D’s birthday weekend was full of celebrating as a couple and as a family.  First up, was a cozy dinner at the Promenade Cafe and Wine-a place that I have been to once for lunch and D had never had the opportunity to try.  When I had originally booked, I chose a little table right against the window for a view of the Forks and the Canadian Human Rights Museum but when we arrived, Shaun the owner explained that he thought we would be more comfortable at a spot on the other side of the room.  This was because they host live music on Saturday nights and we would have been right next to the musicians setting up.  To be honest, having picked one the coldest nights of the year, I was quite content not to be reminded of the season for just a bit of time.  Inside, we could have been anywhere that people who enjoy fine food and wine would assemble.

We had come thinking that we would go with the pre-fixed dinner of chicken livers, mushroom soup, pork tenderloin and chocolate mousse but were so intrigued by other menu selections that we wanted to order different options so that we could sample from each other’s plate.   Our server was stellar and we took some time to quiz him on his places of previous employment because he was obviously very well trained and best of all, loved his profession.  He was very helpful, when we asked his suggestions for both our dining and wine choices.  We love to be guided by other people’s preferences, it opens up an entirely new range of culinary options.

So the food choices were settled and then we made a bold (for us) wine selection and ordered a  Gewürztraminer from California.  Our server complimented our choice and explained that the word meant ” spice garden”.  The sweet crispness of the chilled wine, completely took us to another place.  We recalled the summer that D  had traveled to German wine country and brought home a couple of special bottles for us to sample on the deck at the Beach House.

But to the food.  We started by sharing a pork pate that was served with micro greens, pickled onions and our particular preference with pate-gherkins.  My favourite aspect of the dish (always the carbs…) were the lacy pieces of crostini that had been thinly sliced from a small baguette and then carefully toasted over an open flame.  I have to figure out how to do this in my own kitchen-it takes “toast” to a magical level.

I was equally enthralled by D’s gnocchi as my own Boeuf Bourguignon and the opportunity to go from my plate to D’s was even better (one of the benefits of being together for thirty years).  The potato noodle that held together all the flavours, was perfect in itself-substantial and firm but at the same time tender.  So good, I could have eaten it with just a drizzle of butter and been perfectly happy.  So the tossing of pine nuts, mushrooms and spinach was like icing on a cake.  D chose shrimp to add some protein to his dinner and remarked at one point that they were the most perfectly prepared seafood that he had enjoyed in a very long time.  He brought home a little taste to enjoy again as his supper last night (in front of the big screen while he and J1 enjoyed the NFL playoffs).

When D requested the Bourguignon on my behalf, our server corrected his pronunciation from beef to boeuf, which was not condescending in any way but contributed to the authenticity of our evening.  I know that a successful bourguignon starts with a choice cut (sirloin in this case) being sauteed in an uncrowded pan so that the individual pieces do not touch but are able to breathe as they develop a light crust.  Then the slow braising in red wine begins.  I was thrilled to see authentic pearl onions in the sauce.  Both dishes came absolutely piping hot which was so appreciated on the chilly night.  My left overs are waiting for my lunch.  I will add some additional potatoes (of course) to extend the amazingly rich and satisfying sauce.

Unfortunately, we left no room for dessert but will sample the inventions of the kitchen again soon when we visit Fort Gibraltar for the Festival du Voyageur because Shaun, the owner of Promenade, also takes care of their food-service.  We are already dreaming about sugar pie….

Kaths quote: “Boeuf a la Bourguignonne (Beef in the Burgundy style): This is the stew of stews, an apotheosis of stew, which has nothing whatsoever to do with the watery, stringy mixture served up in British institutions. It’s a rich, carefully cooked recipe which is served up on special occasions in French homes, and which appears without shame on the menus of high-class restaurants.”-Jane Grigson

Love-that is all.

