complexity to consider. Of course, dinner/lunch/breakfast/tea for two fits a large number of circumstances, and ambitiousness dish-wise depends on your company. When I'm not too soucieux of impressing my companion, however, I feel two people are a good guinea pig for cooking experiments.
The one I will describe here is somewhat sub-par on the “It’s a million to one chance, but it just might work,” scale, but experimental nonetheless. (Keep in mind that, especially for spur-of-the-moment innovations, a key feature of Something New is the prior possession of all relevant ingredients.) Am I the only one to feel that kebabs are somehow fun, regardless of circumstance? (Quite possibly, I do realize.)
Although brochettes (including satays, etc.) often require marinating, an interesting (and more spontaneous) way to make them is with a spice rub. Combine some powdered substances in a bowl and toss them around with pieces of meat. Thread these coated chunks onto a skewer. The best part is that you can throw anything into the mix. Dried (or fresh) herbs, chopped garlic, grated ginger, whatever ingredients strike you as flavourful and harmonious in your current mood. When the meat is grilled, it will be slightly infused with these flavours, and come out with a light crunch on the outside. (I have an indoor grill; without one, I’d try searing, but please look this up.) It won’t have quite the same juiciness as marinated meat, but will be nicely texture all the same.
Here are some guidelines. You should have some notion of how your meat goes with your spices. Anyone ever heard of cumin and chicken, really? My favourite meat to use is pork tenderloin, but whatever is in the house. Unless you’ve really got a lot of meat, don’t make more than a few tablespoons mix. And keep it (relatively) simple. 1/8 tsp. of sixteen different spices does not equal sixteen different flavours. In fact, it equals an awkward mix of tastes, plus a few distinct hits of the strongest, most distinctive spices (like cumin and chilli pepper).
Good backbones for spice rubs include cumin, ginger, and dried herbs (rosemary, say, or basil). Once you’ve picked your predominant flavour, select things you think will taste interesting with them. Good spices always to add (except in some cases, of course) in small quantities include salt and pepper (obviously), garlic, and chilli pepper flakes (when spiciness is desired, although keep in mind that enough black pepper has an interesting effect too). The combo I tried was the following: 1 tsp cumin, ½ tsp ground ginger, ½ tsp ground coriander, ¼ tsp chilli pepper flakes, and approx. ½ tsp salt and pepper each. It worked well, although I must be careful to be sparing with the chilli, because it overpowers easily.
In short, spice-rubbed kebabs are an excellent way to play with what’s kicking around in the spice drawer. They don’t require forethought, they’re experimental, they’re easy, they go with most things. I suggest you try it.
Cooking for two people is a fine balance. First, there is portion size to consider. When there is an excess of leftovers, there is always a slight discouragement when the eaters realize what a small dent they have made in the victuals. But the trimming of servings can easily be overdone, so both sides--"too much" and "not enough"--are worth watching. Then there is complexity to consider. Of course, dinner/lunch/breakfast/tea for two fits a large number of circumstances, and ambitiousness dish-wise depends on your company. When I'm not too soucieux of impressing my companion, however, I feel two people are a good guinea pig for cooking experiments.
The one I will describe here is somewhat sub-par on the “It’s a million to one chance, but it just might work,” scale, but experimental nonetheless. (Keep in mind that, especially for spur-of-the-moment innovations, a key feature of Something New is the prior possession of all relevant ingredients.) Am I the only one to feel that kebabs are somehow fun, regardless of circumstance? (Quite possibly, I do realize.)
Although brochettes (including satays, etc.) often require marinating, an interesting (and more spontaneous) way to make them is with a spice rub. Combine some powdered substances in a bowl and toss them around with pieces of meat. Thread these coated chunks onto a skewer. The best part is that you can throw anything into the mix. Dried (or fresh) herbs, chopped garlic, grated ginger, whatever ingredients strike you as flavourful and harmonious in your current mood. When the meat is grilled, it will be slightly infused with these flavours, and come out with a light crunch on the outside. (I have an indoor grill; without one, I’d try searing, but please look this up.) It won’t have quite the same juiciness as marinated meat, but will be nicely texture all the same.
Here are some guidelines. You should have some notion of how your meat goes with your spices. Anyone ever heard of cumin and chicken, really? My favourite meat to use is pork tenderloin, but whatever is in the house. Unless you’ve really got a lot of meat, don’t make more than a few tablespoons mix. And keep it (relatively) simple. 1/8 tsp. of sixteen different spices does not equal sixteen different flavours. In fact, it equals an awkward mix of tastes, plus a few distinct hits of the strongest, most distinctive spices (like cumin and chilli pepper).
Good backbones for spice rubs include cumin, ginger, and dried herbs (rosemary, say, or basil). Once you’ve picked your predominant flavour, select things you think will taste interesting with them. Good spices always to add (except in some cases, of course) in small quantities include salt and pepper (obviously), garlic, and chilli pepper flakes (when spiciness is desired, although keep in mind that enough black pepper has an interesting effect too). The combo I tried was the following: 1 tsp cumin, ½ tsp ground ginger, ½ tsp ground coriander, ¼ tsp chilli pepper flakes, and approx. ½ tsp salt and pepper each. It worked well, although I must be careful to be sparing with the chilli, because it overpowers easily.
In short, spice-rubbed kebabs are an excellent way to play with what’s kicking around in the spice drawer. They don’t require forethought, they’re experimental, they’re easy, they go with most things. I suggest you try it.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Café Myriade
Mon Dieu, quel temps enivrant, hier! C'était drôle, à vrai dire : il ne faisait point si chaud que ça, mais le Tout-Montréal se prélassait sur les terrasses, manteaux ouverts et faces tournées vers le soleil et le ciel azur. Puisque nous n'avons guère eu d'hiver véritable, j'étais surprise de sentir moi-même cette euphorie du printemps. Mais moi, comme tout le monde, je l'ai sentie, et je ne peux m'empêcher d'espérer que ce premier jour solitaire de beau temps annonce le réel printemps.
