Hungry In Hogtown

Moona Lisa: cooking with La Vache qui rit

Once, as a grad student and culinary dullard living on the tips I earned waiting tables at a Tex-Mex restaurant, I met a girl I really wanted to impress.  We'd already been on a few dates, and had reached the point in our relationship where it was time to take the next, anxiety-inducing step: homecooking.  I hoped to knock her socks off (although I have to admit her socks weren't really what I had in mind) by preparing a romantic dinner, something a little different from my usual post-work Whoppers smothered in mayo while watching Law & Order re-runs.  So I created a "homemade" pasta sauce of melted cream cheese with bacon.  The result was a bit of a stodgy mess, to put it kindly, but the girl appreciated the thought enough to at least remove those socks.   

Now that I've learned a little more about cooking and food, I've discovered that some of the great cuisines frequently gild their sauces with dairy, so cream cheese wasn't such a crazy idea.  Italians finish two of their most famous preparations, risotto and polenta, with dollops of butter and grated parmesan.  A little of both goes a long way, after all.  Parmesan adds salty and umami flavours, while butter provides richness and sheen.

This maneuver is such a staple of Italian technique that there's even a native word for it, "mantecare," a verb that means to blend or cream.

Great gastronomic minds think alike, apparently, because the French also exploit the finishing powers of a little dairy.  Many French sauces are incomplete without the addition of a little -- okay, a lot -- of butter.

The culinary world has even come to adopt the French term for this technique, "monter au beurre."

For years, Rachel and I finished countless -- not all, but most -- risottos, polentas, and sauces the same way.

That all changed last year.  One lazy afternoon, I whiled away my time watching French Food at Home on Food Network Canada.  The show stars Laura Calder, a graceful, well-spoken host with a deep love and knowledge of French cooking.  In the episode I watched, she made a zucchini and La Vache Qui Rit soup she describes as a favourite comfort food of French children.

I don't doubt it.  La Vache qui rit -- it's known as The Laughing Cow in most of the English-speaking world -- is a creamy, buttery-tasting blend of cheeses, though apparently it's mainly Comté, that's easy to enjoy primarily because it is so unchallenging.  There are no funky tastes or textures, just a straightforward richness that any child (and most adults) can appreciate.

What makes this cheese so compelling is not simply its taste, however, it's also the dynamite packaging.  Not everyone recognizes the circular box with the big smiling cow on its front, but the individually foil-wrapped wedges within are iconic.  As a child, I remember going to family gatherings and gorging on this cheese.  I especially loved grabbing a wedge, finding the little red pull tab, then pulling back the foil to reveal the delicious triangle of cheese within.

It's no wonder, then, that Rachel and I made Calder's soup shortly thereafter.  It is delicious, but after cooking a batch (and enjoying a few snacks here and there) we still had many wedges leftover.

My eureka moment came while reaching into our cheese drawer to get some parmesan for a risotto.  While looking for the undisputed king of cheeses I glanced at that beguiling bovine smile and grabbed three wedges (as well as the parmesan) to add to the pot before serving.

Now, I'm sure there are many Italians out there cringing at this little experiment, and I can't say I blame them.  I actually feel annoyed when I get served risotto in restaurants that's been finished with a little whole cream; it just feels like cheating to me.

But after tasting the risotto with the laughing cow, we were very pleasantly surprised at both the texture and flavour of the finished product.  The effect is subtle, but the cheese adds richness and creaminess.  Frankly, I think most people would notice a difference in the dish but would be unable to identify what, precisely, had changed.

Our favourite risotto to pair with La Vache qui rit is a simple trio of leeks, peas, and lardons of crispy bacon.  The recipe is at the end of this post.

Having ventured into fertile territory with rice, I decided to expand my repertoire to yet another staple of the boot.  Polenta doesn't deserve its stodgy, bland reputation.  Prepared with time and care, cornmeal can be every bit as satisfying as risotto or pasta.  Of course, we soon discovered that time and care are a whole lot better with two wedges of La Vache Qui Rit.  Just stir them in along with any other seasonings, including parmesan, to finish the dish.

