No, friends, let me reassure you that you have not accidentally stumbled upon some weird, faux-rustic “pron” site. For good or bad, the only p0rn you’ll find here is daring, ultra-close-up pics of the juicy, young flesh of pasture-fed Argentine cattle. And the only things being roasted (or stripping for that matter) are long strips of beef ribs, or tira de asado.

The setting for this particular Argentine skin flick was El Establo, (meaning the stable), a famous old parilla in the Retiro district of Buenos Aires.

Arriving at this restaurant after another long walk across the City, we found ourselves salivating even more than usual at the sight of giant hunks of meat sizzling over glowing coals because the previous night’s meal had been so disappointing. We’ll devote an entire post about why our experience at Casa Saltshaker was such a let-down another day, but suffice it to say for now, that this chastening experience was beneficial because we learned that disappointment can be an excellent appetite-whetter.

Greeted enthusiastically by our ebullient waiter Javier, we were presented with a large menu, including a range of steaks and pasta, as well as a wide variety of northern Spanish classics – the restaurant’s founder being an immigrant from the Gijon area of Asturias. After a good ten minute study of said menu, we looked up and noticed our surroundings: a high-ceilinged whitewashed room with thick, dark wood beams, somewhat reminiscent of a stable, with the exception of the giant barbecue, and behind us, an intimidating old liquor cabinet packed with all manner of head-splitting firewaters in knobbly green and brown bottles.

Famished by our walk and the meager offerings of the night before, we ordered the heroically proportioned ensalada del Establo (containing almost every vegetable you can name plus potatoes and boiled eggs), and what turned out to be a giant order of lengua a la vinaigrette (cold, boiled beef tongue with garlic, hot pepper and vinegar sauce) as appetizers, and somewhat conservatively, we figured, a half order, respectively, of entraña (skirt steak) and tira de asado.

Tira de asado (roast strips) is one of several uniquely Argentine cuts of beef that are perfectly suited to the high-heat charring (al carbon)of a traditional parilla. Beef ribs are cross-cut so that long narrow strips of inter-costal meat are interspersed with knots of rib-bone, which serves to shorten the often tough fibers of this part of the beast and allow them to be grilled instead of cooked using the long, low & slow method for the typical beef ribs barbecue familiar to Americans.

The juiciness and wonderfully gamey flavor of beef ribs is also retained brilliantly with this method, creating an irresistible contrast in texture to the crust formed on the outside by the searing heat from the charcoal.

Similar cuts of meat are available from some butchers in the US, the closest probably being the flanken rib, which is a short rib cut across the bone. From what we know from visiting several local butchers in Brooklyn, these are delicious, but generally thicker and meatier than those we ate in Argentina, bringing us to the conclusion that they’re cut from higher up the steer. Of course, as we plan to do at several points over the summer, you could quite easily buy yourself a rack of beef ribs and a fine-toothed saw (or heavy cleaver) and cut your own meat to order. I expect that satisfying thwack of steel on bone will be one of the signature sounds of the season.

We were delighted with our lunch at El Establo in all respects, and the playful friendliness of Javier interjecting his Argentine-inflected “you’re welcome”s as he brought more and more food to the table, only complemented our general sense of well-being. Like many professional waiters, he did his job expertly without either writing anything down or seeming to be in a hurry. Strolling around, gracefully hefting heavily-laden iron meat trays, and pausing now and then to chat and joke with our fellow diners, Javier seemed to be enjoying himself as much as we were. In fact, the only time I saw him frown was when, casting a wary eye over the meaty wreckage on our table, he tapped his nose, and, winking, advised us that we would need another half-bottle of wine if were going to properly enjoy the remainder of our steak. You can’t argue with service like that.