Qu'ai-je, alors, fait de cette belle journée-là? J'ai visité un nouveau café, un café que j'aurais dû visiter bien avant, étant donné sa célébrité. Il s'agit de Café Myriade. Au dire de ceux qui semblent savoir, Café Myriade sert le meilleur café en ville (avec le plus charmant « art latté »). Bien que j'en aie déjà entendu parler, je supposais qu'il se situait quelque part dans la Petite Italie -- l'autre Mecca des accros de caféine. On m'y avait invitée et j'ai alors découvert qu'il niche aux alentours du Métro Guy-Concordia. Il ne constitue pas non plus un de ces cafés m'as-tu-vu. Il n'est pas entouré d'adresses chics : il est plutôt serti d'humbles dépanneurs, de restaurants asiatiques et d'un grand immeuble peu excitant de Concordia.
Lorsqu'on ouvre la porte d'un café, on reçoit un indice initial de quels et quelles types fréquentent l'établissement. Cette impression est importante, soit-elle correct ou non, même si le clientèle est bien plus dynamique qu'il ne le semble d'emblée. N'importe, il est clair du premier coup que Café Myriade est une adresse cool, jeune, vibrante , si l'on peut dire. Une musique forte et assez récente, sans être la torture lente des DC de Second Cup, assaille l'oreille à l'entrée. Le coin est petit, il ne doit pas y avoir plus qu'une dizaine de tables. Décor et atmosphère du côté bohème, brun, accueillant d'une drôle de manière. De derrière le comptoir se laissent voir maintes rangées de sacs hermétiques de café. Une vitrine de délices point prétentieuses, mais qui ont l'air sucrées et goûteuses se dresse à gauche de la caisse. Ici un menu général (une gamme de cafés, de chocolats chauds, de divers), là une carte de thés (top sélection et qualité), d'autres cafés.
Bien sûr, j'ai commandé un thé, leur seul Wulong, un Wu Yi. Mon amie a bu un chocolat chaud. Les deux confirmaient l'impressionnante réputation de la place : délicieux. Qu'en puis-je dire d'autre? Il y avait du « latté art » même sur le chocolat chaud. C'est gentil, ça, de faire plaisir aux gens qui n'aiment pas le café. Le thé me fut servi en un pot généreux. Un infuseur avait été utilisé (en acier inoxydable avec plein de trous minuscules), mais c'est mieux, quand même, qu'un sachet.
Il est possible que je sois la seule dans la ville qui n'ait pas visité ce café. Mais si ce n'est pas le cas, permettez-moi de suggérer à tous ceux qui étaient comme moi il y a deux jours de visiter, de fréquenter si possible, ce café. Je clique mon verre avec celle de mon amie, Café Myriade --à vous!
Qu'ai-je, alors, fait de cette belle journée-là? J'ai visité un nouveau café, un café que j'aurais dû visiter bien avant, étant donné sa célébrité. Il s'agit de Café Myriade. Au dire de ceux qui semblent savoir, Café Myriade sert le meilleur café en ville (avec le plus charmant « art latté »). Bien que j'en aie déjà entendu parler, je supposais qu'il se situait quelque part dans la Petite Italie -- l'autre Mecca des accros de caféine. On m'y avait invitée et j'ai alors découvert qu'il niche aux alentours du Métro Guy-Concordia. Il ne constitue pas non plus un de ces cafés m'as-tu-vu. Il n'est pas entouré d'adresses chics : il est plutôt serti d'humbles dépanneurs, de restaurants asiatiques et d'un grand immeuble peu excitant de Concordia.
Lorsqu'on ouvre la porte d'un café, on reçoit un indice initial de quels et quelles types fréquentent l'établissement. Cette impression est importante, soit-elle correct ou non, même si le clientèle est bien plus dynamique qu'il ne le semble d'emblée. N'importe, il est clair du premier coup que Café Myriade est une adresse cool, jeune, vibrante , si l'on peut dire. Une musique forte et assez récente, sans être la torture lente des DC de Second Cup, assaille l'oreille à l'entrée. Le coin est petit, il ne doit pas y avoir plus qu'une dizaine de tables. Décor et atmosphère du côté bohème, brun, accueillant d'une drôle de manière. De derrière le comptoir se laissent voir maintes rangées de sacs hermétiques de café. Une vitrine de délices point prétentieuses, mais qui ont l'air sucrées et goûteuses se dresse à gauche de la caisse. Ici un menu général (une gamme de cafés, de chocolats chauds, de divers), là une carte de thés (top sélection et qualité), d'autres cafés.
Bien sûr, j'ai commandé un thé, leur seul Wulong, un Wu Yi. Mon amie a bu un chocolat chaud. Les deux confirmaient l'impressionnante réputation de la place : délicieux. Qu'en puis-je dire d'autre? Il y avait du « latté art » même sur le chocolat chaud. C'est gentil, ça, de faire plaisir aux gens qui n'aiment pas le café. Le thé me fut servi en un pot généreux. Un infuseur avait été utilisé (en acier inoxydable avec plein de trous minuscules), mais c'est mieux, quand même, qu'un sachet.