Polenta or risotto with La Vache qui rit seems miles away from that first pasta sauce of melted Philly.  As for the girl, she liked my cooking enough to stay close.  Rachel married me five years ago.

Leek, pea and bacon risotto

1 large leek (may substitute 1 large cooking onion)
225 g bacon (approximately 2, 1 cm thick slices)
200 g (approximately 1.5 C) fresh or frozen peas
350 g (approximately 1.75 C) arborio or other suitable risotto rice
1 L chicken stock (may substitute vegetable stock or water)
200 ml white wine, if desired
3 wedges of La vache qui rit cheese
salt
pepper
parmesan

Slice bacon into 1 cm wide lardons.  In a large saucepan or dutch oven over medium heat, cook lardons until darkened and crispy on the outside.

Preheat chicken stock to a bare simmer.

Remove lardons and all but two tablespoons of bacon fat from the saucepan or dutch oven and, over medium heat, add leeks and cook until just softened, approximately two minutes.  Add the rice, and cook until white dots appear in the centre of each grain, stirring frequently.

If using wine, add it at this point, stirring.  When it is reduced, add just enough hot chicken stock to cover the rice, stir frequently.  The liquid should barely simmer throughout this process.  Repeat this step until the rice is al dente, approximately eighteen to twenty minutes.  If the stock runs out before the rice is cooked, substitute water.

When the rice is almost cooked, add the peas and La Vache qui rit cheese, and stir until the cheese is completely incorporated into the risotto.

Finish with salt, pepper, and parmesan to taste.

Serve in bowls sprinkled with lardons and with additional salt, pepper, or parmesan if desired.

Makes four portions.

Berried alive: a wild blueberry bonanza

"Do you mind if I go to Sudbury for a week to visit my parents?"

This sentence may be phrased as a question, but it's not; it's actually Rachel's way of telling me she's going up north.  It did provide an opening, however, so I seized the moment.

"No problem," I said, quickly raising my index finger to signal the seriousness of my next statement, "but you have to come back with blueberries."

Wild blueberries, to be precise, which grow in such abundance in Sudbury that the city hosts an annual Blueberry Festival.  It's no surprise, then, that wild blueberry bushes flourish within a pleasant summer's stroll of my in-laws' back door.  The trick, if there is one, is to get to them before the bears, those "godless killing machines without a soul," who happen to love them almost as much as we do.

Alright, perhaps I'm overstating the threat a bit, but the bears are just one of many reasons I'm not cut out for life in northern Ontario.  I'll never forget my first visit to Rachel's parents.  It was Christmas, 1998, and they lived in Timmins.  Timmins makes Sudbury look downright tropical; it's almost as far north of Sudbury as Sudbury is north of Toronto.  What I'm trying to say is that it's cold, really cold, colder than anything you've likely ever experienced: spit-freezing, skin-numbing, testicle-reascending cold.  I'm not sure the temperature ever got warmer than -40C (-40F) on that trip, and, with the windchill, it fell below -60C (-76F) one day.  As if that weren't enough, Timmins averages 3.5 metres of snowfall per year (thats 11.5 feet)!

It is, in short, the Canada many non-Canadians conjure up in their minds when they think of this country.  Not that Sudbury's much different, mind you, what with -20C (-4F) being a respectable winter temperature.

Asparagustatory delight: wild asparagus two ways

My love for the St. Lawrence Market is boundless, but I'm the first to admit it has its faults.  Perhaps the most glaring is that, despite two floors of greengrocers, butchers, bakers, fishmongers, and other purveyors of delicious foods, there are few organics on offer.

I know this sounds odd coming from someone whose pantry includes such earthly delights as calcium chloride, but I'm really quite sincere.  Given the choice, I prefer using organic products.  I'd like to think there are countless others in Toronto who feel the same, but the dearth of organic vendors in the market leads me to think otherwise.