We ate tira de asado on at least three occasions during our week in Argentina, and so hooked were we that for our first steak meal in the month since returning home we trekked all over Brooklyn looking for an appropriate cut of meat. Ultimately, we didn’t quite find an exact facsimile of what we’d eaten in Buenos Aires, but the ribs we made and grilled at home were still very, very good all the same. And, when accompanied with lashings of sweet-vinegary-spicy condiment salsa criolla (creole sauce), a hearty Malbec, and a bowl of the highly addictive side dish that is papas fritas a la provenzal (french fries with fried garlic and parsley), it didn’t take an enormous mental leap to be back at El Establo listening to Javier expound his theory of why Fernet-Branca is the most popular digestive in Argentina. (it burns through steak the best)

It’s fairly safe to say that no group, with the exception of the enigmatic gaucho, played as significant a role in defining Argentine national character as the Italians. Primarily (and principally, numerically-speaking) from Liguria (particularly Genoa), Piemonte and Tuscany, but latterly also from Naples and other areas of southern Italy, these Italian immigrants, literally by the million, descended on Argentine soil during the last decades of the 19th century and the inter-war period of the 20th century having a profound effect on the social, cultural, linguistic and gastronomic life of their adopted home. (bear with me, this is going somewhere)

And nowhere in Argentina was this impact greater than in the southern barrios of Buenos Aires, La Boca and San Telmo, the neighborhoods where these Italians began their new lives. A (then) new local slang, lunfardo - which not only features a highly confusing form of wordplay known as vesre that reverses words so tango becomes gotan (as in The Gotan Project) and cafe con leche becomes feca con chele, but which is also littered liberally with words taken from various Italian dialects (for example, laburar (to work) instead of trabajar, manyar (to eat) instead of comer) – grew out of this linguistic melting-pot. And it had a similar effect of Italicizing the Porteño diet with such Italian staples as pizza, pasta, gnocchi, and a variety of Genoese chickpea flatbread known locally as faína (similar to the famous farinata of Genoa we wrote about a while back) accompanying the ubiquitous steak and offal on restaurant menus.

Of course, (and paraphrasing Karl Marx) the Argetin-izing of these Italian staples was also just as much of a historical inevitability, and while we’ll revisit our experiences with Argentine pasta in a later post, the focus here is Argentine pizza, and in particular the Buenos Aires classic dish that is the fugazzetta.

More or less three “types” of pizza are available in Buenos Aires: thin crust (a la piedra), a thicker, more risen (1 inch/2cm thick) doughy kind known as de molde, and media masa which is a half-baked version sold in supermarkets to be finished off in the oven at home. An informal and in no way scientific survey by yours truly indicates that a la piedra places slightly outnumber those selling thicker pies, but many of the most traditional Argentine pizzerias we read about, served pizzas in the latter camp, so it was one of the most famous of these that we endured a sweaty, grimy, two-hour walk across town to visit.

El Cuartito is decorated like the bedroom of an aging (and single) sports fan with faded posters for Las Vegas boxing showdowns cheek-by-jowl with team photos of 1980s Argentine soccer champions sporting the shiny, shortie-shorts popular at the time, and is split into two sections: standing and seated. Claiming a table in the seated section, the gruff, white-jacketed waiter – a dead-ringer for Fredo Corleone from The Godfather – plonked down two menus on our formica-topped table and scurried off.

Glancing at our fellow diners it quickly became apparent that Argentine de molde-style pizza is very different from any pizza we had ever eaten. Laden with masses of yellowy-white melted cheese, dotted sparingly with other toppings (like whole green olives and big slices of tomato) and served on circular wooden boards, it didn’t resemble either the pizza we’ve eaten in Italy or in New York or Chicago. Excited at having entered a new realm of pizza-dom, we ordered a pizza mixta (half cheese, half anchovy (no cheese, only red sauce on anchovy side), a fugazzetta, and an order of faína, along with two foamy mugs of Quilmes Chopp (ubiquitous draft Argentine beer).

The first to arrive, the mixta, was about the diameter of a large dinner plate and a shade less than an inch in depth. Half-covered with molten cheese (that tasted like somewhere between a mozzarella and a mild provolone) with the opposing half smothered in a crimson tomato sauce and laced with some giant salted anchovies, it would have been a good lunch by itself, and we were happy, when the fugazzetta hove into view, that “Fredo” our waiter ended up forgetting about the faína. 

Now, remember the seemingly dull linguistic and ethnographic details in the second paragraph? Good, because the word fugazetta is derived from “fugassa” meaning “focaccia” in Genoese dialect, and is the name given in Argentina to an onion focaccia with grated cheese gratiné-ed on top. First created by Genoese immigrant baker Agustin Banchero in La Boca around the turn of the 20th-century, the fugazza has since become famous enough that the family have not only opened a series of Banchero Pizzerias (first one in 1932), but the recipe was so valuable it was patented in the 1950s.

