Posts tagged ‘Sightseeing’

Jun 13

La Cabrera

1/2 La Cabrera is the perfect starting point for Buenos Aires restaurant rehashing (which I’m trying to keep short and sweet) as it’s where we wildly indulged in steak on the day we arrived and the day we left the city. Of the four parrillas we tried, this was easily our favorite.

It’s definitely baffling because they kind of embody much that I hate: long waits, stifling crowds and rickety tables cramped closer together than the worst Manhattan perpetrator. And normally, being passed over when all the other customers waiting outside for seats were being handed free glasses of champagne would’ve been the last straw. But yes, the fact that we returned six days after our first visit is a testament to their allure.

It did have the advantage of being a ten-minute walk from our apartment, just across the railroad tracks, but that was just a happenstance bonus.

The steakhouse is not traditional in that it’s a touch more stylish them some (though not slick). The décor is typically woody and rustic, but the music is more ambient techno than acoustic guitar folksy, and instead of standard papas fritas on the side, you’re plied with baker’s dozen of ramekins containing pickled and creamed vegetables and starches, banchan-style. The portions are enormous, completely high quality and were priced well below our expectations ($61 for meat, sides, dessert, bottle of Malbec and glass of champagne, all for two). It set the standard for the rest of the week where meat wasn’t always so monstrously sized, wine glasses weren’t filled so tall and desserts not as decadent. We practically peaked on night one.

Bread basket and pimento cheese spread. Southern hemisphere meets the American south.

We couldn’t gauge portion sizes based on price because everything seemed reasonable by NYC standards. We initially ordered a bife de chorizo (sirloin) and an ojo de bife (rib eye) and thankfully were told that that was insane (I think my Spanish classes are finally starting to pay off—while I still can barely speak coherently, I understood way more on this trip compared to Mexico City last May, and had little trouble communicating). Instead, it was suggested that we order media portions of each, which still ended up being gargantuan at half-size. Being big leftover advocates (which is kind of frowned on here, but I just can’t waste food), we were excited to learn that para llevar is completely normal in Buenos Aires and we were offered doggie bags throughout the week for things that even I wouldn’t normally bother wrapping up.

The sides on the plank include white beans two ways, one with parsley the other with tomatoes, an eggplant caponata, endive with creamy dressing, baby potatoes in another creamy sauce and the only accompaniment that scared me: cold rice tossed with what I suspect was mayonnaise.

As you can see the ojo de bife on the right is a little pinker because I asked for it “jugoso.” I’d heard horror stories about overcooked meat, but that never turned out to be a problem even when doneness wasn’t specified.

Clockwise from the top: whipped sweet potato, mashed potatoes, black olives in a tomato sauce, creamed mushrooms, roasted garlic, raisin applesauce and onions pickled in red wine vinegar in the center.

Here’s what I hate to admit: I swear I can’t tell the difference between grass-fed beef and our corn-fed style. I don’t doubt that I could detect nuances in a side-by-side taste test but I only eat steak in the US maybe two or three times a year so the flavor wasn’t easily conjurable.

I’ve never been beef-crazed, but while in Buenos Aires I found myself wanting more and more meat, seriously, even while chewing I was already planning ahead to where we could try more the next day. When I thought for sure I would burn out after two meals and the opposite occurred, I realized something unusual was going on.

Most beef here is just boring, that’s the problem. This meat had some chewiness, the flavor strong and pure. Much of the wow came from the contrast between outer char and inner tenderness. I do think they trim their meat less, leaving desirable (to me) pockets of fat.

I love dulce de leche filled crepes, a.k.a. panqueque. This was a fancy rendition with fresh cream, peach slices and ice cream that tasted like nutmeg and cinnamon. For someone who’s not supposed to be eating sugar, this is the type of tooth-achey concoction I’ll make an exception for because I like my desserts super-sweet and gooey, all or nothing.

We did receive a complimentary glass of champagne after dessert, which nearly made up for being alcohol-slighted during our 45-minute stint outside. Yes, even while trying to relax on vacation I hold grudges.

* * *

Luckily, we were able to squeeze in a lunch before having to head to the airport and I finally got my morcilla. The dark innards inside the casing were very moist and soft and slightly sweet. If they weren’t called blood sausages, I don’t think Americans would be so scared of them. Ok, I guess the blobs look scary, too. They cracked out chimichurri (which doesn’t come with most steaks in Buenos Aires, contrary to the condiment’s ubiquitousness in US Argentine restaurants) as well as an oniony tomato puree.