Il est possible que je sois la seule dans la ville qui n'ait pas visité ce café. Mais si ce n'est pas le cas, permettez-moi de suggérer à tous ceux qui étaient comme moi il y a deux jours de visiter, de fréquenter si possible, ce café. Je clique mon verre avec celle de mon amie, Café Myriade --à vous!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Hot & Sour Soup
A member of my family does not like Asian soups. I can never believe this, because I think Asian soups are exquisite; I've never particularly cared for Western ones. This is why, in any case, I make Asian soup whenever aforesaid flesh & blood is not around, and recenty this came to pass. As always my best resource for Asian recipes is Flatbreads & Flavours.
I've mentioned the cookbook Flatbreads & Flavours before. It's one of my favourites, and I strongly recommend it. Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid are the authors of several other cookbooks, also highly acclaimed, notably Hot Sour Salty Sweet, Mangoes and Curry Leaves, and Home Baking. All of them are based on the same idea: the married couple has a passion for food and travel. If you go the right places, of course, the two are easy and delicious to combine, and this is just what they do. Taxiing, biking, backpaking, their peregrinations take them from the big city to the remotest, most mountainous parts of Mongolia and Kazakhstan. Their books are rife with quasi-travelogue-style stories of people they meet. They get around, telling stories of a solitary Kirghiz family tucked between moutains and dunes, huge naan ovens in Afghanistan, a tireless chapatti street vendour on the island of Penang. The tales are of hospitality and culture. (Actually, I would appreciate some embarrassing flukes or mishaps. Surely there are jerks in Asia too?)
Europe and America are not neglected, although preference is indubitably given to the Orient. A favourite recipe of mine is their French ladder bread; a partially-whole-wheat dough with olives is stretched to a sort of flat, oblong ciabatta shape then slashed crosswise at intervals, hence the name.
The two Ontarians of course have the not insignificant souci of making breads baked on hot sand, by huge furnaces, or in portable clay ovens, and fitting them into a Canadian kitchen. The westernization is an avowed trial-and-error process. Frequently they mention that they happed upon some strategy and found that it reproduced their Asian experiences to a T. These serendipitous methods sometimes involve switching from griddle to oven at every bread or using an upside-down wok to cook lavash. I find the nonstop roll-cook-flip-roll-cook (or some such) rhythm challenging, especially since I have given up on ever rolling round chapatti. It's interesting, though, and comes with practice.
The Duguids, quite naturally, stress the importance of good flour. Flour is an immensely complex thing. Far from ending at white and whole wheat, in both kinds there are important gradations of gluten content; in brief, "hard" has more, and will help create a resilient texture, whereas "soft" has less and results in a tender crumb. Then there are other grains such as bulgur(and actual flour grains--someday, I really want to try sprouting wheatberries). It goes on and on. Often flours are combined in the same recipe for flavour and textue purposes. All in all, some of the required starch is very difficult if not impossible to find. I substitute and hope for the best quite often, and I'm still okay, so you could go ahead with it.
It's important to remember, though, that F&F is not only a bread book. Many recipes accompany each bread, for meats and kebabs and salads galore--serving recommendations for bread are kindly given. On, then, to the featured recipe. I adore hot and sour soup, and as I say, do not get it at home. At restaurants, I'm never sure exactly what I'm getting. There's that viscous stuff, tasty with lots of mushroom and more sour than hot; there's the more limpid soup, also sour but slihgtly hotter and packed with garnitures. This is the kind I make at home. It's not actually that difficult, although it requires various ingredients.
Here's how it goes. First, shred pork tenderloin. Marinate half with soy sauce, water, corn starch, rice vinegar, sugar and loads of ground pepper; simmer the other half in water for fifteen minutes, in order to make a sort of stock. Meanwhile, pour boiling water over the dried ingredients, namely tree ears (a kind of Chinese mushroom) and black mushrooms, a odd-looking Chinese fungus found only but commonly in ethnic grocery stores. (Lily buds, too, or "golden needles" are needed, but I have not yet found any.) When these are hydrated, cut out the tough bits, slice, and/or dice. Next, add the meat, mushrooms, tofu and more cracked pepper to the stock. Let this continue to simmer for ten minutes longer. Add six tablespoons of rice vinegar (more than a fourth cup), a mixture of water and soy sauce thickened with cornstarch. Finally, whisk an egg and pour it into the soup, stirring to break apart the strands. Serve.
This soup is absolutely delicious. The spicy comes mainly from the copious amount of black pepper, and the sour from the vinegar. There are plenty of chewy mushrooms and the meat is tasty. Recipes of this soup abound, so I highly recommend you try one out. (By the by, don't be afraid to leave out or add soup contents. As long as the basic stock and most essential fillings are more or less respected, you can toss anything solid into the pot.)
I've mentioned the cookbook Flatbreads & Flavours before. It's one of my favourites, and I strongly recommend it. Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid are the authors of several other cookbooks, also highly acclaimed, notably Hot Sour Salty Sweet, Mangoes and Curry Leaves, and Home Baking. All of them are based on the same idea: the married couple has a passion for food and travel. If you go the right places, of course, the two are easy and delicious to combine, and this is just what they do. Taxiing, biking, backpaking, their peregrinations take them from the big city to the remotest, most mountainous parts of Mongolia and Kazakhstan. Their books are rife with quasi-travelogue-style stories of people they meet. They get around, telling stories of a solitary Kirghiz family tucked between moutains and dunes, huge naan ovens in Afghanistan, a tireless chapatti street vendour on the island of Penang. The tales are of hospitality and culture. (Actually, I would appreciate some embarrassing flukes or mishaps. Surely there are jerks in Asia too?)
Europe and America are not neglected, although preference is indubitably given to the Orient. A favourite recipe of mine is their French ladder bread; a partially-whole-wheat dough with olives is stretched to a sort of flat, oblong ciabatta shape then slashed crosswise at intervals, hence the name.
