I have been assigned the task of declaring the most romantic restaurant in Winnipeg in anticipation of Valentine’s Day.  So let me start by sharing with you the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me: 

In celebration of our 25th wedding anniversary, D and I traveled to the Mediterranean.  We started in a village in Sicily and sojourned by train up the west coast of Italy and stayed in Prariano on the Amalfi Coast, Cinque Terre, Nice and then Paris.  D arranged that with every hotel stay, there were bouquets of my favourite flowers waiting for us in our room; we shared bites of perfect food and sips of amazing wines and saw the most breath-taking scenery.  And yet, travel can be stressful as was the case for one leg of our journey.

We had to catch a 6 am bus to Sorrento but were anxious that we would not get our wake up call as it had been the first time on vacation that we had to rely on one, so we had both been awake since 4:17 am.  It was a good thing, because we never did get the call.  In addition, the espresso machine had not been fired up for the day at our hotel, so we were caffeineless.  Our bus was jammed with school-aged kids who created a deafening din so we were relieved to transfer to a train for our next connection in Naples.  Both D and I had been to Naples before but for D it had not been a positive experience and train stations are not necessarily in the best part of town.  The Naples station was huge and confusing.  We were very stressed and this was made worse by a very angry Italian “gentleman” who claimed that we were sitting in his train seats.  After that was resolved the time to Rome passed uneventfully.  But then when we switched trains again to take us to Spezia someone else claimed that we were in their seats.  This man was more handsome and less angry than the first, but it was disconcerting, none the less.  We had an hour wait in Spezia and decided to perch ourselves and our luggage on an outside platform to get from fresh air. We took turns sitting with the luggage and freshening up in the washroom and stretching our legs.  When we boarded for the last train ride of the day, we realised that the piece of luggage that contained all of our souvenir shopping from the trip had been snatched from the platform!  I was devastated, not only because we had spent precious money selecting particular gifts for our family but because both D and I had splurged and purchased Italian linens to wear at an anniversary party that was being thrown for us upon on return.  Once we arrived in Riomaggiore, I had no idea that our apartment would be an almost vertical climb up the side of a mountain.  By this time, we were exhausted and hungry and I for one was in no mood to have my heart stopped by a cardio work out, so we waited for a shuttle.  Twenty minutes later we were being shown around our home for the next few days only to find that there was no AC and because the breeze was blocked by the mountain, absolutely no movement of air.  I had had it!  I was a mess.  I sobbed and threw myself such a pity party, I am embarrassed to admit it, even now.  And then this amazing thing happened.  Doug eye-balled the size of our terrace, went inside and pulled the mattress off the bed, bedding and all.  He dragged it outside and after an amazing dinner in town, we slept under the stars that night.  I not only cooled off sufficiently but heard the most amazing sounds of birds singing in the morning, bells chiming and the village below us, coming alive.  It was so romantic to watch the sun come up over the mountain and see the sparkling sea below us. 

So when the romance bar is being set, mine is very high indeed which makes selecting a place for  Valentine’s Day dinner a difficult task.  Terrace in the Park is located in a glass atrium which has been built onto the side of the historic Pavillion of Assiniboine Park.  D and I had the pleasure of being invited to their opening but have not yet enjoyed dinner. 

The samplings on that preview night were a delight, starting with San Francisco Cioppino,

Albacore Tuna Tacos,

Steamed Pacific Snow Crab Legs,

Flights of Oysters,

Scallop Ceviche,

and what turned out to be be favourite of the evening: Smoked Pike Rillettes.

We were not surprised that the seafood that preview evening was stellar as we have heard only great things about Chef Simon Resch.  He studied at the Pacific Institute of Culinary Arts and then under the tutelage of Chefs Julian Bond and Rob Clark before returning to Winnipeg and the Beaujolais and Amici Restaurants.  Old Montreal lured him away and then an opportunity to work on the French Rivera (we must have travelled through his community on our Mediteranean train ride).  But Winnipeg was able to attract him back with positions at the Inn at the Forks and the Niakwa Golf and Country Club.  He joined WOW! Hospitality to work alongside Chef Mike Dacquisto before his final move to Terrace in the Park.

And so Valentine’s Day awaits and I will celebrate with the love of my life in the best way we know how-in a beautiful place, supping on exquisitely prepared food with perhaps a glass or two of a fine beverage.