If you go to the market looking for organic produce, for example, there is only one option: Golden Orchard Find Foods.

As something of a regular, I've begun to develop a relationship with the people there.  That's important, and not because I'm looking for a discount.  What I'm really after is a chance to get my hands on their highest quality and rarest ingredients.  That's why the first thing I do after work every Friday is head to the market to see what special items are going to be available that weekend.

Sometimes it works out nicely.  Like the Friday a few weeks ago when I asked what interesting items were going to be available the next day and was promptly shown a large box of wild asparagus.  My eyes almost popped out of my head.  Here was an ingredient I'd never seen for sale in Toronto.  At almost ninety dollars per kilo it wasn't cheap, but I was quick to buy a large bag of it.

What to do with it was a dilemma.

Rocked lobster

My tiny apartment-sized freezer and I play a sick game with each other.   I stuff it full of goodies, or "oldies but used to be goodies and one day may be goodies once more," like unused baguette ends and bananas with even the slightest blemish (I'm very picky about my bananas).  I have the best plans to make banana bread, or bread crumbs, or bread pudding, or banana bread pudding.  Our freezer is bursting with my good intentions. 

Said freezer retaliates by hiding crucial dinner ingredients deep in its dark frosty recesses.  It zaps my bagels with freezer burn.  Sometimes it even spits the frozen bananas -- often blackened and shriveled like the trophies of a pygmy headhunter -- at me when I open it.

It's a love-hate thing.

Problem is, Rob has the freezer packrat mentality as well.  So when he gleefully volunteered to take all the lobster remains from our Superbowl Sunday feast, I wasn't surprised.  As everyone knows, you need lobster carcasses to make lobster broth, the essential base for a number of lobster dishes.

At least it's not roadkill: Winterlicious at Romagna Mia

Going out to dinner with your beloved is one of life's great pleasures.  Last night, I put on some high heels and lipstick, Rob changed into his good Toronto Maple Leafs sweatshirt, and we headed off to another Winterlicious rendezvous at Romagna Mia.

Serving classic Italian cuisine in the style of Emilia-Romagna and located quite close to our apartment, this restaurant seems like a natural choice to be one of our favourites.  It's even won the Golden Spoon, an award recognizing Canada's best risotto -- and you know how we feel about risotto (we attended the last competition, at which Lino Collevecchio of Via Allegro triumphed for his duck risotto with foie gras and balsamic vinegar).  It had been a long time since we visited Romagna Mia, as we had tried a disastrous fixed-price meal there years before.  The food tasted as if it had been sitting on a steam tray and the waiter joked repeatedly that the venison was roadkill.  "Rudolph roadkill," if memory serves.

But we're young and optimistic and eager to find a place that might recreate some of the memorable meals we've had in Emilia-Romagna.  So we strolled over, hand in hand, in quiet anticipation of a good meal after a long day.

Bloody ducky, you're the one...

"You make eating so much fun.  Bloody ducky, I'm awfully fond of you...."

Actually, "awfully fond" is a vast understatement.  Whether its seared duck breast, confited leg, or fattened foie, duck is one of my stomach's bestest friends.  And with the arrival of blood oranges in winter, my wife and I make time to enjoy one of our favourite dishes, duck breast and blood orange risotto.

With the year set to expire, and our desire to partake in a massive New Year's blowout low, my wife and I decided it was the perfect time to see out the old and ring in the new with risotto and Mario Batali's blood orange bellinis (which appear to have been a popular choice).

Truffles. Betcha can't eat just one.

Little did I understand the dangerous path I'd set for myself last Tuesday when I decided to make one brief phone call.  The call was to Cheese Boutique, in my opinion the best food store in Toronto.  Sure, it's best known for its remarkable selection of cheeses -- not to mention having the unique distinction amongst the city's cheesemongers of still practicing the dying art of affinage, the maturing and aging of cheese -- but it always offers far more than that, like fresh produce, dried pastas, and fresh Italian truffles.  On the day in question, I had phoned to discover if they happened to have any for sale.

