October Monkey
Image from The Wooden Monkey Restaurant in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Used without permission (but I’m sure they won’t mind…).
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October’s monkey is “Dining Horror Stories.” Tell us about a bad or strange experience you had while dining at someone else’s home. Restaurants don’t count.
Was the cooking exceptionally bad? Did you have a gas attack? Did someone pour wine into your lap? Did the food explode? Tell us all about it.
Here’s mine:
Not long after I moved to Montreal, my then girlfriend and I were invited to dinner at the home of her master’s thesis advisor. The advisor was a classic English professor-adventurer type, equally comfortable on a barren mountain outcrop or in a lavish university faculty club full of ascot-wearing twits. His wife was a teacher, aspiring writer, and home gourmet from upper-crust (or at least a convincing faux-upper-crust) Ontario.
We arrived at their sturdy and heirloom-filled home in St. Lambert, chatted for a bit, and then sat down to dinner with out hosts and four other guests. The atmosphere was friendly but a bit constrained, as all guests were either students or spouses of students — clearly denizens of a somewhat different world. The hosts were relaxed and made every effort to be inclusive, but one had a sense that a single slip of etiquette could shatter the warmth and set a layer of icy crust upon the entire proceedings.
The first course was steamed artichokes. At the time, I knew virtually nothing about food — short of what hole to shovel it into. I had seen artichokes in the grocery stores, and had even managed to eat a few artichoke hearts in salads and antipasto plates, but I had never been confronted with a large green spiny artichoke on a plate. Fortunately, I was still rather clever in those days, and much better at misrepresenting myself, so I coo-ed and nodded a bit, and took some time to arrange my napkin and silverware while waiting for someone else to start eating so I could watch.
Fortunately, the chef — the professor’s wife — was the first to tuck in. She held the artichoke in her left hand, pinched a leaf with the fingers of her right hand, and rocked it back and forth until it came loose. Then she brought the leaf to her mouth, and popped it in.
I looked to the side and saw that other people were doing the same, so I followed suit. I rocked a leaf loose and brought it to my mouth, feeling a bit skeptical as the leaf felt pretty dense and woody. I stuck it in my mouth, tender end first, and started chewing. It was a long, hard chew, but eventually I managed to shred it enough to swallow it.
I wondered how I would get through it all as I popped the second leaf into my mouth. As I gnawed and gnashed away, someone at the table said “This is interesting — I’ve never had whole artichokes before.” The chef replied “Yes, they’re quite delicious once you figure out how to eat them.” I would have said something at that point, but all I could have managed was something like “Mrrrffff!”
Then someone at the table said “At first I thought you were supposed to eat the whole leaf, but then I saw that you were only eating the soft tip.” Everyone tittered, but I froze, instantly realizing that I had been too quick to look away during my research. I had not seen the critical second step, which is to draw the leaf back out of your mouth, using your teeth to scrape off the tender bit.
Having only eaten two leaves, I thought I would get away with it by simply switching to the proper method. That’s when my girlfriend pointed at me from across the table and let out a big guffaw followed by “THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE DOING! YOU’RE EATING THE WHOLE LEAF!”
That’s when I turned into a big green hulking beast and tore the house down. Fortunately, everyone laughed it off politely, but I could feel my stock plummet. I’m not sure it ever recovered. Not that it matters, as I haven’t seen any of those people in over ten years.
Pizza report — Pizza Como
As everyone in Montreal knows, if you want to eat you go to The Plateau. Or maybe Mile-End. Little Italy is also a good bet, as is the Quartier-Latin (if you like lineups for food that is acceptable but should never be lined-up for). Heck, I’ve eaten well in Westmount, NDG, downtown, and even Vieux Montréal.
But the suburbs?
Sure, why not? Before we go any further, let’s clarify; I’m not talking about alimentary haute couture — I simply mean well-crafted food that is offered at a reasonable price. That’s exactly what we found at Pizza Como last night in Delson.