So, then, if a fugazza is a thick onion pizza, a fugazzetta – purportedly invented by Agustin’s son, Juan – is a fugazza stuffed with mozzarella cheese. And, when one arrives on your table with a solid thunk, you realize that this is a serious deal and rightly famous. Our faces were a mixture of surprise, delight and fear when we were presented with ours. Puffed up like a yeasty Michelin man, our fugazzetta was probably three inches thick, oozing with melted cheese and bristling with crispy sweet onions.

Deciding that we should take a brief rest before hurting ourselves on the fugazzetta, we searched for inspiration in the boxing posters on the walls and began humming the Rocky theme tune quietly to ourselves. Immediately to our left, was a framed Argentina soccer jersey, with the phrase “a mi favorito El Cuartito, siempre a mi cariño” (to my favorite “El Cuartito”, always in my heart), signed by one of, if not the, greatest soccer (futbol) players of all time, Argentine icon, Diego Armando Maradona, aka “El Pibe de Oro” (the golden kid).

Now, this was significant not just because a shirt signed by the great man loomed above us like Rio’s Christ the Redeemer statue, but also because, in the context of the giant fugazzetta slumping threateningly before us and our knowledge of recent Argentine history, it appeared more like the Argentine shroud of Turin. You see, (it’s not clear when Maradona signed this jersey), but in early 2005 Diego had to be admitted to hospital to have his stomach-pumped after eating an estimated 25 pizzas during a food and cocaine binge that nearly killed him. If the jersey was inked after this misadventure, one can only deduce that the pizza at El Cuartito is so good it’s impossible to bear a grudge against.

So, chastened by this story of gluttonous daring, but undeterred, we managed to get about halfway through the cheesy, crispy, doughy fugazzetta before conceding a weary, yet happy, defeat. To our right, two Porteños sporting significant bellies, were noisily tucking in to a fugazzetta of their own but, amazingly, were topping it with thick slabs of faína. As we waddled towards the door, it suddenly hit us that we had a lot to learn about the lore of Argentine pizza-eating if we were ever going to be able to compete with the locals, let alone the legends.

Special thanks to La Cocina de Myri for her excellent history of the Fugazzetta I cribbed from liberally above.

It’s nearly a year now since we were in Madrid, and while during that time we’ve managed to shed some of the excess poundage we gained there, we’ve lost none of our longing to be back there. And, it’s a strange thing about longing that all your memories become more vivid, and you remember even the smallest details.

So, on Sunday morning, we sought to recreate what, while in Madrid, seemed like a comparatively minor facet of our stay – breakfast. In Spain, as in other parts of southern Europe, a typical breakfast is characterized by three things: sugar, caffeine and nicotine, but it would unfair to suggest there is no greater variety than the, admittedly delicious, combo of pastries, coffee and strong cigarettes.

Roommate Mario (our hotel, not an actual person), in the Opera district of the city (not far from the magnificent Palacio Real – see above), was a small, boutiquey-type place and not, by any means, the type of hotel we’d commonly stay in. And, apart from the unusually reasonably-priced room, what convinced us to pick this hotel was its renowned “free” breakfast.

Research suggested that not only was it sumptious and delicious, but that it was served until noon, which, given that we like to sleep on vacation and would be eating and drinking later than normal to fit in with the insomniacal Madrileño lifestyle, was another bonus. I’ve always found it despicable and somehow mean that most hotels only serve breakfast until 10am, so that people who actually on vacation nearly always miss it.

Our typical breakfast at Roommate Mario was, of course, a tongue-tinglingly powerful cup of café solo or “capuchino”, a tiny glass of freshly-squeezed and enjoyably sour orange juice, and several triangles of the most perfect tortilla española layered on fresh, crusty bread with slices of manchego and lomo – cured loin of pork delicately flavored with pimenton – and topped with a drizzle of golden Andalucian olive oil and, our new favorite condiment, grated tomato. I know it doesn’t sound like a wildly exotic or even a very exciting breakfast (especially to our Spanish readers), but to us, who usually only shove down a slice of toast before hurrying out of the door of an average morning, it was out of this world.