The two Ontarians of course have the not insignificant souci of making breads baked on hot sand, by huge furnaces, or in portable clay ovens, and fitting them into a Canadian kitchen. The westernization is an avowed trial-and-error process. Frequently they mention that they happed upon some strategy and found that it reproduced their Asian experiences to a T. These serendipitous methods sometimes involve switching from griddle to oven at every bread or using an upside-down wok to cook lavash. I find the nonstop roll-cook-flip-roll-cook (or some such) rhythm challenging, especially since I have given up on ever rolling round chapatti. It's interesting, though, and comes with practice.
The Duguids, quite naturally, stress the importance of good flour. Flour is an immensely complex thing. Far from ending at white and whole wheat, in both kinds there are important gradations of gluten content; in brief, "hard" has more, and will help create a resilient texture, whereas "soft" has less and results in a tender crumb. Then there are other grains such as bulgur(and actual flour grains--someday, I really want to try sprouting wheatberries). It goes on and on. Often flours are combined in the same recipe for flavour and textue purposes. All in all, some of the required starch is very difficult if not impossible to find. I substitute and hope for the best quite often, and I'm still okay, so you could go ahead with it.
It's important to remember, though, that F&F is not only a bread book. Many recipes accompany each bread, for meats and kebabs and salads galore--serving recommendations for bread are kindly given. On, then, to the featured recipe. I adore hot and sour soup, and as I say, do not get it at home. At restaurants, I'm never sure exactly what I'm getting. There's that viscous stuff, tasty with lots of mushroom and more sour than hot; there's the more limpid soup, also sour but slihgtly hotter and packed with garnitures. This is the kind I make at home. It's not actually that difficult, although it requires various ingredients.
Here's how it goes. First, shred pork tenderloin. Marinate half with soy sauce, water, corn starch, rice vinegar, sugar and loads of ground pepper; simmer the other half in water for fifteen minutes, in order to make a sort of stock. Meanwhile, pour boiling water over the dried ingredients, namely tree ears (a kind of Chinese mushroom) and black mushrooms, a odd-looking Chinese fungus found only but commonly in ethnic grocery stores. (Lily buds, too, or "golden needles" are needed, but I have not yet found any.) When these are hydrated, cut out the tough bits, slice, and/or dice. Next, add the meat, mushrooms, tofu and more cracked pepper to the stock. Let this continue to simmer for ten minutes longer. Add six tablespoons of rice vinegar (more than a fourth cup), a mixture of water and soy sauce thickened with cornstarch. Finally, whisk an egg and pour it into the soup, stirring to break apart the strands. Serve.
This soup is absolutely delicious. The spicy comes mainly from the copious amount of black pepper, and the sour from the vinegar. There are plenty of chewy mushrooms and the meat is tasty. Recipes of this soup abound, so I highly recommend you try one out. (By the by, don't be afraid to leave out or add soup contents. As long as the basic stock and most essential fillings are more or less respected, you can toss anything solid into the pot.)
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
À propos du bibnat
Allant, après tout, très souvent à Camellia Sinensis, je ne puis faire autrement que de connaître un peu la région Berri. Or, quel "attrait", si l'on peut dire, se situe non pas seulement dans le coin, mais adjointe au Métro?
La BANQ!
L'acronyme est quelque peu mystérieux, mais bien connu: Bibliothèque et Archives Nationales du Québec. Moi, j'ai tard découvert ce nom de B-A-N-Q. Je préférais, et je préfère toujours, l'appeler la BibNat, ou Bibliothèque Nationale lorsque j'ai le goût d'être spécifique.
Un post parlant de bibliothèques, dites-vous peut-être, est hors sujet sur un blogue thé/foodie. Pas tout à fait: j'espère faire quelques liens, mais commençons par ça. Si vous n'avez pas de carte à la BibNat, obtenez-en un et plus vite que ça. Les abonnements sont disponibles pour n'importe quelle personne vivante au Québec. Apportez des preuves de résidence et d'identité, faites le pied de grue une quinzaine de minutes, et vous serez l'heureux récipient d'une carte en plastique vert et blanc munie d'un code-barre et d'un numéro de client.
C'est aussi facile que ça. Chaque vois que j'y vais, je vois une file considérable devant le comptoir des abonnements. Des gens âgés de quinze à quatre-vingts ans, de tout métier, de tout région, sont constamment en train d'obtenir leur membership, et pas pour rien.
La BANQ, c'est cinq étages remplis à déborder de livres et de "autres", c'est-à-dire de musique, de périodiques, et tout et tout. Leur collection est énorme, comprenant du matériel du plus didactique jusqu'au plus populaire. Leur criticisme littéraire fait rêver un académique en herbe. (Particulièrement leur criticisme Tintin--la quantité en est incroyable.) De l'autre côté, ils ont toutes les livres de cuisine qu'on pourrait désirer. Les romans policiers/mystères prennent grande place, mais les livres de mathématiques sont également fascinantes.
Il n'y pas que des livres non plus dans le grand beau édifice. Les bureaux sont nombreux, faits pour s'asseoir et passer quelques heures à lire. Leur labo de langues--des ordis en bibli sur lesquels sont installés de logiciels d'apprentissage de langues--m'occupe bien souvent. La Collection Nationale est une sorte de bibliothèque dans une bibliothèque: elle contient du matériel pour consultation sur place, des publications québécoises pour la plupart, notamment des manuels. Ils ont un mini-musée, et du Wifi gratuit. Si vous venez d'emprunter un livre qui ne peut pas attendre, installez-vous au café. (Bon, là, le café n'est pas le meilleur, mais qui irait là-bas avec Cam Sin à côté?)