Now, my wife and I are great fans of the truffle.  One of our most memorable meals, which was as expensive as it was enjoyable, was a dinner in Bologna in which every course featured truffles: truffled spreads, white truffle risotto, tenderloin in a black truffle sauce, etc.  Of all the meals in all the places, that singular supper comes up often, and always with great fondness for us both, when we talk about our most memorable food experiences together.

Of course, explaining the glories of the truffle is not easy.  My wife and I both have a preference for the white truffle from Alba, a fungus with a fragrance and flavour that are not easily described: it's a little musty, quite earthy, somewhat mushroomy, and, to my mind, ever so slightly garlicky.  In other words, indescribable.

The one thing that can be said about truffles, especially the white ones, is that they are astronomically expensive: Cheese Boutique sold us four tiny, Alban white truffles totaling twenty-four grams, at ten dollars per gram, and one small, twelve gram, Umbrian black truffle, at two dollars per gram.  Admittedly, that's a pretty steep price for an evening's pleasure, but I don't mind paying that kind of money for quality, especially to Cheese Boutique, where I was once shown a basket brimming with black truffles they wouldn't sell to me because they didn't find the quality of the truffles satisfactory. 

Luckily, we have a wonderful friend who always seems willing to participate in our culinary whims.  Ryan is a person who likes his food and his drink, and who, more importantly, is always willing to try something new and is willing to spend a little money to do it.  I really like that.

So, based on nothing more than the promise of a new taste and some risotto, Ryan lugged himself out of bed on Saturday, and came with me to the Cheese Boutique.  Now, I'm a bit of a soft touch when it comes to my food shopping.  I've already mentioned in my first post that I have a penchant for buying things I don't need, but I like to think I took it to a new level this time: after buying almost three hundred dollars in truffles, we sidled up to the cheese counter.  After selecting several kinds of cheese -- including a triple creme Brie Supreme that is, apparently without any comic intent, described as "A gentle, 62% butter fat indulgence" -- what should happen into my line of sight but a sign touting the arrival of the Vacherin Mont D'Or. 

"What's a Vacherin Mont D'Or?" I blurt, knowing full well that the die is already cast.

Do I get a detailed explanation of the origins and flavour of this cheese?  No.  What I get is: "You're buying it.  You have to buy it.  It's perfect with black truffles.  You just cut back the outer membrane, add the sliced black truffle, then you bake it in a low oven until it reaches a soupy consistency.  It's probably the only black truffle dish that's better than white truffles."

Now, to the sane human mind this response seems... inadequate.  To me, this is all the justification I need to make another rash food purchase.  Do I hear my friend when he asks me to check the price?  No, I just buy, buy, buy.  It will probably not surprise you to learn that the Vacherin Mont D'Or is actually not a cheese that is easy on the pocketbook.  Our little bundle of joy set us back fifty dollars.

"Cost be damned," you say (and kudos to you), "how does it taste?"  Well, in my opinion, not so good.  I did as instructed, but I found the cheese had a taste that is reminiscent of brussels sprouts.  That's a real shame, because there may be nothing in the world I hate more than brussels sprouts, even when showered with a generous amount of black truffle.  At least my wife and Ryan enjoyed it.

No matter, white truffles to the rescue.  We actually had enough white truffle to last us two dinners.  The first, last night, was a white truffle risotto that was extremely tasty.  Few bases are better suited to conveying the flavour of white truffle than risotto, which is ideal at letting any ingredient carry the flavour melody while it happily supplies the background harmonies.  Ryan, thankfully discovered he has something of a taste for truffles, and he now understands why it's such an elusive flavour to describe.

Tonight we kept things simpler and lighter, by enjoying a simple salad of mixed baby greens, tomato, and parmesan with extra virgin olive oil and twenty-five year old balsamico, served alongside some scrambled eggs with our remaining white truffle.  I'd never tried truffle with eggs before, and I have to admit I'm a little sad I waited so long.  I think we all found that the scrambled eggs let the white truffle assert itself more than did the risotto.