We ordered half an ojo de bife. Interestingly, the sides weren’t exactly the same this time and included hummus which was a tasty oddity. And yes, we took the steak remnants to go, packed them in a suitcase and ate them for dinner back in Brooklyn. Quite possibly the best souvenir ever.

La Cabrera * Cabrera 5009, Buenos Aires, Argentina

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Jun 9

Beefed Up

Painful. Returning from a not-long-enough vacation is always painful but transitioning from pleasant fall weather to heat wave spring isn’t making me any happier about being back in NYC. (98 degrees or not, no one’s allowed to call the three weeks from Memorial Day to June 21 summer. You have to be a stickler or else society will simply fall apart, you know? Last night I went nuts because friends referred to Jane’s Addiction as ‘90s when their big hits were so undeniably late ‘80s. Early June is not summer and 1988 is not 1990.)

Buenos Aires was fun, and as is typical on vacation I did little else than eat, walk a lot and generally hang out. I have a woeful amount of non-food photos to show for my travels, as you’ll see below.

This is BA in a non-comprehensive nutshell:

My Starbucks fantasy was not to be. We were shocked to arrive at Alto Palermo mall to face a line at least forty people deep, four days after opening. We unpurposely ended up at this block the next day after tracking down a theater to see subtitled Indiana Jones, which turned out to be an alien movie (and bizarrely, the day after that when a saunter from the zoo put us out nearby again) and the mob scene was the same. New Yorkers would be pitching an antsy fit, but Porteños took this as an opportunity for making out. I witnessed a lot of overzealous making out in the past week.

They eat late, which is perfect for my inner clock. If you eat dinner at 10pm, which is normal, you can eat a large lunch at 2pm and have time to digest it, plus you can sleep until 11:30am like I normally do on weekends and not feel guilty because you can still manage to squeeze a lot into your shifted schedule.

Crazy good value. Europeans in NYC are annoying because of their spending power. Yet it didn’t feel so bad dividing the cost of everything in Buenos Aires by three. A 36 peso steak is only $12. Hotels are also completely reasonable, but we went the apartment rental route because it was kind of fun to have a kitchen and small terrace with a grill even it was a bit too cold to cook outdoors. We actually had to turn the heat on, which is hard to imagine now as we're scrambling to install air conditioners. A week cost me my income tax rebate check, not too horrible, and I definitely could’ve stayed elsewhere for cheaper but I didn't want to.

Like Mexico City (the only other firsthand source of comparison I have for Latin America), Buenos Aires is a dog city. They love them (and seem to be unfond of cats—when we told our building manager that we played with the stray cats at the cemetery in Recoleta he made a face and said, “oh, I don’t like cats.”), they make them wear sweaters and t-shirts and apparently, there are no such things as leash laws and forced scooping. Yes, BA is the shittiest city I’ve ever encountered. My block of Carroll Gardens is one of the shittiest in the neighborhood but it could never compete with BA. There are probably ten piles of poop per block, it’s an obstacle course, and I was probably unwise to bring along a brand new pair of shoes which are now encrusted in mud and feces.

Which brings me to another fascination (and another New York Times link from this week’s paper): sidewalks. You can always judge a city by its sidewalks, and it’s one of the only nice things about America that I take for granted. I forget that elsewhere wide, smooth concrete, well-maintained sidewalks are a given. If I’m correct, it’s because we’re a fairly new country and the city creates them while in older countries each property was responsible for creating its own sidewalk so they differ from house to house or business; some brick, others tiny tiles, some cracked like tectonic plates and filled with mud puddles. I never wore the pair of heels I brought with me because they were too dangerous for maneuvering crevasses, bulging tree roots and crumbling stone stairs. Bangkok was pure chaos and that was reflected in their unwalkable sidewalks and dangerous uncrossable streets. BA wasn’t that bad. They drive like maniacs and have zero regard for pedestrians in BA but they do stop at stoplights (not at stop signs) and there are crosswalks at some intersections. A toddler was runover and killed by a taxi while (not in front of us—this was on the news) were in town and this wasn’t surprising in the least.