Ils sont bien à jour. Le nouveau album d'Andrea Lindsay, Les Sentinelles Dorment, est déjà disponible, bien que je sois onzième dans la queue des réservations. Onze exemplaires dont un enregistrement sonore (tous prêtés et réservés--moi, je suis soixante-dixième) du nouveau romand de Marie Ndiaye, ayant rapporté le prix de l'Académie cet été, sont disponibles. Toutes les saisons de Buffy the Vampire Slayer y sont (très populaires, ceux-là).
Ainsi de suite. Pour le foodie et l'amateur des grands crus, checkez la section boissons et cuisine.
Je résume ce poste en une simple phrase: "Quel plaisir d'avoir une bibliothèque énorme au bout de ses doigts!" Car c'est vrai que la BibNat a tout, et que vous devriez l'investiguer.
La BANQ!
L'acronyme est quelque peu mystérieux, mais bien connu: Bibliothèque et Archives Nationales du Québec. Moi, j'ai tard découvert ce nom de B-A-N-Q. Je préférais, et je préfère toujours, l'appeler la BibNat, ou Bibliothèque Nationale lorsque j'ai le goût d'être spécifique.
Un post parlant de bibliothèques, dites-vous peut-être, est hors sujet sur un blogue thé/foodie. Pas tout à fait: j'espère faire quelques liens, mais commençons par ça. Si vous n'avez pas de carte à la BibNat, obtenez-en un et plus vite que ça. Les abonnements sont disponibles pour n'importe quelle personne vivante au Québec. Apportez des preuves de résidence et d'identité, faites le pied de grue une quinzaine de minutes, et vous serez l'heureux récipient d'une carte en plastique vert et blanc munie d'un code-barre et d'un numéro de client.
C'est aussi facile que ça. Chaque vois que j'y vais, je vois une file considérable devant le comptoir des abonnements. Des gens âgés de quinze à quatre-vingts ans, de tout métier, de tout région, sont constamment en train d'obtenir leur membership, et pas pour rien.
La BANQ, c'est cinq étages remplis à déborder de livres et de "autres", c'est-à-dire de musique, de périodiques, et tout et tout. Leur collection est énorme, comprenant du matériel du plus didactique jusqu'au plus populaire. Leur criticisme littéraire fait rêver un académique en herbe. (Particulièrement leur criticisme Tintin--la quantité en est incroyable.) De l'autre côté, ils ont toutes les livres de cuisine qu'on pourrait désirer. Les romans policiers/mystères prennent grande place, mais les livres de mathématiques sont également fascinantes.
Il n'y pas que des livres non plus dans le grand beau édifice. Les bureaux sont nombreux, faits pour s'asseoir et passer quelques heures à lire. Leur labo de langues--des ordis en bibli sur lesquels sont installés de logiciels d'apprentissage de langues--m'occupe bien souvent. La Collection Nationale est une sorte de bibliothèque dans une bibliothèque: elle contient du matériel pour consultation sur place, des publications québécoises pour la plupart, notamment des manuels. Ils ont un mini-musée, et du Wifi gratuit. Si vous venez d'emprunter un livre qui ne peut pas attendre, installez-vous au café. (Bon, là, le café n'est pas le meilleur, mais qui irait là-bas avec Cam Sin à côté?)
Ils sont bien à jour. Le nouveau album d'Andrea Lindsay, Les Sentinelles Dorment, est déjà disponible, bien que je sois onzième dans la queue des réservations. Onze exemplaires dont un enregistrement sonore (tous prêtés et réservés--moi, je suis soixante-dixième) du nouveau romand de Marie Ndiaye, ayant rapporté le prix de l'Académie cet été, sont disponibles. Toutes les saisons de Buffy the Vampire Slayer y sont (très populaires, ceux-là).
Ainsi de suite. Pour le foodie et l'amateur des grands crus, checkez la section boissons et cuisine.
Je résume ce poste en une simple phrase: "Quel plaisir d'avoir une bibliothèque énorme au bout de ses doigts!" Car c'est vrai que la BibNat a tout, et que vous devriez l'investiguer.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Tea Workshop
I ought to be doing this post in French, but that would mean enfeebling my poky English-French alternation.
I have long wanted to attend an "Atelier de Thé" at Camellia Sinensis. "Initiation to Tea" is the prerequisite for the other, more exciting and thematic ones. This was the one I took, partly as key to the door of more advanced workshops.
The small, discreetly paneled back room had been reconfigured. The small tables had been consolidated into one big one, surrounded with those comfy blue armless chairs, and centerpieced with a gaiwan, kyusu, and Yixing. There were nine people there; a varied lot, tending towards the young, hip, and new on the tea scene. Two French-French women who had come together, a curious Quebecois guy, three Anglophones with varying degrees of French who seemed to know each other, a curious (although I think a tad skeptical) couple, and me. The tea professional there was a typical handsome twenty- or thirty-something tea-sherpa, who I recognized vaguely from the teashop. (He, however, recognized me: when he was going round the table, asking whether people came to the shop often, said, "Vous, c'est pas la première fois." I was extremely flattered.)
A place had been set for all of us, with a glass of water and a black folder containing a print version of the information that was to be told us.(A free folder! That's bang for your buck.) We were welcomed with a small cup of Bai Mu Dan, a delicious traditional Fujian white tea, not mind-numbingly subtle like some. Fruity with the lightest touch of acidity, like donut peaches.