Of course, I began by describing a phone call I'd made that set me down a "dangerous path", and, ultimately, this post is something of a cautionary tale.  You see, in the process of shaving truffles for the risotto, I had one of those horrible truffle accidents you only ever read about (in blogs like this, for example).  I don't often call dibs on a plate of food, but I had to last night because I put a little bit more of myself into last night's meal than usual.  That's right, I accidentally shaved my thumb.

PS: Enjoy this truffle story?  There's another great one here, courtesy of Chez Pim.

The amazing adventures of Pear and Gorgonzola

Twenty centimetres of snow!

Aside from running to a far away atoll with sandy beaches (and a steady supply of Italian food and ice cream), I can think of only one appropriate gastronomic response: risotto, and in large, belly warming quantities.

Enter our protagonists: Pear, a ruddy faced, versatile team player, who brings flavour to any occasion.  His partner in crime?  Gorgonzola, a smooth talking Italian who just oozes charm, but whose social circle is limited to those who have learned to tolerate -- nay, adore -- his odour "problem."

Alright, alright, I'm not buying it either.  Nonetheless, my wife and I make a caramelized pear and Gorgonzola risotto that would blow your mind (which is why you should find the recipe below, print it, and put it somewhere you'll never lose it.  That, or bookmark this page.).  Go ahead, I'll wait....

"So," you're probably wondering, "what's so damn good about this risotto?"  Well, there's nothing quite like the taste of a sweet, caramelized pear when it's enjoyed with the vaguest hint of blue cheese and the rich creaminess of arborio rice.  That hint of sweet, balanced by a tinge of rot (you know you love it), and all that fruity, creamy, cheesy goodness make this risotto the perfect comfort food.  If you really want to make this dish a one way trip to Flavoland, use torta di mascarpone (an Italian cheese composed of alternating layers of Gorgonzola and mascarpone).

There are a couple of keys to this dish: first, use good cheese; second, be sure to caramelize the pears (remember the second rule of risotto club: goldenness = tastiness).  Bet you're dying to know the first rule of risotto club, aren't you?

Without further ado, I present you heaven on a cold winter's night:

Caramelized Pear and Gorgonzola Risotto

3 firm Bosc pears (may substitute Bartlett or any other pear suitable for cooking)
175 grams Gorgonzola or torta di mascarpone, cut into chunks
375 grams arborio or other suitable risotto rice
1 cooking onion, diced
1 L chicken stock (may substitute vegetable, if you'd like a vegetarian dish)
200 ml white wine, if desired
2 tbsp unsalted butter
1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil (how did those imperial measurements sneak into my metric recipe?)
pinch of sugar
salt
pepper

Peel the pears, and cut them lengthwise into quarters.  Remove the core from each quarter, then cut in half width-wise.  Cut the smaller (top) piece in half lengthwise, and cut the larger (bottom) piece in quarters lengthwise.  If you've done it properly, each pear should yield 24 wedges.

Preheat chicken stock to a bare simmer.

In a large saucepan or dutch oven over medium heat, heat olive oil, add onions, and cook until translucent.  Add the rice, and cook until white dots appear in the centre of each grain.

If using wine, add it at this point, stirring.  When it is reduced, add just enough hot chicken stock to cover the rice, and stir very frequently.  The liquid should barely simmer throughout this process.  Repeat this step until the rice is al dente, approximately eighteen to twenty minutes.  If the stock runs out before the rice is cooked, substitute water.

Meanwhile, heat a 12-inch saute pan over medium high heat.  When it is very hot, add the butter, the pears, and the sugar.  Don't fidget with the pears.  Turn them every three or four minutes until they are nicely caramelized on both sides.

When the rice is cooked, add the blue cheese, salt, and pepper, and stir until the cheese is completely incorporated into the risotto.

Serve in bowls with additional salt and pepper.

Serves two with leftovers as a main course, four as an appetizer.

Want to see a different take on this dish?  Click here.

