New York in late July

Blasted, infernal, wretched, seething, merciless, vulgar heat. Learning that I would be working in New York at the end of July, I was gripped with fear whilst anticipating the choking humidity that engulfs New York in the summer. Maybe it's because I'm from Winnipeg, but I just don't think I'm  acclimated for it. This afternoon I stood on the subway platform, drenched in sweat, and experienced true awe as I saw other people wearing full business suits, long-sleeve t-shirts,  and even a hooded sweatshirt.  

But it still rules. Even though Brooklyn has become so popular, Manhattan still maintains its unwavering charms. Maybe it's the farmers market at Union Square. Or maybe it's the packed bar at Blue Ribbon Brasserie at midnight. In any case, no matter how many frat boys, hedge fund jerks, expensive strollers, rich euro brats, and Jessica Simpson-types have been vomited onto the landscape, it still is a great place... despite the heat.

I have been working in both Brooklyn and Long Island, in addition to (mostly downtown) Manhattan. Evenings have been spent at a Yankees game (they were brutally crushed by the otherwise hapless Orioles), in the soon-to-be demolished Yankee Stadium. This was followed by a late dinner at Babbo, where hype was brilliantly matched by execution: lamb's tongue salad, black pasta with rock shrimp and, finally, sweet breads. And last night... Les Halles. A last-minute change in plans had it that I was seated alone at the bar, finishing frisée aux lardons, and tartare et frites. Unfortunately, a loutish older man sidled up next to me and started complimenting me on my glasses, which really ruined the solitary magic of the moment. Fortunately he was asked to leave due to his inability to pay for his drink. Anyway, a quick dose of Armagnac and I was on my way. Now, I know it's touristy, and that Bourdain's popularity is responsible for most of that. But its position on Park Ave. South keeps it a little bit protected, and you can still walk in off the street and get a place at the bar. 

And it's air conditioned.

Vive Au Pied de Cochon

Damn. I have always loved Au Pied de Cochon. But on this last visit to Montreal I made the irrevocable switch from admiration to worship. Martin Picard himself was there, and he seemed the living, breathing, embodiment of its spirit. We ate foie gras poutine with perfectly seared foie, crispy fries, and curds just on the verge of melting into a river of evil. Carla ate perfectly prepared lobster, and I ate a massive chunk of halibut, masterfully prepared with brilliant simplicity, featuring some sort of fennel approach, the details of which have been muted by the onslaught of Meursault and then Bandol. A braised lamb shank made an appearance at the table, only to be savagely attacked from all sides. Dessert was a strictly mean-spirited bread pudding known in Quebec as pouding au chomeur.  When I requested cream for the coffee, the waiter lamented that they only had 35%. After telling him I still wanted it, he grunted through a complicit smile and walked away to retrieve it.

Struggling to lift our heads we looked around and made the realization that we were the last customers, and they were beginning to close up around us. We bought a round of shots for Picard and his staff (Johnnie Walker black - their choice) and 

in turn they bought us one (Red Breast Irish Whiskey, also their choice).  

My lingering question is: Could this place exist in Toronto? I believe that Picard is a mix of Jamie Kennedy's fantastic, creative approach to the local and the seasonal, and Marc Thuet's aggressive and irreverent straight-from-the-gut, fuck-you ethos.  The talent exists here to pull it off, but what about the customer base? The people that are hungry and eager to sit until 2am, collectively forming a regular arena for this type of madness?

La Femme de Sarko

The second weekend in June marked my annual pilgrimage to Montreal with Mark Hladik for Formula 1 and gastronomic excess. Like last year, we stayed at Sylvie Rosenthal's apartment on Sherbrooke and Chomedey.  Also like last year, I raided her CD collection seeking out new French-language music discoveries. I figured it would be hard to beat last year's big find - the Parisian chanteur Bénabar.  But sure enough, I woke up one morning to a really beautiful song called "Quelqu'un m'a dit" by Carla Bruni, the new wife of Nicolas Sarkozy. 

Who knew. I guess I had just previously dismissed her as a dilettante, after reading that she was the predictable mix of model, actress, and pop singer. But maybe in France you actually have to have a little bit of talent to excel at all three.  Unlike last year, we took the girls with us this time around. Carla (Weinstein, not Bruni) was the mastermind behind the unexpected music discovery this year. A close second to Bruni was Pierre Lapointe's eponymous album.

Oh yeah, and the race was pretty great as well. Robert Kubica, who had a violent and spectacular crash at Circuit Gilles Villeneuve in 2007 (which I missed entirely while in line for beer), returned this year to win his first ever Grand Prix.

Free Range Chicken

I read something by Michael Pollan which was, ultimately, an exposé on "free range chicken". It broadened my suspicion that most claims of natural growth and unrestrictive habitat are misleading. I've decided that the only determining factors (short of visiting the farm) are how the eggs look, how the animal parts appear before cooking, and how they taste. On the recommendation of Brendan Steacy, I started buying chicken from a neighbourhood butcher called Gasparro. They claim that their chickens come from small Mennonite farms. My present judgment is that they taste damn good, and they look really handsome after roasting in a cast-iron pan. My current dilemma is that my stupid barbecue gets too hot, and I can't cook chicken with it in a slow and civilized manner. I'm starting to think that chicken (free range or otherwise) might be a winter dish in our house.