As I sat waiting for my husband to arrive for our lunch date, I had a great opportunity to soak up the quaint surroundings of this little place -Luda’s Deli at 410 Aberdeen Ave. at Salter in Winnipeg’s colourful North End.  Day time TV was displayed over the front door for ambiance, perhaps, or to comfort and entertain the diners who were there for a meal on their own.  Two merry old gentlemen walked in with the salutation: “Hi ya girls!”  I was to learn that the “girls” were Kristie who takes care of all of the tables by herself and her look-a-like Mom Tracey who is in the kitchen and at the till.  Both are big-eyed, full-lipped Ukrainian beauties. Shouts go back and forth when someone known to them arrives and in some cases hugs and kisses are exchanged (at least this was the case on the day that I was there).

Come noon, the place was full and I observed two finely dressed businessmen walk in, look at the full room and announce that they would try again tomorrow.  They were unsurprised and not put out, in the least.  By this time, I am thinking that Tracey’s home style cooking must be something else and we were not disappointed!

Coffee and water is self serve, which is a good thing because Kristie is too busy taking orders and ladling out soup-on this day the choices were Bean and Bacon or Borscht. We sampled the latter and loved that it was chock full of match stick sized beets that were the perfect texture.

“Kristie’s Clubhouse” was a delectable combination of tomato, lettuce, crispy bacon and sliced turkey.  The wedge of meat had been put right onto the grill to warm it and pop up the flavour.

Sauerkraut and corned beef equally shared the space between the pumpernickel rye bread from nearby Gunn’s bakery and was as delicious a Reuben as I have ever tasted (and that includes Montreal and New York). The plentiful hand-cut shoe string fries were worth noting as well.

Kristie patiently explained, when I asked if the diner had been named after Luda, that the word is Ukrainian for “the people”, in other words this popular little place represents the  “neighbourhood” and there are various menu items named for different real life persons.  I wonder what they would put into a “Kathryne”.

Take cash and go early to avoid disappointment.  Parking is only on the street and there are a couple of steps up to enter the premises.  The businessmen determined that doors open at 7 am for breakfast and lunch from Monday to Saturday.  They may be closed on the weekend over the summer.

Kath’s quote: “Food is a subject of conversation more spiritually refreshing even than the weather, for the number of possible remarks about the weather is limited, whereas of food you can talk on and on and on.”-A.A. Milne, ‘Lunch’

Love-that is all.

My niece, who is a restaurant expert in her own right, knows that I am constantly on the quest to find authentic Mexican, but more specifically Mayan cuisine, in Winnipeg.  Not only am I drawn to clean, fresh flavours of this healthy way of eating but the tastes transport me (via my imagination) to summer time or, as I consider myself blessed to be able to say-my annual sojourn to Isla Mujeres.  So when she told me that a really great, little Mexican restaurant called Burrito Splendido had opened on west Portage (A4-3380 in Westwood to be precise), I had to put it on my “must try” list.

When we pulled up, I thought that we must have come to the wrong address because from the outside, I thought it was a sub place.  It definitely has a “fast food” look to the place.  And then I thought, well why not, as tacos and burritos are fast food, meant to be consumed like a hamburger on the run or for a quick meal.  They even had our favourite brand of Mexican fruit soft drinks.

The pair of fish tacos that I chose was quite petite as compared to my husband’s hearty burrito.  In three chomps one was done and yet the portion size is consistent with our times in the Yucatan.  With most meals a little package of the same sized corn tortillas will come to the table so that you can scoop up from your plate and blend the flavours for each bite.  Each bite of the taco, sparkled with cilantro, shredded lettuce, crunchy cabbage, queso fresco (which I didn’t even know that you could purchase in Manitoba), a well-prepared pico de gallo and one of my favourite tastes in all the world-pickerel.  I was one happy camper.

But then to my husband’s chagrin, I started eyeing up his burrito.  Everything the taco had not been, the burrito was-hearty, substantial and bursting with chicken, rice, beans and shredded cheese.  Once all of your selections are spooned into a customized bowl at the serving counter, it is then edged onto a whole wheat tortilla and folded together but then (and I think this is the key), it gets put into the arms of a big, hot griddle to seal the edges and just begin the melding process of the ingredients.