After enduring a day with the roofers, Martine needed to get out of the house, so I offered to treat her to pizza. I didn’t want for her to have to cross the bridge, and we have yet to find a remarkable pizza close to home in Longueuil, so I proposed we check out the mythical Pizza Como, whose myth begins and ends with this blog. Back in March, Harry Wakefield commented on one of my posts about pizza that Como made “the best pizza on the planet.” There are two outlets — one in La Prairie (on the dreadful Boulevard Taschereau) and the other in back-of-beyond Delson. I’m never anywhere near either place, but I made a mental note to check it out one day.
Yesterday was that day. Getting there was pretty quick, as we just stayed on the 132 the whole way (110 k/ph and no traffic lights = ten minutes). I had no idea what to expect — was it a mom & pop takeout? An old-fashioned greasy spoon? They have virtually no Web presence, so there was no way to know (short of phoning and asking, but I’d never do that!).
Upon arrival we found a rather large and friendly place (at least 200 seats) that appears to have been recently expanded and renovated. Pizza Como is clearly in the realm of the big suburban “casual” family restaurant — the kind of place that would strike terror into my stomach back when I still thought of The Plateau as the center of the culinary universe. (Uh . . ., OK, I still sort of think that sometimes . . .)
Although my definition of “acceptable restaurant” has changed over the past year (some would say my standards have lowered) I was still a bit disappointed. I was hoping for a little family-run place — some sort of undiscovered jewel. As we approached the door I figured that at worst we’d have an uninspired but at least edible pie like you’d get from Mikes or Pizza Hut. Imagine our surprise — and encouragement — when we opened the door to find a lineup at 7:00 PM on a Monday night. (The Monday night two-for-one draft beer special may have been a factor.)
Service was quick and efficient (perhaps too quick — the server took off before we could ask for wine). A few minutes later we managed to snag a half litre of house wine (standard screw-cap Bottero), although there is also a conventional selection of bottles to choose from, as well as domestic beer and cocktails.
I started with a Caesar salad, which turned out to be about what I expected — the lettuce was fresh and crisp, the croutons straight out of a bag, and the dressing was conventional but tasty. An important note: the salad was not drowning in dressing — a pleasant break from this too-common Caesar affliction. In fact, it was exactly the right amount. No anchovies and no visible added Parmesan cheese, but I wasn’t expecting any, so it was acceptable.
Then the pizzas arrived. Martine had ordered a small vegetarian pie and I ordered a small one with mushrooms and bacon. They both looked and smelled marvelous — round and thick-crusted with a generous application of toppings. The crust was extraordinary — it was thick but very light and crispy, and quite tasty. I think it may be the best thick pizza crust I’ve ever had. Truly wonderful, and far above anything you’ll find on The Plateau.
Loyal readers know that I judge a pizza on two essential things — the crust and the sauce. The freshness of the toppings is also important, but it is the crust and the sauce that make or break a pie. Pizza Como wins top score for crust, no doubt. Unfortunately, it doesn’t rank quite as high for the sauce. Not that the sauce is bad — just that there wasn’t enough of it. Compared to Amelio’s Pizza in the McGill Ghetto (top score for sauce), the Como sauce was almost non-existent so it was difficult to appraise.
The toppings were fresh and generous. Martine’s had green and black olives, onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, and green peppers. Mine had a scattering of mushrooms and enough bacon for three breakfasts. Both were loaded with decent mozzarella cheese.
My small pizza was enough to stuff me to the gills. I thoroughly enjoyed every bite, but I couldn’t help but editorialize. Had I assembled it myself I would have used less bacon, less cheese, more sauce, and more mushrooms. A mushroom pizza with a touch of bacon is a sublime and beautiful thing. A bacon pizza with a few mushrooms is salty grease bath.
With 17 years of Amelio’s pizzas under my belt it is difficult for any contender to make a dent in that loyalty after only one pie. Unfortunately, Pizza Como is just far enough away to be inconvenient for pizza-on-a-whim. However, I definitely want to go back. Not for the “St. Hubert-like” ambiance, but for the pizza. I will be thinking about that crust for days!
Chowder stories
Martine has a review and a photo album posted about our trip to Nova Scotia!