The risotto files

In hindsight, I probably should have explained my love of Italian food generally, and risotto and pasta specifically, in my very first post.  So let me do that right now: I am to no small degree obsessed with Italian food, culture, and language.  So much so, in fact, that I've become functionally bilingual in Italian and been to Italy three times in the past four years, not to mention the ever-increasing library of cookbooks, guide books, and books about Italian history and culture that now line the bookshelves in my home.

I owe much if not all of this to my wife, Rachel.  You see, up until about six years ago I devoted no more time to food than most people.  I ate standard fare, cooked almost only when forced, and was happy owning little more than a Joy of Cooking to guide me through those rare kitchen escapades. 

That all changed one night when I came home to a risotto my wife had cooked from scratch (chicken stock included).  At the time, I doubt I had ever heard the term before, and I had certainly never tried one.  My wife set a bowl in front of me that was filled with hot, creamy rice, chunks of cremini and other mushrooms, a grind of pepper, and a sprinkling of parmesan.  Wow!  Needless to say, it was love at first bite.

That was when it first dawned on me just how rewarding a good meal can be, especially when it's cooked for, and shared with, someone special.  From that point forward I began to experiment, to try new things.  Some things worked, and others failed, but over the next few years my enthusiasm grew.

In 2001, we visited Europe for the first time.  After spending our first five days in Malta eating food we did not enjoy, we arrived in Rome.  We dropped our bags at our hotel, and immediately went for lunch at a restaurant near the Coliseum the American owners of our hotel had recommended, Trattoria dei Quaranta.

It was, without a word of exaggeration, an epiphany: crisp, deep fried zucchini blossoms, bruschette, tonnarelle with cacio e pepe, eggplant, espresso, and wine from the hills outside the city.  And that was just the beginning; by the end of our week in Italy, our enthusiasm had become a passion that I hope will last a lifetime.

I would be remiss if I didn't at least include a risotto recipe we cooked tonight.  There are now at least a dozen risotti we cook regularly, and many more we make as a special treat.  Tonight's falls somewhere in the middle: we would cook it more often, but the ingredients -- radicchio di Treviso and good pancetta -- are hard to come by.

If you'd like to make it and live in Toronto, the main ingredients can be had by taking the subway to Summerhill station and visiting two of Toronto's notorious "Five Thieves" food purveyors.  I've only ever found radicchio di Treviso at the Harvest Wagon, home to Toronto's highest quality, and likely most expensive, produce.  Just two doors down, some of the yummiest pancetta this side of the Atlantic can be purchased at Olliffe.

Here's the recipe:

4 heads, radicchio di Treviso, roughly chopped
200 g, thickly sliced pancetta, cubed
375 g, arborio or other suitable risotto rice
250 ml, red wine
1 cooking onion, diced
1 L, chicken stock
1 tbsp plus 1 tsp extra virgin olive oil
parmigiano reggiano
salt
pepper
butter (if desired)

Preheat chicken stock to a bare simmer.

In a large saucepan or dutch oven over medium high heat, combine bacon and 1 tsp olive oil and sauté until bacon is crispy.  Add the radicchio, and cook until wilted.  Transfer bacon and radicchio to a separate bowl.

Lower heat to medium, and add the remaining olive oil and the onion to the pan, and cook until translucent.  Add the rice, and cook until white dots appear in the centre of each grain.

Add wine, stirring.  When it is reduced, add just enough hot chicken stock to cover the rice, and stir very frequently.  The liquid should barely simmer throughout this process.  Repeat this step until the rice is al dente, approximately eighteen to twenty minutes.  If the stock runs out before the rice is cooked, substitute water.

When the rice is cooked, return the pancetta and radicchio to the pot and add butter, and parmigiano, salt, and pepper to taste.

Serve in bowls with additional salt, pepper, and parmigiano as desired.

Serves two with leftovers as a main course, four as an appetizer.

This risotto has something of an odd colour to it, but it is delicious -- a little bitterness from the radicchio, and a subtle smokiness and saltiness from the pancetta.