Kath’s quote:  “Most seafoods…should be simply threatened with heat and then celebrated with joy.” –Jeff Smith 

 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.

Our youngest spent this past summer in Montreal with the goal of becoming more proficient in Canada’s official second language, so she was the perfect lunch date to accompany me to Promenade Café and Wine at the historic corner of Tache and Provencher Blvd. in St. Boniface.  As we ordered, she told me tales of the poutineries in the Le Plateau area of Montreal and one place in particular which was open 24 hours a day and served over thirty varieties.

Once I started thinking about Poutine, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head and just had to have it, but also wanted to sample something a wee bit new, so I chose poutine topped with tourtiere meat.  The tourtiere recipe that I am familiar with is a combination of ground beef, pork and veal seasoned with cloves and sage.  This version used bison tossed with cloves, all spice and paprika and was rich and savoury. The fries themselves were thickly cut from what must have been huge potatoes, because they were as long as the width of my hand.  They were topped with both squeaky cheese curds but also shredded gruyere cheese that added a smoky tone. The piping hot gravy (the high temperature is a must so that the cheese melts), includes a taste of red wine and a variety of French herbs.

Daughter #2 selected the Reuben, another staple from her time in Montreal.  She commented that the meat was abundant and that the Chef uses her preferred Montreal smoked meat as opposed to corned beef.  The proportions of sauerkraut, cheese and dressing were just right.  Her yardstick is that the juices ran down her arm when she took a bite.  A tossed house salad accompanied the sandwich but she could have chosen the daily soup which was bacon and pea on the day that we visited.

Promenade is well positioned for much success with a gorgeous view overlooking the “Feather Bridge”, the historic Forks and the amazing structure of the Canadian Human Rights Museum.  The owner Shawn Brandson is no stranger to St. Boniface as he has also taken on providing the foodservice for Fort Gibraltar.  I am anxious to return for breakfast and the special tasting menus that Shawn and his Chef create on a regular basis.  I have reserved a romantic table for two with the best view in the house for my husband’s upcoming birthday (please don’t tell him-it is a surprise).

Kath’s quote: “The only cooks in the civilized world are French cooks. . . . Other nations understand food in general; the French alone understand cooking, because all their qualities – promptitude, decision, tact – are employed in the art. No foreigner can make a good white sauce.”-Roqueplan

Love-that is all.

Here is the last little excerpt from The Hills of Tuscany by Ferenc Mate. If you have traveled to Italy or dream of doing so, you will love this read.  I was so sad when the adventure was over but then just last night, I picked up the sequel entitled A Vineyard in Tuscany.

Connie in her Sicilian Kitchen

This highlight is from his first Tuscan Easter dinner.  We have our own version of an Italian Easter Feast with dear friends who live half of the year in Sicily.  They are in Canada right now and will join us for dinner tomorrow evening.  Of course there will be photos and details of our menu to follow but for now, imagine the following:

Connie and I share he same birthdate

 We ate.

We started with two big trays of crostini, small cut toast from a baguette-type loaf, with four different spread they had made: one of porcini, one of chicken livers, one of tomato and basil, and the last one of tuna and capers.  That was enough to fill us.  Then came the pastas. One at a time. Forever.

And Franco kept pouring wine for us and all,  Carla, the eldest daughter, who had turned twenty-five that year, kept snapping orders at him and he seemed to have had almost enough, until Carla, being the perfect hostess, went to pour mineral water for everyone, a nice gesture, except that she forgot that she had set the table with the water glasses upside down, and now, while she was feverishly directing her dad, she was pouring water with great precision all over the table.  And we all broke up and laughed and laughed, and her little sister Elenora laughed until she cried.

Then we dug into the first pasta.  It was home made-what a stupid thing to say, of course it was homemade!  Everything was homemade!  Even the damned chickens!  They were delicate little crepes made by Carla, stuffed with ricotta and spinach and then baked in the oven like lasagna, and they tasted like heaven.  Even Giovanna, who, justifiably, fancies herself a great cook, rolled her eyes.  And we drank.  And we talked and talked-us mostly with our hands.  Then came another pasta.  Tagliatelle with rabbit ragu.  Spicy with tomatoes.  I think I swooned.  The came another pasta,  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  It was handmade pici, smothered in bread crumbs that had been stir-fried in olive oil.  When I was a kid in Budapest, it had been one of my favourite dishes.  After the third pasta, Candace said she was so full, she was about to lose consciousness.  Giovanna and I thought we were about to die.  So we drank some more wine.