So do not be surprised when you arrive at Burrito Splendido, yes you have arrived at a “fast” food restaurant, but it is so much more.

I got an email from the owner Ken Livingstone this afternoon.  We have one of those small world connections as he and my niece worked together at the now defunct Pasta la Vista restaurant (I still yearn for one of their dishes called “That Ole Black Magic”).  Years ago, my niece and Ken’s wife traveled around the world together.  He took the opportunity to tell me more about his restaurant’s commitment to quality:

“Our cheese (that I didn’t know could be purchased in Winnipeg), is made in house daily. It`s super simple. I also wanted to let you know that we stay local where and when possible, our pork, beef, chicken and pickerel, for our fish tacos, are all local. The organic flour for our whole wheat and white tortillas also comes from Manitoba.”

I am sure that this great little place will do well as it is discovered by foodies and Mexican food lovers alike.

Kath’s quote: “I don’t like to eat snails. I prefer fast food.”-Roger von Oech

Love-that is all.

I emotionally eat for a variety of reasons:-to celebrate, yes, that is a great excuse of mine.   Others are to reward myself for a difficult task finally accomplished, when I am blue or under the weather, when I am stressed or hurried.   I don’t recall eating for heartbreak not because this has never occurred, but that I have successfully blocked the feeling from my consciousness.  My “consoling” foods are often warm and slurpy pastas that create that sense of physical fullness.  I suppose I rationalize it this way: if my heart cannot be full, perhaps my full stomach can replace the sensation.  I am far too “carb” focused to ever consider a salad as a comfort food, but when so beautifully described as Luisa Weiss does here, I would consider having the provisions on hand (in case of an emergency of the heart).

Now, I’m not talking about big leafy green salads.  Those won’t do for heartbreak.  What I find to be a very reliable meal in times of misery involve a little bowl of what some people might call an abbreviated version of a Greek salad.  What’s important is that you find yourself a snappy little cucumber without any give (I like seedless Kirbys or Persian cucumbers), a handful of cherry tomatoes that actually taste like something, mercifully available all  year long now, a small slab of feta cheese (Greek or French, it doesn’t really matter as long as it’s fresh), and dried oregano (Greek or Italian, please).

 

Don’t bother peeling the cucumber, but slice it in half lengthwise and then in little half-moons.  Cut the tomatoes in halves or quarters and the feta into small cubes.  Combine all of this in a bowl and sprinkle judiciously with oregano, plus a good pinch of flaky salt.  Don’t skimp on the salt because of the feta.  trust me, it’s a mistake.  Your body needs the salt; haven’t you been crying your eyes out?  Replenish.  Then add a good glug of olive oil and the smallest drip of vinegar (I use white wine vinegar; but you could use Champagne, I suppose, or sherry vinegar; whatever you do, no balsamic, I beg of you), and toss the whole thing together until the tomatoes glisten with olive oil, the herbs are dispersed, and the fetas is starting to break down, ever so slight;y at the edges.

Now if it’s summer; and I hope it I because at least then you’ve got a leg up on the the poor winter heartbroken who definitely have the rawer end of the deal, go out on your balcony, your backyard, or, all else failing, your front stoop.  I find it rather important to eat this little salad, which might be all you can stomach in a day, in the setting sun.  As you crunch your way carefuly through your bowl, the sun makes you squint and warms your hair,and the soft evening breeze will feel like a caress, which I think you need almost as much as you need the salad.

As your fork spears every more hungrily, you can start to daydream about that trip tp Greece you’d like to think about taking where you can eat feta and tomatoes, all day long ever day, and great big olives too, and nice warm bread, and there will be a few handsome waiters winking at you as you sit by the bar with your glass of retsina and your sun-kissed tourist glow.  Suddenly, you’ll find yourself scraping the bottom of your bowl rather lustily and you might feel sheepish, or at least a little guilty, for enjoying the simple meal so much when you thought you might never eat again. 