Weird blonde hair. I tried to take photos but don’t like surreptitiously snapping pics of strangers. The entire country has bad dye jobs. I’m guessing that a majority of the women have my hair color, dark brown, but persist in being blonde which creates this strange washed out quality. Some go for honey blonde, which sometimes works; others try for platinum and end up with orange streaks and black roots. And yes, Argentines are an abnormally attractive lot (though the 1 in 30 plastic surgery statistic might explain that) but the ladies should stop messing with their hair. Also, the latino mullet is alive and well in Buenos Aires.

Strange preference for 7up. Do we even have 7up anymore? Pepsi was also present but everyone who wasn’t drinking seltzer/agua con gas (I love a country that’s gung ho on club soda as it’s my favorite non-alcoholic beverage) seemed to order 7up. And there were ads everywhere.

Purple clothes. I seem to recall purple being big in fashion a few years ago here. But there’s a clear mania for it in BA this very second. Every clothing, shoe and housewares store seemed to be showcasing items in purple. Why?

You can’t escape the white trash S, even in the southern hemisphere. After hearing a gaggle of college-aged American girls walking behind us say, “we’re totally going to Olsens for brunch Sunday,” I totally lost interest in going to Olsen for brunch, despite staying only two blocks away. All tourists go to Olsen for Sunday brunch. We got Basque tapas instead and there were no Uggs in sight.

Beef is prevalent, enormous in portion and insanely cheap, duh. Beef is the meat I rarely eat in my day to day existence—I’m more into pork and poultry—but I’ll confess to getting hooked on steak. Just like not being burnt out on Chinese food after returning from China, I could totally eat a steak and blood sausage after seven days of the stuff. I’ll have to document these carnivorous exploits in individual restaurant-focused posts because there’s too much to describe in this quick run down.

MILF translates as MQQT (mamá que quisiera tirarme) in Spanish. You learn important things like this if you watch American Pie while on vacation. And despite Argentina appearing to have most of our major TV shows, they were also airing Van Helsing, which is bizarre because that was also on TV last May when were in Mexico City.

Ok, photos. Rather than continuing to ramble aimlessly, I have pictures (some with explanatory captions when "notes" appears on the bottom left) to look at instead. It’s just easier this way.

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May 30

Yanking My Chain

Lucky me. I’ll be heading to Buenos Aires just in time try Argentina’s first Starbucks, which opens today in Palermo, the neighborhood I will be residing in tomorrow morning.

Ok, I have no strong opinion on Starbucks one way or the other (as you saw last week, I totally patronize coffee carts) but I do love checking out US chains in foreign countries. I did have a green tea éclair at a Beijing Starbucks and a red bean scone at a location in Shanghai, and I didn’t feel like a dirty American for doing so.

I’ll only be away for a week, and I have no idea if I’ll be posting or not. I tend not to while vacation because I’m just not that plugged in and I’m not deluded enough to think anyone would notice a seven-day online absence. I never miss my cell phone (which could have something to do with the fact that I only got my first one last year and use it like never) but I always check e-mail because I’m old (wasn’t it declared geriatric like two years ago?)

So, tonight I’m off to eat grass-fed beef, dulce de leche and maybe even a newfangled “mate latte.” Adios.

Photo of now-gone Forbidden City Starbucks by Miguel A. Monjas via Bloggle

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Apr 9

Don’t Cry For Me

Despite feigning the ability to think independently, I’m frequently swayed by media and the opinions of strangers. Therefore, I have booked a trip to Buenos Aires for the first week of June. Is it the poor man's Barcelona? The Prague of the ‘00s? (Slate, Sun, Newsweek, Times ) Or an annoying place that Brown grads have turned into an Andean Williamsburg?

All I know is that there’s a great exchange rate, a shitload of beef, that June is nearly winter and that there’s a hotel that bizarrely bears my name. Beyond that I’m clueless.

Does anyone have any first (or second or third) hand knowledge of the city?

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Jan 25

Kom Jug Yuen

I can’t believe I forgot to mention “The Jug” (I don’t know that anyone actually calls it that but it sounds like a good stoner nickname) a.k.a. Toronto’s Kom Jug Yuen. I originally intended to try dim sum, perhaps at Lai Wah Heen, something a little higher end, but as it turned out I was invited to dim sum twice in January, a very strange thing since I’d only been asked to dim sum once in the entire five years prior.

I didn’t want to o.d. on yum cha, and by the time we settled into our weird pseudo-zen-like hotel (there were self-published looking new age guides instead of bibles in the drawers, cds of supposedly relaxing music and a choice of incense to permeate your room each day) that I only picked because it was centrally located minus outrageous prices or floral bedspreads and had a full kitchen, we were dead from waking up at 5am (I usually get up at 8:30am on weekdays, which might be late by most employed people’s standards).

