Fusion cooking! Is there anything more symbolic of the melty melding of cultures than, er, melty melded food? Wait, that didn't sound appetizing at all. Nonetheless! The mix of cuisines is both tasty and metaphorical. Oh hey, speaking of which...

A Grilled Chedda', Made a Bit Betta'

The grilled cheese has always been about one thing: cheese and bread, um... grilled. Fried. Oh,  you get what I mean. Anyway, the point is that those who try and gussy it up with sliced apples and red onion, or spinach walnut pesto and sundried tomatoes seem to miss the point.

To wit, the cheese in this sandwich is like... oh, I dunno, the autonomous, sovereign individual of post-Enlightenment Western philosophy – it stands alone, as the ground and basis of all that stems from it. (What, you thought I was joking when I said these sandwiches were going to be metaphors too?)

Still, when you’re accustomed to a bit of heat in your food – you know, “spicy masala!” and all that shit -  the only thing lacking from the venerable snack is a bit of zip. That, my friends, is where the ole’ Alang family chutney comes in. It, like families in the culture from which it came, is about the multiplicity of elements being more important than any single component, each ingredient being sustained in relation to the others. You think green chillies just run off and get married without thinking of their relation to the other... ingredients? I, uh, may have pushed this metaphor too far.

Erm... so! How do you make this magical, delicious “symbol of the differening epistemological constructions of the self” sandwich? Well, you start by never calling it that; then you follow these instructions:

Ingredients (chutney)

• 1 bunch of cilantro
• 10-12 small green chillies (sometimes called bird's eye chillies)
• 1 cup (packed) of mint leaves
• Juice and zest of 1 lime
• ¾ teaspoon of salt
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• Optional: raisins, coconut, dates, onion, cashews, olive oil, pixie dust
• dilute with yoghurt to make a great dipping sauce.

Directions

Dudes, it’s chutney. You need instruction manual for zis 'ting? Oh fine!

• Put it in a blender and whiz it up until it's the consistency you want. There. Happy now?

Note: those who insist on calling this ‘chutney relish’ shall have a cup of iced ‘chai tea’ dumped unceremoniously over their head.

As for the grilled cheese:

• I recommend rather simple bread, a mixture of butter and olive oil in the pan, and good ole’ reliable sharp, aged cheddar – the older and sharper the better. Spoon the chutney over the cheese and grill grill grill.

There you go: a sandwich that combines all the individualist stability of autonomous entities like bread and cheese with the always-already multiple nature of the chutney - and is fan-fucking-tastically delicious. No, seriously. I live for this thing.

Nav’s Ban Me Banh Mi

In a way, the Banh Mi, a Spadina staple ($2 bucks for lunch, yo!), is already the epitome of fusion sandwich. Like many parts of modern Vietnamese food, the blend of french pate and toppings like daikon and cilantro is a mixture that was a result of colonialism (did you know another staple, Pho, is likely an adaptation of the French pot au feu?).

But being the risk-taking metaphorical meat man I am (I'm just asking for it describing myself that way), Nav’s Ban Me Banh Mi – the threatened banning, of course, being the possible ostracism that stems from challenging the strict authenticity of a cuisine – takes things one step further. Rather than French liver pate, my version substitutes for liver pate the stable, stodgy, old-world delicacies of prosciutto or Serrano ham and brie cheese - in large part because I’m just that fucking indulgent. But because the Europe, staid and traditional, still needs the spark of the new to inject its wealth with a steady supply of labou-- um, flavour -- this rich base is topped with the bright spark of a mix of toppings from across the world.

Ingredients

• A, um, long bread roll. That makes sense, right? Like, not round. 'Long'.
• Prosciutto or Serrano ham
• Brie cheese, cut into thick slices
• Daikon radish (optional)
• Julienned carrots 
• Pickled red onions (i.e. simply put into a vinegar brine)
• Sliced pickled jalapenos or other chillies
• Roughly chopped cilantro
• Sriracha sauce
• Dijon mustard
• Mayonnaise (optional) 

Directions

• Really? I mean, really? Oh goddamit.
• Slice the roll, preferably not all the way through.
• Spread mustard and/or mayonnaise on the inside.
• Layer the ham and cheese, making sure you'll get some creamy brie in each bite.
• Layer the crispy veggie toppings in the same way.
• Squirt sriracha randomly over all of it so as to get a spiciness that waxes, then wanes, sometimes presenting just a hint of fiery red promise, at others a veritably orgiastic burst of chilli heat. What? I take my sandwiches seriously, people.
  