Don’t worry the heartbreak’s not entirely gone, and it won’t be until it skulls away of its own accord.  But in the mean time, you snuck a meal past its shadowy figure and you are felling rather good, like you wouldn’t mind another one of those,or at least a spoon to get at the dregs of the dressing at the bottom of the bowl.  Here’s a little tip from me to you: no one, but no one, will notice if your raise your bowl to your lips and tip it back, letting the herbed oil and vinegar, flecked with bits of feta and tomato seeds, pour down your throat.  You might cough a bit if its too sharp, and you might feel just a little greedy.  But it’s worth it, I think, to feel your appetite and your lust for life come back to life, one cherry tomato at a time.

I hope that these couple of excerpts have tantalized you to pick up My Berlin Kitchen for your own.  I haven’t even told you about the great recipes which eat each and every chapter…….

Kath’s quote: “I have made a lot of mistakes falling in love, and regretted most of them, but never the potatoes that went with them.”-Nora Ephron
 

Love-that is all.

In this second excerpt Luisa Weiss recounts what I have struggled to appropriately describe in the past; that moment when I have become overwhelmed with that utter bliss that comes after a well-prepared meal, surrounded by loved ones and often times in a beautiful setting. 

I am happy to report that my life has been made up of a string of these moments: on my many travel adventures, whilst on our precious Isla Mujeres,

a sunset walk on the beach at our summer house and indeed, even in my own backyard-lying in a hammock, or cuddled up around our fire pit or sitting under the blossoming plum tress that have been strung with white lights.  I think what I am trying to say is that Luisa Weiss “gets” me and I “get” her….

But pavlova felt too fussy for this languid afternoon.  I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes, hearing the faint hum of the traffic from the outdoors and thinking about our day.  I remembered the buttermilk we’d shared, creamy and sour.  It occurred to me that buttermilk and berries would make the perfect summer dessert.  In my collection of clipped recipes from so long ago, I found the recipe I was looking for almost straightaway: buttermilk pannacotta.

The dessert consisted of not much more than buttermilk, heavy cream, and sugar, with a a little gelatin for suspension and wiggle.  To serve with the pannacotta, I decided to sugar red berries, letting a syrupy, ruby-red juice form.  Their sweet-sour pop would be a good contract to the nursery-dessert quality of the pannacotta.

The pannacotta was simple to make, but when the time came to unmold the set cream from its ceramic mold, I struggled to loosen it from the sides.  Max walked into the kitchen just as I was starting to lose my cool and ended up helping me, the two of us giggling at the pannacotta’s luxuriant wobble as it settled onto the serving plate.  Then I spooned the juicy berries and their syrup all around the pannacotta, almost obscuring the creamy mound.  As Max drove us to Muck and Jurgen’s house on a leafy street in Zehlendorf, I held the serving plate gingerly in my lap as the fruit syrup slid back and forth precariously.

Out on their deck at dusk, we ate pink-fleshed lake trout poached gently in fennel broth, small boiled potatoes, waxy and sunflower-yellow and dusted with chopped parsley, and a little salad of soft greens studded with toasted sunflower seeds.  There was a cold bottle of Riesling and a sharp and creamy horseradish sauce mixed with grated apple for a bit of sweetness to dollop on the fish, its flesh tender and barely warm.  Later, when the sky had grown dark and we sat outside in candlelight, full of fish and potatoes and wine, everybody oohed and aahed as I spooned out trembling portions of pannacottaand sweet-sour berries into little dishes that Muck had brought out.

As we ate, the buttermilk cutting the richness of the cream and the sugared berries a sharp contrast to the soothing blandness of the pannacotta, we listened to the neighbor’s children play in the garden next door.  The table soon fell quiet and as our spoons scraped against the china and I saw the light draining from the sky, my world suddenly felt so stunningly complete, so full and rich and just as it should be, that I almost lost my breath.

 Kath’s quote: “Life is not measured by the breaths you take but by its breathtaking monents.”-Michael Vance.

Love-that is all.