The wine and a bit of rest must have dissolved all the pasta, because when the three trays of meats arrived we didn’t even gasp.

…

There was roast pigeon cut into small pieces, baked in the wood oven for two hours so there was just a parchment-thin crisp skin over the gamy meat.  Then there was wild boar stew, and of course the finale: roast lamb.  And roast potatoes that Candace somehow ate by the pound, and shredded salad well salted, Tuscan style.  And wine.  The Paolucci women drank very little, meaning that the four of us had sipped away about a litter each.  Over two hours.  And two pounds each of food.  Then came il dolce.

We had brought a great fruit tarte that Candace and Giovanna made.  It was coals to Newcastle.  Rosanna brought out her own tiramisu, a creamy thing full of coffee, which is why it’s called “pull me up”, and Carla had baked a crostada di albicocca, a crumbly apple tart, and of course there was the inevitable colomba, the traditional Easter cake, an uniced thing shaped like a dove.  Then came  resurrecting espresso, then of course brandies and grappa.  The Paoluccis kept insisting we drink the grappa because it is a digestivo; it helps with the digestion.  It also puts you in a profound state of merriment and lets you forget that you’re about to explode.”

Me on the rooftop of their home

So until I can sojourn to Italy again, I can anticipate new adventures and savour the memories of previous ones….

Kath’s quote: “Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.”-William Shakespeare

Love-that is all.

I have two last excerpts from Ferenc Mate’s accounting of the planting of their roots in rural Tuscany.  I have to be careful not to read this when I am hungry or I will start salivating and building fires to grill my mushrooms over.  Even though I am a happy forager-loving the wild flowers and blueberries around our summer home, I have bever pursued the study of safe mushroom harvesting.  Belair Forest which surrounds our property, is regionally famous for their wild mushrooms and as a result of reading this, I intend to become an expert this coming fall.

 The first funghi-feast at their house I will never forget.  Piccardi casually invited us to taste the year’s first finds.  It was a Saturday night and we went through the graying light, up the hill to their house and looked down on our valley, taking some Vino Nobile and some PinotGrigio from Orvieto.  We had no idea what we would be eating.

The table was set for seven, for their children too were there: feisty Francesca, gentle Angela, and the resolute Allessandro.  We chatted about their schooling, about the coming fall, the nearing vendemmia, because the grapes might be ready early this year with all the heat.  Then the season’s first funghi appeared, chopped fine, cooked down to a sauce and spread on round crostini.  It was heaven.  The pungent, fragrant porcini flavors exploded in our mouths-bittersweet, moody-and the flavors came even more alive with the Vino Nobile from the Avignonesi vineyards.

Having finished the appetizer, I asked if we should open the Pinot Grigio for the next course, but Anna Maria said coyly, “No, there’s a bit more funghi.”  That night at the Piccardis‘ funghi rained like manna from heaven.  After the crostini came tagliatelle con funghi, not with one but two kinds, the first made from tomatoes, the second with porcini only, cooked with sliced garlic, parsley and salt in oil about twenty minutes, then at the end splashed with wine and simmered for a while.  Then came a zuppa di funghi, a think soup of sliced mushrooms, deep, peppery, calling for more wine.  After that we were convinced that we had reached the end, leaned back to relax, thanked Anna Maria for a stupendous dinner, when we noticed that Piccardi had been absent for a while.  We asked if all was well, and just as Francesca was about to reply, in burst her dad, aproned, grinning, carrying in his arms an enormous plate of grilled porcini.  Their fragrance wafted across the room and eddied all around us, and their taste made for the world’s best grilled steak taste dull.  We ate.  Savoring each bite as if it were our last.  The room fell silent as a tomb.

That was, thank God, the end.  Except for some whipped chocolate cake with a thick sauce of berries, and a bit of vinsanto and coffee, and just a tiny bit of grappa.

I can just feel the heaviness of the rich food in their tummies, can’t you?  Next installment  from The Hills of Tuscany is of their Easter Feast.

Kath’s quote: “Nature alone is antique and the oldest art a mushroom.”-Thomas Carlyle

Love-that is all.