So, this past weekend, as you can see from the pictures, in a flood of nostalgia, and flush with many of the requisite ingredients, we recreated our Madrid breakfasts in our Brooklyn apartment – courtesy of a very kind deli counter worker at Union Market (69cents for six slices of jamon iberico!) and through the good graces of our friend Nuría Farregut at Spanish Recipes and the miracle of vacuum-packing. In fact, so thoughtful and kind is Nuría that yesterday, just as we were mourning the last of the chorizo de bellota she sent us from La Boquería over the summer, another package arrived with some magnificent-looking dry salami/salchichon! It’s as if we managed to telepathically transmit our longing for Spain to Nuría in Barcelona. I mean, we’re still desperate to return, but at least our stomachs are temporarily satisfied! Thank you so, so much, Nuría! Una amiga en jamón, es una amiga por la vida!

The purpose of this trip was, principally, to visit my new nephew, William, who, we discovered, is a charming young chap with pink cheeks and a propensity for chewing his fingers, drinking milk, and synchronizing his burps and farts – some skills you just can’t teach. However, we also planned to visit old friends we hadn’t seen since our wedding 18 months ago, and, if we could fit it in, actually see some of London.

I’m sure many of you have heard and/or seen about the culinary renaissance that has been happening in the UK over the past ten years or so, that the country is rightfully proud of. Marco Pierre White, Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsay, Rick Stein, and Heston Blumenthal, among others, have all made huge names for themselves domestically and internationally for their reinterpretations of classic British dishes and focus on the excellent produce of the British Isles. Much of this gastronomic progress has been realized in the restaurants of London, turning it from culinary wasteland to hot spot almost over night.

Now, my experience of dining in London as a resident were generally not at these temples of fine food, but instead at more down-at-heel places like the many gastro-pubs and curry houses. So, the first opportunity we got, Amy and I raced off to a local boozer in Putney (the Coat & Badge) for a quick pub lunch of pork pie, chips and mushy peas, washed down with a couple of pints of Fuller’s London Pride (a bitter made just over the Thames in Chiswick), and that evening, followed it up with a typically Anglo-Indian take-out curry from the totally average but completely wonderful Putney Tandoori.

Chucking back a chicken tikka jalfrezi and a lamb dhansak was like putting on an old sweater – familiar, comforting, and with a smell that evoked many happy memories. Rose-tinted memories for certain, because I’ve committed some fairly miserable and embarrassing mistakes of judgment at Indian restaurants over the years, including the time I ordered a fahl (an insanely-spiced dish), took one bite and then rubbed my eyes with a chile-soaked finger, and spent the rest of the night feverishly rinsing out my sockets fearing I’d blinded myself.

The day after our curries, we headed into London proper – to the centre/center – to revisit the nasty-ass basement bar where Amy and I stumbled across one another nearly six years ago, do some shopping down Neal Street, and then head up to Farringdon for lunch. Amazingly, the Gardening Club (the basement bar) looked like it had been given a face-lift, and was now, curiously, serving lunch, but neither of us could really face going inside for fear that it might change our cherished memories of the place. So, pushing on, we enjoyed the recent fall in value of the pound vs. the dollar and actually did some non-food shopping for a change.

One of the other “new” breed of British chef/restaurateurs, we knew about from having read about him, seen him on TV and bought his book, but who has garnered far less international celebrity is Fergus Henderson of St. John Restaurant near Smithfield Market. He is most famous for his widely-copied dish of roasted veal marrow-bones and parsley salad which we had eaten and loved at both Gabrielle Hamilton’s fabulous Prune, in NYC, and more recently at L’Express in Montreal. Now we wanted to try the original.

Below a sign featuring a hand-drawn pig, we entered the restaurant down a short hallway (the building which houses the restaurant is a Georgian-era carriage house, and one enters via the former carriage entrance the courtyard of which is now covered and serves as the restaurant’s bar, bakery and cafe area), and ascended a short flight of stairs to to the dining room full of anticipation. Factory-style lamps illuminated a white-walled space completely circled by head-high coat-hooks, and a thickly-painted floor was decorated only by ordinary white-clothed tables and dark, well-worn chairs.

Check out the slideshow above to see what we had for lunch, and then listen to the podcast below to learn more about St. John Restaurant, and our excitingly awkward meeting with chef/owner Fergus Henderson.