I just wanted something simple, possibly soupy, like the New York Noodletown of Toronto. That was totally Kom Jug Yuen, except that I don’t think strangers were seated together at the same table—I told you Canadians are sensitive about their personal space.

I always order roast pork noodle soup at Noodletown, so I did the same here. That would’ve been plenty but the glossy, unnaturally red, roast meats being brought out in plastic tubs and hacked up at the front counter couldn’t be ignored either.

Choosing just one meat was impossible. Chicken, duck pork over rice was the only way. At least we had that kitchen with a usable refrigerator for leftovers (the last time we were in Canada, our frozen horsemeat unthawed in the minibar, drenching everything with blood and we got charged for every bottle and can we temporarily removed to scrub).

I'm not sure if it was the bone chilling weather, that I was starving by 4pm after throwing up the only thing I'd eaten all day, a LaGuardia donut ,or if the soup was really amazing. I like to believe that the rich broth transcended mere cold and hunger.

Kom Jug Yuen * 371 Spadina Ave., Toronto, Canada

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Jan 12

1 Comment

Anchor Bar

1/2 Due to its personal timeliness, I decided to kick off my impossible 1,049 words in three weeks task with Calvin Trillin’s “An Attempt to Compile the Short History of the Buffalo Wing.” It was insightful to get a 1980 perspective on a then relatively recent invention, kind of the equivalent of researching foodstuffs from ’91 today.

Hmm, how about pesto-sauced pizza with artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes? I sure thought that was the ultimate edible at the time. I’m guessing the popularization of “gourmet” pizzas can be credited to Wolfgang Puck…in 1982. Ok, culinary trends took their time meandering up to the Northwest.

Oddly, around 1991 a college friend’s boyfriend came to visit from Rochester during the Super Bowl and insisted we eat buffalo wings to celebrate. I didn’t even know what they were (and had never watched a football game in my life). And he couldn’t find the ready-chopped drumettes in the grocery store. We made do with poultry parts of some sort. What I recall most is drinking so much that I had to call in sick to my movie theater job that evening. Wings didn’t wow me.

However, I’d forgotten that I’d already read this chicken wing essay a few years ago. And to compound my fears of age-onset dementia, if it weren’t for these two sentences I would’ve also forgotten just about everything about ever being at the Anchor Bar in 2000. Wings still didn’t wow me a decade later.

My first meal of 2008 proved more memorable but unfortunately brief. A snowstorm hit Toronto on January 1, which made the drive to Buffalo slow going. But being a fanatical planner, we made it to town just on schedule with an hour to wing it up before needing to head to the airport (the nice thing about small cities is that you can cut it close; returning and rental car, checking in and getting through security can all practically be done in 20 minutes). I was nervous that they wouldn’t be open on the pseudo-holiday because no one answered when I called. But as I was reminded upon entering, the phone number is a pay phone that seems to get answered on whim.

I never thought of Buffalo as much of a tourist destination but it seemed obvious that a majority of the diners were not locals. Everyone, including us, were getting the friendly “where are you from” interrogation from our waitress.

There was no time for small talk. Time was ticking away. I started sweating it when our Sam Adams (no Genesee for us) arrived and twenty minutes later we were still wingless.

I eat slower than a snail (ok, they move slowly—who knows how they eat) so I did my best to get as many wings down as possible when they eventually arrived. We must’ve eaten like maniacs because we surprised our waitress with one remaining wing when checked on to see if we needed a to go container. We ended up with an 8/12 split, I with the lesser number since my wing fanaticism isn’t as strong. I get bogged down by the acidic vinegariness of the neon orange sauce.

In fact, earlier this week I posited the unthinkable.

“What if we made different kinds of wings for Super Bowl?” (ducks)

“What?! Let me guess, some Asian style?”

“Well, duh.”

James knows too well my desire to sneak fish sauce, shrimp paste or sambal into all items possible. And in fact my inaugural issue of Food & Wine, which I’d forgotten I’d subscribed to (see, the memory again) has a recipe Spicy Sriracha Chicken Wings courtesy of Michael Symon.

Hot isn’t that hot but suicidal, the next and last notch up, seemed too macabre. I’m not the wing-maker in my household so I can’t say what makes ours so kicky. A few extra shakes of cayenne, I imagine.