The atmosphere was friendly if very quiet. We listened, mainly, although Jonathan did solicit our questions and opinions every now and then. He started by introducing himself and asking us all how we'd come to tea, then describing the teashop, its proprietors, and its origins. Part one as a whole was a well-delivered lecture (lecture in the positive sense) on the history, manufacture, and terroir of tea. After a short break, we moved on to part two: tasting and brewing.
Before he joined in Cam Sin team, Jonathan, it seems, had worked in restauration for years, coming to Camellia Sinensis to get away from his stressful life. At the time, it was a humble, hippie, shisha-and-tea place, with cushions on the floor and indian music wafting psychedelically overhead. Slowly, the tea gained importance, the boutique opened next door, and the demand for shisha trickled out. The owners began to source their teas, first from top Parisian and Dutch purveyors, then (partly in the name of thrift) straight from the fields. He described the tea team as motivated and cool and his tea education as ongoing. My dream job.
During part one, I discovered, among other things, that the milk-and-sugar habits of the Brits probably stem from a time when green tea fermented and spoiled in the humid depths of cargoes that hauled them to England from distant ports. The flavourings masked the taste of the rather "off" tea. (Ah-hah, you false tea-loving UKers.) Through the beautiful slides of far-off tea field, he showed us how to differentiate between Japanese, Chinese and Indian plantations. In Japan and only Japan, bushes are trimmed to a convex surface, to increase plucking area. Look for flat "tea tables" and spaces between bush rows to identify China. In India, there are no spaces between rows of bushes, in order to maximize yield. While discussing Kenyan and CTC teas, he also suggested an experiment to make use of old tea bags. Brew one teabag in its bag, and open another to brew it loose. Compare the two. Apparently (I haven't tried yet) the loose one will actually be worse. Teabag tea is chosen to go with the bag and its constituents (glue, staples, string, paper). It masks these flavours by orchestrating with them, weaving them into a thick black cloak of acrid tea. (My words, not his.) As a result, without the bag, the tea has lost its intended accompaniment, and is oxymoronically even more repulsive than a plain Tazo teabag.
Although I was a little surprised to hear teabags even mentioned, it was relaxing, to be among people whose brewing habits were still quite largely Western. I admitted without fear of repudiation that I had started off with an English approach to tea, brewing Lapsang and Earl Grey in great big mugs. He described, without a trace of scorn, how to optimize this kind of brewing, adding that the reason he drank in small cups was simply that it allowed him to devote his whole mind to the tea.
Notwithstanding the tolerance of Brit brewing, in which careful meditation on flavours does not play a part, the tasting section was fascinating. He emphasized the importance of retronasal olfaction, that is, smell captured from the mouth. Few scents are forthcoming when plainly sniffed, but more appear when they wander into the nasal passages from the throat. To ensure proper tasting, he also advocated a silly-looking but effective sipping method. Noisily slurp your tea, as if you were eating soba noodles, in order to cool and oxygenate it. Swoosh it around in your mouth conspicuously, swallow, then breathe out noisily, to coax lingering smells into your nose. To describe the tastes you experience, start by check-listing the five flavour; bitter (all tea, he said, will be slightly bitter, so start there), sour, sweet, salty, and finally the painfully foodie-hip umami or savoury. Expand on these impressions to more specific gustative signifiers. If you can link the smells of the tea to a memory, go with it, and go further. (They do say that smell is a powerful memory trigger.) Narrate the tea: differentiate between its beginning and end. And so on.
I enjoyed the experience immensely, but it really was an initiation. As such, I was familiar with most of the basic content. The material I knew was well-presented, though (besides, a review never hurts) and interspersed with anecdotes and things that hadn't shown up in The Story of Tea. In any case, it affirmed my confidence that Camellia Sinensis is sincere in its desire to spread tea to all and sundry, for their maximum enjoyment.
If I had heard some things before, here and there, picked them up from the discerning blog posts of the tea masters, it was simply much more effective, and enchanting, to have them told to me in person, shown, shared. That was the advantage of coming to the shop on a Saturday morning to learn what could be read in a book. It was well worth the effort. The experience was zen, informative, and fun, and, any and all of my personal prejudices aside, I recommend it. We shall see what future workshops have to offer.
I have long wanted to attend an "Atelier de Thé" at Camellia Sinensis. "Initiation to Tea" is the prerequisite for the other, more exciting and thematic ones. This was the one I took, partly as key to the door of more advanced workshops.
The small, discreetly paneled back room had been reconfigured. The small tables had been consolidated into one big one, surrounded with those comfy blue armless chairs, and centerpieced with a gaiwan, kyusu, and Yixing. There were nine people there; a varied lot, tending towards the young, hip, and new on the tea scene. Two French-French women who had come together, a curious Quebecois guy, three Anglophones with varying degrees of French who seemed to know each other, a curious (although I think a tad skeptical) couple, and me. The tea professional there was a typical handsome twenty- or thirty-something tea-sherpa, who I recognized vaguely from the teashop. (He, however, recognized me: when he was going round the table, asking whether people came to the shop often, said, "Vous, c'est pas la première fois." I was extremely flattered.)
A place had been set for all of us, with a glass of water and a black folder containing a print version of the information that was to be told us.(A free folder! That's bang for your buck.) We were welcomed with a small cup of Bai Mu Dan, a delicious traditional Fujian white tea, not mind-numbingly subtle like some. Fruity with the lightest touch of acidity, like donut peaches.
The atmosphere was friendly if very quiet. We listened, mainly, although Jonathan did solicit our questions and opinions every now and then. He started by introducing himself and asking us all how we'd come to tea, then describing the teashop, its proprietors, and its origins. Part one as a whole was a well-delivered lecture (lecture in the positive sense) on the history, manufacture, and terroir of tea. After a short break, we moved on to part two: tasting and brewing.