These days, it seems something is always the new something else. You know, Thursday’s the new Friday, brown’s the new black, Palin’s the new devil, Obama’s the new Messiah, etc. But to me, for example, comparing the pain and anguish at dragging myself from bed on a Friday morning after a few drinks the night before, to how relaxed and comfy I am sleeping late on a Saturday after the same number of drinks, makes at least some these kind of comparisons not only facile but downright misleading.The simple fact is that everything that’s around today is not somehow a better, newer and shinier version of something that came before. It’s just not true. There are, however, exceptions to this rule: computers are better than they ever have been, and I think, the same can be said of socks. Socks with lycra in them are so much better than those ridiculous, loose bags of yesteryear that never failed to cause blisters, and somehow managed to work their way down your legs and almost off your feet even as you walked around in shoes.

There are some things though, that have always been good, always been recognized as good, even if only by a few, and whose quality has been continuously improved throughout the years in line with improvements in technology and ingredients. Amongst these is the very delectable French aperitif wine, Lillet.

A Long of History
In 1872, the brothers Paul and Raymond Lillet founded their Compagny des Freres Lillet, and though they didn’t sell their first bottle of “Lillet – aperitif de Bordeaux” until 15 years later, it has been flying off the shelves world-wide ever since. The Deuxieme Empire (2nd Empire, 1852-1870) was a great boom time for France both as an importer and exporter of goods, and it was during this period that Bordeaux first led the world in the wine trade. Not only were the techniques of production and bottling of quality wines being revolutionized, but local vintners began blending these wines with a wide variety of exotic spices and other ingredients arriving from the French West Indies, Brazil and West Africa to make all kinds of tonics, liqueurs and aperitifs that quickly became vogue in French cafes.Made from 85% white Bordeaux and 15% fruit liqueurs juices (sweet & bitter oranges) and quinine, Lillet originally had something of a bitter flavor to it and was promoted under the name “Kina Lillet” as a tonic - kina, or kina kina (or chinchona) is a tree native to Peru and quinine is derived from its bark – with the tagline: “…a potent tonic. It can be consumed, for their utmost benefit, by those with a fragile constitution whatever their age.” Indeed, a double-strength quinine version was sold in the French West Indies and United States for a time and drunk by malaria sufferers.

Popularity Through Advertising, James Bond and Quinine
However, Lillet was really advertised until the turn of the century when it really took off in Paris. To this day, there is a considerable trade in the beautiful Art Deco advertising memorabilia produced at this time with venerable Lillet-branded pencils, fans, postcards, thermometers and posters all still changing hands among collectors. Then, as with pastis, the prohibition of absinthe in 1915 helped increase the popularity of Lillet throughout France, but it only really began to gain an international reputation in the interwar period when English drinkers found that when mixed with gin, in place of dry vermouth, it produced a rather toothsome martini.

In fact, though it was subsequently superceded by the rather more prosaic vodka martini (shaken, not stirred), the Kina Lillet martini, as those of you who’ve watched the recent movies Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace will know, was James Bond’s drink of choice. Three parts of Gordon’s gin, one part vodka, and 1/2 measure of Lillet, shaken vigorously with crushed ice and served in a champagne flute with lemon peel, which Bond names “the Vesper” after his love interest at the time.

And, while Bond may have cornered the market in refined style, Lillet blanc (as opposed to Lillet rouge, a sweeter red version, created in 1962) can be enjoyed in different many ways. Straight up over ice with a slice of orange or twist of lemon is very typical and refreshing, but a number of famous cocktails including the zebra square and Edith’s fizz also showcase Lillet’s talents as a mixer. It’s worthwhile noting that during the 1990s Lillet changed its recipe, and in 1997, after 110 years of following the same ratio of ingredients, the amount of quinine was reduced, and almost overnight, it became the number one drink in Parisian restaurant chain L’Ecluse with 12,000 drinks served that year. Anyone who has drunk neat tonic water can figure out why its popularity suddenly exploded.

With the bitter aftertaste reduced the aromas of candied orange, honey and apple come through on the drinker’s palate like never before, and it’s probably no coincidence that even the rugged James Bond has returned to Lillet martinis now they are a little less astringent. But don’t give in to flashy modern advertising and let some buff dude in a tux convince you to try Lillet, engage your thoughts in the drink’s fascinating history, intriguing flavor profile and retro-bottle design, and you’ll quickly see that la plus ca change, la plus reste la meme.

Her (George is short for Georgina if you were confused) top five of: Home made mayo mixed with either garlic, lemon or harrisa, Sambal Olek, Chilli jam (home made), Balsamic vinegar, and Extra Virgin Tuscan olive oil, was by some distance randomized to the head of the list in front of such other notable luminaries as Cebca and Lo. Congratulations George! A bottle of said sauce is on its way to you now, which given your obvious proclivities for spicy condiments, we feel confident you’ll enjoy!