The thing that makes a superior wing is the crispiness of the skin. That’s kind of the point, right? The tiny pieces ensure a good skin to meat ratio and if the outside doesn’t contrast with the meaty interior then it’s a waste of calories. Anchor Bar has the texture down pat. These wings could stand to be left sauced on the plate for some time before giving in to sogginess.

One thing to note is the absence of carrots at Anchor Bar. It’s a celery-only joint, and I kind of like that despite normally being depressed by celery. You need a palate cleanser and something bland to benefit from the fattiness of the blue cheese dressing. Oh, the dressing should be thick and chunky, almost like spackle so that a celery stick could stand upright if stuck into the plastic container, if you felt like doing such a thing.

We finished just in time for Toronto’s southward-moving snow to descend on Buffalo. Flurries were swirling as we left the restaurant, though not enough to disrupt our take off time by much. And thankfully, we were fortified with enough Tabasco sauce and fried chicken to make it through the bumpy 50-minute journey back to the city. A few sick bags were employed on the short ride and not by me.

Anchor Bar * 1047 Main St., Buffalo, NY

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Jan 10

Tim Hortons

I honestly don't think I even consumed a dozen donuts (I just can't type doughnut even though it seems more proper) in all twelve months of 2007–they're not my sweet of choice–but I made up for it over New Year's weekend. And the reason for that uncharacteristic behavior is simple: Tim Hortons. I know they're all over the United States now, but if something isn't in the immediate tri-state area it's still exotic to me.

My donut binge began unwisely at a LaGuardia Dunkin' Donuts. While picking up a 6am coffee, I couldn't resist an artificially strawberry-flavored pink glazed specimen. That might've been a mistake.

I still can't say whether it poisoned me or the tiny plane was the source of my stomach distress, but I was queasy an hour later when disembarking in Buffalo. However, I didn't get violently ill until after popping the two Tums James gave me that tasted like they were made of shampoo, apparently from sitting in the bottom of his toiletry bag for months.

We stopped at a Tim Hortons (which is great because it makes use of what I call the white trash S. Tim Horton is the hockey player. Tim Horton's would the hockey player's restaurant. Tim Hortons is just colloquial. I cringe when I hear people say Barnes & Nobles, Nordstroms, JCPenneys and the like, though just recently I caught myself saying that I worked off Williams St. when it's plain ol' William) on the outskirts of Buffalo and the tragedy was that I was too ill to indulge in a timbit, apple fritter or any of the Canadian chain's specialties. My queasy stomach temporarily stood still when REM's "Driver Eight" came over the speaker while I was hunched over the toilet bowl in one of their bathroom stalls because it was an odd song to be playing. Eh, and then I threw up in their parking lot and repeated that lovely performance two more times during the two-hour drive to Toronto. Sadly, I never got to sample their excessive coffee, breakfast sandwich and donut combo.

Luckily, I perked up enough to later enjoy a maple-glazed Boston cream donut at a mall where strangely, the anchors were Wal-Mart and nofrills. Maple bars, a total NW staple, don't even exist in NYC; people have no idea what you're talking about if you bring them up.

On our third Tim Hortons excursion I got a butter pecan tart. I forgot about these mini treats that seem to flourish in Canada. They're like tiny individual pecan pies with a thicker richer crust. You can also find plain and raisin topped versions in any grocery store.

We love Tim Hortons so much that after our first visit to Toronto in 2000, we named a plush toy rabbit (James's mom is always giving him pointless and inappropriate gifts) Tim Horton. I don't know what ever happened to him, though this very second there is a nameless stuffed animal reindeer and giraffe in the living room.

Tim Hortons * throughout Canada and random U.S. states

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Jan 9

Coca

Toronto was brief but fun so I don’t want to sound like I’m whining. I just had no idea that Sunday was such a literal day of rest. For anyone who knows the city, I also looked into Jamie Kennedy Wine Bar, Foxley Bistro and Torito, none were open. And we weren’t ready to go out until after 9pm, which was even trickier. I have a phobia of dining when a restaurant is close to closing time and even more so when I’m the last customer in a room.