Before he joined in Cam Sin team, Jonathan, it seems, had worked in restauration for years, coming to Camellia Sinensis to get away from his stressful life. At the time, it was a humble, hippie, shisha-and-tea place, with cushions on the floor and indian music wafting psychedelically overhead. Slowly, the tea gained importance, the boutique opened next door, and the demand for shisha trickled out. The owners began to source their teas, first from top Parisian and Dutch purveyors, then (partly in the name of thrift) straight from the fields. He described the tea team as motivated and cool and his tea education as ongoing. My dream job.
During part one, I discovered, among other things, that the milk-and-sugar habits of the Brits probably stem from a time when green tea fermented and spoiled in the humid depths of cargoes that hauled them to England from distant ports. The flavourings masked the taste of the rather "off" tea. (Ah-hah, you false tea-loving UKers.) Through the beautiful slides of far-off tea field, he showed us how to differentiate between Japanese, Chinese and Indian plantations. In Japan and only Japan, bushes are trimmed to a convex surface, to increase plucking area. Look for flat "tea tables" and spaces between bush rows to identify China. In India, there are no spaces between rows of bushes, in order to maximize yield. While discussing Kenyan and CTC teas, he also suggested an experiment to make use of old tea bags. Brew one teabag in its bag, and open another to brew it loose. Compare the two. Apparently (I haven't tried yet) the loose one will actually be worse. Teabag tea is chosen to go with the bag and its constituents (glue, staples, string, paper). It masks these flavours by orchestrating with them, weaving them into a thick black cloak of acrid tea. (My words, not his.) As a result, without the bag, the tea has lost its intended accompaniment, and is oxymoronically even more repulsive than a plain Tazo teabag.
Although I was a little surprised to hear teabags even mentioned, it was relaxing, to be among people whose brewing habits were still quite largely Western. I admitted without fear of repudiation that I had started off with an English approach to tea, brewing Lapsang and Earl Grey in great big mugs. He described, without a trace of scorn, how to optimize this kind of brewing, adding that the reason he drank in small cups was simply that it allowed him to devote his whole mind to the tea.
Notwithstanding the tolerance of Brit brewing, in which careful meditation on flavours does not play a part, the tasting section was fascinating. He emphasized the importance of retronasal olfaction, that is, smell captured from the mouth. Few scents are forthcoming when plainly sniffed, but more appear when they wander into the nasal passages from the throat. To ensure proper tasting, he also advocated a silly-looking but effective sipping method. Noisily slurp your tea, as if you were eating soba noodles, in order to cool and oxygenate it. Swoosh it around in your mouth conspicuously, swallow, then breathe out noisily, to coax lingering smells into your nose. To describe the tastes you experience, start by check-listing the five flavour; bitter (all tea, he said, will be slightly bitter, so start there), sour, sweet, salty, and finally the painfully foodie-hip umami or savoury. Expand on these impressions to more specific gustative signifiers. If you can link the smells of the tea to a memory, go with it, and go further. (They do say that smell is a powerful memory trigger.) Narrate the tea: differentiate between its beginning and end. And so on.
I enjoyed the experience immensely, but it really was an initiation. As such, I was familiar with most of the basic content. The material I knew was well-presented, though (besides, a review never hurts) and interspersed with anecdotes and things that hadn't shown up in The Story of Tea. In any case, it affirmed my confidence that Camellia Sinensis is sincere in its desire to spread tea to all and sundry, for their maximum enjoyment.
If I had heard some things before, here and there, picked them up from the discerning blog posts of the tea masters, it was simply much more effective, and enchanting, to have them told to me in person, shown, shared. That was the advantage of coming to the shop on a Saturday morning to learn what could be read in a book. It was well worth the effort. The experience was zen, informative, and fun, and, any and all of my personal prejudices aside, I recommend it. We shall see what future workshops have to offer.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Au festin de Babette
Ce café rue St-Denis tire son nom d'un film danois qui met en vedette une chef célèbre qui a fui le Paris pour se retrouver dans un village isolé au Danemark. Elle s'engage, désespéré, comme cuisinière à deux soeurs villagères. Lorsque Babette (la chef) gagne la loterie, elle se décide d'élaborer un éblouissant banquet dans le style de ceux qu'elle conconctait à Paris. Le film met en scène cet évènement extravagant et les réunions amoureuses qu'il occasionne.
Déjà, avec cet établissement, on ne va pas mal.
Je décris souvent dans mon blogue les restaurants. Pour la plupart, les repas que j'y prends sont des sorties, des occasions. Bien entendu, je ne mange pas chaque soir au resto. Par contre, il ne se passe rarement une journée où je ne fréquenterai pas de coffee-shop (ou de teashop, bien sur). À ne pas déduire que les cafés sont les pis-aller du bistrot. Premièrement, faut pas nier le nécéssité d'une petite tasse, le matin. Mais deuxièmement, les cafés sont des endroits merveilleux, variés, le confort et plaisir de tous les jours. Lieux d'étude, de jasage, de repos, de découverte même, les coffe-shops sont simplement tout ce qu'il y a de bon.
Mes éloges poétiques de ce genre se produisent souvent, ici. Désormais j'essaierai de réduire leur fréquence, mais celle-là est écrite sincèrement. Quand je suis allée au Boston, ville sans doute aux autres vertus nombreuses, le manque de cafés était vraiment frappant. Des Starbucks, il y en avait certes, nichés dans des librairies et glissés entre boutiques : et il y avait des bistrots servant des dîners chers et des bières recherchées, sans oublier les "sandwich joints". Mais dans ces endoits, après avoir mangé, on part! Quelle idée! (J'exclus Starbucks, qui n'a pas d'âme). Pas de traînage relax à sa table en écoutant subrepticement la conversation du voisin.