And speaking of a taste for capsaicin, it seems George is not alone. The vast majority of you showed your appreciation for all things spicy. From tabasco to Frank’s hot, Encona to Crystal hot, to Cholula, hot sauce was one of the few things almost everyone agreed on. That said, it seems like some of you have rather exotic tastes when it comes to spicy condiments, suggesting some which were new to us: sambal olek (spicy south-east asian condiment), sinamak (chile-infused vinegar), and sriracha (Thai hot sauce), to name a few.

We also learned about what you guys think of as condiments: olive oil, jam, guacamole, vinegar, and butter. None of which we would have thought of, but are, when you really get down to it, in fact condiments.

Above all, we learned that condiments, domestic and humble, common, or exotic, remain wildly popular, in spite of contemporary fears about “industrial foods.” Your favorite condiments, it seems, are here to stay.

As you might remember, last month Choosy Beggar Tina won herself the wonderful prize of a selection of English potato chips (crisps) by picking the most enticing variety of flavors in the inaugural We Are Never Full monthly top five giveaway. This month we’re focusing our attention on the vastly underrated group of foods that make up the world of condiments.

Flexible, complimentary, multi-purpose, and flavorful, condiments are the journeymen of the food world, and have been unfairly looked down on by the gastonomic cognoscenti as only good enough to disguise the taste of flavorless food or as just a topping burgers, hot dogs and fries. No longer. Condiments of all kinds are an essential part of many kinds of dishes, both as ingredients and as sauces, and we’re giving them the respect they’re due. So, go to your fridge and tell us which of your favorite condiments are clinking together in the door. The best top five will win a bottle of our latest condiment obsession, the very wonderful Pepper Plant’s Chunky Garlic Hot Pepper Sauce.

Entries must be submitted by 1:30 p.m. (EST), Monday, November 10.

Amy’s Top Five Condiments: (in reverse order)

5. hot sauce (pref. Frank’s)

4. Maille smooth Dijon mustard

3. blue cheese dressing

2. sour cream

1. Heinz ketchup and Hellmann’s real (full fat) mayonnaise mixed

Jonny’s Top Five Condiments: (in reverse order)

5. mango chutney

4. raita (yoghurt, cucumber and mint)

3. Lea n’Perrins Worcestershire sauce

2. HP sauce

1. Frank’s Original Hot Sauce

Check Out some other posts you might enjoy:

• Top Five Crisps
• Bandeja Paisa – A Colombian Gut-Buster
• Good Eats: Man TV?
• Striking Over Pasta?
• You Have A Friend in Cheeses

Gentle readers, please sympathize with me, for I, like a man who’s been dining exclusively on centipedes, have the bitter taste of defeat in my mouth. That this humiliation and defeat arrived, to twist a metaphor, at the hands of nothing more sinister than a pig’s foot, has only served to exacerbate these feelings of embarrassment and self-loathing.

Those of you already somewhat familiar with our body of work here at We Are Never Full may know that we are always ready to face down even the hardiest gastronomic challenges, frequently with all-to scant regard for liver, waistline and coronary arteries. It’s a kind of culinary cockiness and machismo that, strangely enough, we find so odious in TV food tools like Guy Fieri. I sincerely hope that this foolish trend, which continued during our recent trip to Montreal, has no lasting repercussions on our health.

Having heard about the restaurant Au Pied de Cochon (literally, at the foot of the pig) and its joyful, some may say reckless, use of duck and pork fat (& offal) in the preparation of traditional French and Quebecois dishes, plus several unique heart-stopping creations, we figured that it sounded like the kind of place we should visit.

“…a green salad tossed in warm, duck-fat vinaigrette and topped with a fritter of trotter mush…”

The red sign near the entrance cautioning patrons to be careful on the greasy floor should have been taken as warning, as should the glazed and listless gazes of departing patrons. Heedless, we proceeded to order the sliced tongue and the crispy PDC salad as starters. The former, which was beef tongue, sat nicely in our comfort zone. Meltingly tender and served with a butter-finished veal stock sauce and garnished with sliced cornichons for a texturally-satisfying crunch. We were intrigued by the latter when the waiter explained that it was basically a green salad tossed in warm, duck-fat vinaigrette and topped with a fritter of trotter mush. Yes, that’s right – the nerves, cartilage and natural gelatin from the pig’s foot, mashed together and seasoned, then breaded and deep-fried. Not a salad for dieters, but amazing tasting, wonderful mouth-feel, with the prince of vinaigrettes.