Coca appealed to me since I was interested in how Canadians were interpreting Spanish tapas (strange that I have to use Spanish as an adjective but anymore tapas means anything served in small amounts) plus they were supposed to be open until midnight, which turned out to be 11pm. That would still be fine, but it was a little off-putting that we were reminded when arriving at 9:30pm that if we wanted food we needed to order promptly before the kitchen closed. Exactly the kind of thing I hate even though the staff was completely attitude-free. It doesn’t take much to make me jumpy.

I would’ve ordered more food if father time hadn’t been hovering over me. We barely had a chance to scrutinize the menu and chalkboards. Horse bresaola certainly isn’t something you’d find on the charcuterie list at Daniel Boulud’s new much blogged about wine bar. I still can’t figure out how Canadians are pretty much same as Americans except they get wound up over hockey and have no squeamishness about devouring equines.

Also on the never-in-New York tangent, I noticed Czehoski, Coca’s sister restaurant across the street (which was still full when we left, perhaps we should’ve chosen differently) had calve's brain po’boys on the menu. I'm not even sure if the FDA allows us to eat brains in the U.S.

We quickly decided on three items and a couple glasses of big, fruity Bodegas Y Vinedos de Murcia, Caracol Serrano, Jumilla. I didn' t know how to order in metric; wines are served in 60, 120 and 180 ml portions. While I normally find James's Blackberry usage irksome, it was useful to convert milliliters to ounces on the fly.

Elk, lamb and beef sobrasada and machego on toast. See? I wasn’t kidding yesterday about caribou being Canadian food. The oily sausage and melted cheese were very rich; you probably wouldn’t want to eat more than two of these treats.

Hokkaido scallops and chorizo with roasted squash consommé were the opposite. I couldn’t detect the squash and wanted double the portion. And with forks only and no bread, a lot of the liquid went to waste.

I’m still steamed about never getting to try a sugared red pepper coca in Barcelona, despite two attempts. No glazy peppers here but caramelized onions sufficed. Interspersed with gorgonzola and sliced apples, the threesome was perfect on the thin crust. You would hope a restaurant’s namesake dish would be a hit and this was.

Coca * 783 Queen St. W., Toronto, Canada

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Jan 8

beerbistro

Deciding last minute to head to Toronto for New Year’s Eve didn’t leave me with many dining options the night of the big event. Anything creative or talked about was already booked. Enough desperation set in that I was even willing to overpay as is practically mandated by holiday set menus.

Toronto’s big citiest aspect was restaurant pricing, which seemed more European in its painfully large numbers and with no favorable exchange rate to buffer the effect. I’ve heard people say that food is cheap in America, hence our horrible fatness but I do think our higher end restaurants provide relative value. Entrees that might be in the $30 range in NYC, swell into the $40s in Toronto. I just couldn’t buy into that.

I scoured Open Table for the least offensive option and came up with beerbistro, which sold me primarily on its location one block from our hotel. I’m no oenophile, but I did wonder if there was something inherently fratty about a menu paired with beer. On the other hand, I'm not a beer afficionado either so I won't even attempt speaking to the food and beverage matches.

Well, at least it was something different, and the food was better and crowd hipper (well, minus the suave Ralph Lauren-ish guy who kept eyeballing me causing me wonder why the interest until I saw his date, a pretty blonde who happened to be rather big and tall, plus-size modelish. Great, I vow to lay off the pork belly in 2008) than I’d anticipated.

Duxelles in puff pasty and smoked salmon on blini and oyster were kind of like wedding appetizers from a non-bad caterer. Paired with DeKoninck.

Wild mushroom soup with X.O and black truffle cream. I never order soup anywhere. I would’ve chosen the foie gras and pate option but I’d already indulged in cretons that afternoon. Initially, I was swayed by the truffly odor wafting from the bowl at our neighbor’s table. Paired with Innis & Gunn Limited Edition ’06.

Berkshire bacon wrapped partridge stuffed with B.C. chanterelles, braised pork belly, savoy cabbage polenta and nut brown jus. The mains were all fairly hearty. I was tempted by the beef tenderloin that James ultimately ordered because the mashed potatoes contained cambozola, one of my soft blue cheese obsessions, but bacon won out.

The partridge was just the type of thing I enjoy, rich on top of richness. Austere food has its place but not on a holiday. I could’ve sworn the polenta contained cheese, though. Paired with Christoffel Blond.

Desserts were desserts. Raspberry sorbet and chocolate cake were as might be expected. The crème brûlée appeared to be spiked with alcohol of some sort, not beer, thank goodness. The sweet trio got ignored by many since midnight was creeping up and everyone was getting their confetti shooters ready. Paired with Rochefort.