C'est un des grands amours que j'ai envers Montréal. Les Seconds Cups, il y en a assez, mais à la fin, on trouvera bien un petit coin original et sympa où boire un verre. De ces coins-là, je pourrais nommer une douzaine à l'instant. Mais revenons à Babette.
Le café joue la double fonction de boutique de douceurs alimentaires et coffee-shop. L'atmosphère y est éclectique, amicale, peinte en couleurs acceuillantes. Sur un mur sont juchées des théières et bouilloires de toutes sortes. Sur un autre se trouve un étalage d'huiles d'olive et de petites jarres précieuses et fascinantes. Une étagère propose du matériel à lire aux clients en besoin (les livres sont plutôt "lefty", tout comme la librairie d'à côté). Très belle assortiment de chocolats et de truffes que j'ai encore à entamer. Bref, lieu comfortablement chic.
La nourriture y est excellente et pas chère. Mon préféré serait le brownie au gingembre (les croissants sont également délicieux). Ils offrent un sélection impressionant de thés en vrac, dont de divers types non parfumés et de bons oolongs. Ils font bouillir l'eau au lieu de l'extraire de cette sombre machine utilisée dans les Second Cup qui donne de l'eau tiède. On vous donne un théière en acier inoxidable : pas optimal, mais mille fois mieux que ces contraptions en aluminium qui coulent et se chauffent comme une cuillère en argent.
Je déteste le café, ce qui constitue un obstacle au bilan complet d'un coffee shop. Shaïka sert apparement du café médiocre, mais personellement je l'estime pour ses biscuits double-chocolat, ses sandwichs, sa clientèle. J'ai le mot d'autrui que le café d'Au festin est, lui, bon.
Le film du même nom que cette place illustre des débauches gourmandes parisiennes dans un paysage nordique et neigeux. Ça vous dit quelque chose? Si Au festin de Babette le petit coin montréalais est un lieu plutôt de charme et de délices raffinés que d'extrêmes et chères gourmandises, moi, je suis heureux de m'y réfugier hors du vent.
Déjà, avec cet établissement, on ne va pas mal.
Je décris souvent dans mon blogue les restaurants. Pour la plupart, les repas que j'y prends sont des sorties, des occasions. Bien entendu, je ne mange pas chaque soir au resto. Par contre, il ne se passe rarement une journée où je ne fréquenterai pas de coffee-shop (ou de teashop, bien sur). À ne pas déduire que les cafés sont les pis-aller du bistrot. Premièrement, faut pas nier le nécéssité d'une petite tasse, le matin. Mais deuxièmement, les cafés sont des endroits merveilleux, variés, le confort et plaisir de tous les jours. Lieux d'étude, de jasage, de repos, de découverte même, les coffe-shops sont simplement tout ce qu'il y a de bon.
Mes éloges poétiques de ce genre se produisent souvent, ici. Désormais j'essaierai de réduire leur fréquence, mais celle-là est écrite sincèrement. Quand je suis allée au Boston, ville sans doute aux autres vertus nombreuses, le manque de cafés était vraiment frappant. Des Starbucks, il y en avait certes, nichés dans des librairies et glissés entre boutiques : et il y avait des bistrots servant des dîners chers et des bières recherchées, sans oublier les "sandwich joints". Mais dans ces endoits, après avoir mangé, on part! Quelle idée! (J'exclus Starbucks, qui n'a pas d'âme). Pas de traînage relax à sa table en écoutant subrepticement la conversation du voisin.
C'est un des grands amours que j'ai envers Montréal. Les Seconds Cups, il y en a assez, mais à la fin, on trouvera bien un petit coin original et sympa où boire un verre. De ces coins-là, je pourrais nommer une douzaine à l'instant. Mais revenons à Babette.
Le café joue la double fonction de boutique de douceurs alimentaires et coffee-shop. L'atmosphère y est éclectique, amicale, peinte en couleurs acceuillantes. Sur un mur sont juchées des théières et bouilloires de toutes sortes. Sur un autre se trouve un étalage d'huiles d'olive et de petites jarres précieuses et fascinantes. Une étagère propose du matériel à lire aux clients en besoin (les livres sont plutôt "lefty", tout comme la librairie d'à côté). Très belle assortiment de chocolats et de truffes que j'ai encore à entamer. Bref, lieu comfortablement chic.
La nourriture y est excellente et pas chère. Mon préféré serait le brownie au gingembre (les croissants sont également délicieux). Ils offrent un sélection impressionant de thés en vrac, dont de divers types non parfumés et de bons oolongs. Ils font bouillir l'eau au lieu de l'extraire de cette sombre machine utilisée dans les Second Cup qui donne de l'eau tiède. On vous donne un théière en acier inoxidable : pas optimal, mais mille fois mieux que ces contraptions en aluminium qui coulent et se chauffent comme une cuillère en argent.
Je déteste le café, ce qui constitue un obstacle au bilan complet d'un coffee shop. Shaïka sert apparement du café médiocre, mais personellement je l'estime pour ses biscuits double-chocolat, ses sandwichs, sa clientèle. J'ai le mot d'autrui que le café d'Au festin est, lui, bon.
Le film du même nom que cette place illustre des débauches gourmandes parisiennes dans un paysage nordique et neigeux. Ça vous dit quelque chose? Si Au festin de Babette le petit coin montréalais est un lieu plutôt de charme et de délices raffinés que d'extrêmes et chères gourmandises, moi, je suis heureux de m'y réfugier hors du vent.
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