That we had ordered mains after this was our first major mistake, and the second was that one of them happened to be the pied de cochon with foie gras. (The fact that the other was a large tranche of foie gras with a side of poutine (more on this in a later post) barely registered.) Few are the times in my life that I have had a plate of food put in front of me and I have suddenly felt weak, timid and overawed – even at the most trying times I usually soldier bravely on before leaving the table bloated and sweaty – but, on this occasion I was defeated the moment I was served.

“…like the governor of a provincial state thrust into the spotlight of CBS News … I was suddenly way out of my depth and performed pathetically, embarrassing myself in the process.”

Never before have I even seen a plate of food that large for one person, let alone been prompted to eat it. It was gigantic. The pigs foot was large – maybe a foot long - and deep-fried, though that of itself caused little consternation as it was mostly bone, and was topped with a 4oz slice of seared foie gras, again, excessive, but perhaps not fear-inducing exactly. What really intimidated me was that the trotter sat on an inch-deep bed of creamy mashed potatoes and between two foot-long trenches – for that’s what they were – of button mushrooms and spinach in a cream and butter sauce. I would estimate there were two 6oz boxes of button mushrooms plus a cup of cream on the plate, and the whole thing must have weighed about 5lbs and could have served six adults. What was I to do in the face of such magnitude?

You’re right, I could have plowed in and tried to eat it all, and then admitted defeat gracefully later on. I could also have harangued the waiter for not giving me any idea of what a fool I was making of myself, but frankly, my spirit was broken. You see, I’ve always managed to perform creditably at the table before, even if I have ultimately been overwhelmed, but, like the governor of a provincial state thrust into the spotlight of CBS News for the first time, I was suddenly way out of my depth and performed pathetically, embarrassing myself in the process.

As these photos attest, I was barely able to make a dent in it, and in truth, it was my wife who ate the lion’s share. I had been psyched out and failed to regain my composure. Some would say, with good reason, that it was a shameful waste of food, but I prefer to think of it as a lesson in humility.

Indeed, chatting with the maitre d’ later on over calvados (one of the few things that can cut through thick layers of duck fat) I learned that this was Martin Picard, the owner’s, dastardly plan for this dish, — that no-one who orders it leaves unscarred. Everyone is dominated by it and no-one gets anywhere near cleaning their plate. So confident are they at Au Pied de Cochon of their ability to manifest gluttony so vaingloriously that they number every deep-fried pig’s foot they serve. Mine was 5141. So from now on, like a retired GI with a talisman made of shrapnel, I shall wear that number with pride and humility, in place of a hospital bracelet during the bypass surgery I expect to now need.

Au Pied de Cochon
536 avenue Duluth Est
Montréal, QC H2L 1A9, Canada
(514) 281-1114

Check out some other posts you might enjoy:

• Thursday, It’s Gloria Day
• Quickest Meal to Make… Ever – Pasta con Tonno
• Authentic Tortilla Soup
• South African Hot Toddies

L’Express Chicken Liver Pate with Pistachios

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When you think of Brazil what do you think of? Is it the lazy sway of coconut palms, golden beaches, beautiful, bronzed people, a back-drop of Sugar Loaf Mountain, and soundtrack of relaxing bossa nova? Is it a throbbing samba rhythm, huge, garish paper-mache heads, and crowds of people dancing at carnival? Is it the magnificent graceful style of Brazilian soccer players, shimmying around in their famous yellow jerseys? Is it swampy, vibrant, old-growth rainforest echoing with bird and monkey calls, and the slow, muddy peregrinations of the worlds’ longest river? Or is it, perhaps, scenes of horrific murders and kidnappings, grinding poverty and deprivation?

It could well be all of the above. Brazil is the world’s fifth largest country in geographical area and in population, and has staggering diversity in environment, culture, ethnicity, and geography, as well as staggering economic disparity. In fact, some would argue that perhaps the only things that all Brazilians can agree on are the national soccer team and cachaça (pronounced, more or less, Ka-shass-a).