The biggest question I'm left with is how to categorize cuisine in Toronto. Bistro implies French, but this wasn't heavily so. In the U.S. most food that isn't distinctly any nationality can roughly be classified as American. But Canadian? I can’t help but think of caribou, nuts and berries. What is Canadian food, anyway?

beerbistro * 18 King St., Toronto, Canada

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Jan 4

Carousel Bakery

It wasn’t until Monday while I was at the St. Lawrence Market in Toronto that it occurred to me that NYC lacks a fancy indoor market like many cities have. And then the Times wrote about this very thing yesterday.

I’ll admit I skimmed, but two words leaped off the screen: tripe truck! Really? Supposedly, a restaurant consultant is envisioning a South Street Seaport market showcasing talents of chefs, in this instance a Batali-run tripe truck. I think it would be cool to have an international tripe truck serving regional styles. I could have menudo, cold Sichuan with chile oil, lampredotto. I mean, S’MAC and Rice to Riches have worked the single minded shtick. Why not let stomach lining have its day?

I’m one of those soulless types who are ambivalent about farmers’ markets. Obviously, I’m not against locally grown meat and produce, that would be stupid, but I don’t get that excited over it either excited and I never have the energy to actually pay visits to greenmarkets, wonderful as they sound. Maybe it’s because I hate the outdoors and everything in the city ends up inducing crankiness because too many people want to do the same thing and many of those people have abhorrent personalities.

The funny thing was that shoppers were complaining about the awful crowds at the St. Lawrence Market and I’d read as much on the internet beforehand. I was expecting a mob scene and at most there were a few counters with three people in a line. That was it.

Toronto was baffling that way. I’ve been before but can barely remember a thing about it (thank you online diary. Wow, I've really managed to tame my long-windedness since 2000). Despite being the most populous city in Canada, it felt more like a Portland; things close early, aren’t even open on Sunday and the streets are a ghost town after 9pm. And strangers stare at you, like they don’t know they’re supposed to mind their own business and avoid eye contact. Freaks. And they follow rules like waiting for lights to change and get flustered when entering the exit.

We trailed a woman into a liquor store, who half-way through the exit door realized she had done wrong and made a big fuss about getting back around us and going in the proper entrance half a foot to our right. We just continued on in through the exit and predictably miffed her.

I also realized that on street corners and waiting in lines I stand too close to others, making them nervous. It’s a New Yorkism that’s always unsettled me, the worst being the person in line behind you getting sideways and putting their things on the counter before you’ve even been rung up. I only realize that I’m physically aggressive and have no sense of personal space when out of town, though obviously not in China where elderly will mow you down.

So, the market was completely manageable and I picked up two Quebec raw milk cheeses: Riopelle de l'Isle, a super buttery triple cream and Geai Bleu, an almost cheddar-like, semi-firm blue, mild but not squishy like the soft blue cheeses I’m obsessed with.

Bizarrely, I stumbled upon a version of the cheese that started my teenage-born fixation, Bresse Bleu, at a Dominion grocery store across the street. No special cheese, just a superstore offering, but not one I’ve seen in the U.S. I got way more excited by this than the artisanal wedges I’d picked up earlier. Like I said before, I don’t even need farmer’s markets to be happy.

But the winner was a simple peameal sandwich, a regional delicacy I’m ashamed to admit I’d never heard of until a month ago. Peameal sounds kind of unappetizing; fortunately, it’s really just Canadian a.k.a. back bacon on a roll. But it’s so much more, of course.

First off, the bread is perfectly suited to the task, which kind of makes sense since the vendor is a bakery. The crust is just hard enough on the teeth but not resistant and the inner texture is soft but not Wonder Bread pliable. It’s horrible when a bun dominates a sandwich and this is a fine balance of starch and meat with enough strength to avoid sogginess.

The bacon, called peameal for the traditional coating on the slab of cured meat, is more like ham, a little bit fatty and sweet, only barely salty with cooked crispy edges. You get a healthy number of bacon layers.

Condiments are available for do-it-yourself doctoring. Mustard seemed popular so I went with that and chose a maple syrup infused spread from Kozliks, who has a stall just across the cavernous room.

I hate it when foodies oversell simplicity but this two-ingredient snack is definitely worthy of attention.

Carousel Bakery * 93 Front Street E., Toronto, Canada

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