The former represents the country more famously than perhaps any thing else, as Brazil has won the World Cup 5 times - more than any other nation. But, even more famous than their success is their style of play. The free-flowing, wonderfully skillful, attacking game has endeared a Seleçåo not just to their own people but to millions around the world too. The latter, cachaça, the national drink of Brazil, is less widely known to non-Brazilians, but it’s fame too, is increasing through the successful export of the most popular drink made with it, the caipirinha.

And, for me, it’s the style of the drink that I find so attractive. The rawness of the cachaça, the sharp tang of lime, the sweetness of the sugar, the muddling it all together – all these different flavors and textures speak to me of a vibrant, diverse culture that retains a sharp bite. Meaning (literally) “little hillbilly” (the diminutive form of caipira, or redneck), the caipirinha is Brazil’s most popular cocktail, and is drunk on virtually every occasion in bars, restaurants, and in the home. Of course, there are several other ways to enjoy cachaça, which we’ll get on to shortly.

A Little History

But, before that, let’s learn more about cachaça itself. Basically, it’s a spirit distilled from the cane sugar for which “The Brazils” were primary producers of during Portuguese colonialism, being first produced in the town of Sao Vicente in the state of Minas Gerais (north-west of Rio de Janeiro) in the mid-1500s. The name is derived from the word cagaça, a kind of sour ‘beer’ made from fermented cane juice, first brewed by African slaves brought to work on Brazil’s plantations.

By the seventeenth century, its popularity had grown so much and there were so many distilleries in Brazil, that cachaça was officially banned in order that it not compete with imported Portuguese bagaceira, or grappa. However, in 1755, following the earthquake and tsunami that devastated Lisbon, the Portuguese decided to legalise it and tax it, and in fact, much of Lisbon was rebuilt with this cachaça tax.

While cachaça was widely popular, it was not considered to be refined enough for consumption by any but the lowest classes, including slaves, peasants and urban working class. However, these days that has changed dramatically and all classes of Brazilian society consume cachaça with a passion some might call reckless abandon. Indeed, the average annual consumption in Brazil is around 8 liters. That’s 8 liters of forty head-splitting percent alcohol. Of course, there are different grades of cachaca, in the same way that there are better or worse cognacs or whiskeys, and while there are several large producers (Pitu, Cachaça 51) there are many hundreds of artisanal producers also making all kinds of interesting versions that are either mixed with flavorful botanics or aged in barrels made from exotic tropical woods. Much of the former kind is drunk as a caipirinha or one of several other mixed drinks, whereas the artisanal versions are sipped in the same was as scotch or cognac.

Heady Concoctions

Other than the hugely popular caipirinha, other liver-busting cocktails can also be made with cachaça, including: the bombeirinho combining it with red gooseberry syrup in a popular beverage; the caipifruta mixes cachaça with muddled fresh fruits, condensed milk and crushed ice into a refreshing milkshake-type cocktail; and the capeta or capetåo, meaning “devil”, which is a mix of cachaça, vodka, grape or strawberry juice, cinnamon, red wine and sugar, and is usually served hot. The fumes coming of this latter drink must be intense. The name tells you everything you need to know, I guess.

What does cachaça taste like?

Well, since it’s more or less a colorless rum, it tastes like what it is, and even then it doesn’t really have a massive amount of it’s own flavor. Like vodka in that respect really, although perhaps a little sweeter. However, the aged varieties are allegedly as good as a fine brandy and can be enjoyed as a great digestivo after a meal. That said, artisanal cachaça is hard to find in the United States so you’re much more likely to only be able to find the mass-produced brands mentioned above. Do not despair, as these are pretty good in their own right, and given that they are best drunk diluted with lots of lime juice, sugar and, occasionally, soda water, you don’t need to worry about the taste too much. And, if you’re not looking for a drink that’s as cocktail-ish as a caipirinha, then I would also encourage you to try the confusingly-named rabo de galo, (literally tail of cock), which despite its name is just a mixture or equal parts of cachaça and sweet vermouth. This feels like more of an aperitivo and a little less “hectic”.  

Even the name cachaça is exotic and cool-sounding – just rolling it around in your mouth, like most words in Brazilian Portuguese - it sounds soothing and somehow sexy.  Drinking a caipirinha is a similar experience, and they are as much fun to make and pronounce as they are to drink! Saude!