Put it together on a good quality roll and decadent mix of richness and spicy sharpness will send the.. um... balance sheet of your globalized workforce toward the profit of deliciousness? Man, I suck at this.

The Mayo Sandwich:

One slice of white laid sexily atop one slice of brown, stuck together with a gloopy white substanc—Oh God, metaphor out of control! Mayday! Mayday!

This post is part of the Ethnic Aisle, a group blog dedicated to discussing race and ethnicity in the GTA.

A little while ago, sitting around with my ridiculously nerdy friends, a question came up: if you were forced to eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be? Though the general consensus seemed to be "pizza" (and the worst possible answer being "sushi") the answer for me was simple: "sandwiches".

Maybe it's because I was raised in England, where sandwiches are ubiquitous, but I really can't get enough of them. In fact, if I ever had enough capital, I'd quit this stupid writing racket and open up a gourmet sandwich shop/bar where I'd spend most of my time simply feeding myself. I've often wasted an hour dreaming up different ingredient combinations - though to be honest, they mostly all end with "and topped with the family cilantro-chilli-lime chutney". Another idea: sweet potato filling topped with a spicy tamarind chutney - a creation I'd insist on serving with bitter ale and calling the "Tankhouse Tang-Carb". So, yeah, if I did ever open a business, I guess it'd fail pretty quickly, huh?

In the meantime though, there is the delightfully minimialist Porchetta & Co, which specializes in one sandwich alone (I'll let you guess the main ingredient). Though it has been accused of merely being a knock-off of a very similar place in NYC, its origins or originality seem far less important than its high degree of what scientists call 'deliciousness-ness'.

The process that gets you to deliciousness is described on their website: a pork shoulder is wrapped first in prosciutto, then cured pork belly, and then roasted (first high and fast, then low and slow) for a few hours. Since we all learned the primary school formula "mo' time = mo' tasty", you can guess how this all turns out. (Hint: it starts with "de" and ends with "liciousness".)

It's a tiny space on the newly-trendy Dundas West, with five stools and sitting room for four. So it's definitely a take-out place. Their menu is super simple. A sandiwch runs you $5.95. A topping of tomato Sauce is 25 cents; truffle sauce, mozzarella, mushrooms and rapini are 75 cents each; and Parmesan is 95 cents. You can get sides of roasted potatoes , braised rapini or baked romano beans for three or three and a half bucks, and a plate of porchetta plus one side costs 8.95.

On to the good stuff: The pork is uber-fatty, tender, has just the right amount of crunchy-roasty bits (technical term) and is fan-freaking-tastic. Put on a just-right sourdough bun from nearby Caldense bakery, and whatever umami pleasure centres there are in the brain, this thing hits. Seriously: it's good. I had a sandwich with rapini, which adds just enough pleasant bitter kick to balance things out, as does the heat and tang of some dijon mustard. It was pretty damn great, just the sort of thing to cap off a long stroll through the city. What's more, the staff are super friendly and pleasant, which just makes things better.

It is true that a calorie-laden sandwich like is probably better enjoyed in the cold weather. But on a summer evening, after a long bike ride, this is a pretty perfect (if decidedly non-vegetarian) treat to end the day.

Porchetta is closed Monday, open 11:30-9 Tuesday-Saturday and 11:30-4 on Sunday.

(Photo: from Corey Mintz's Porkosity)

Woodlot

$120 for 2, including tax, tip and 2 drinks per person.

As we walked out of Woodlot at around 11, stuffed, satiated and happy, I offhandedly mentioned to my friend that some Toronto food bloggers were already tiring of the shift toward the kind of simple, rustic food Woodlot specializes in. Without a blink, my friend responded: "you know, there are way worse food trends out there to get upset about. Like poutine."

And true enough. After a delightful meal, in which the space was as enjoyable as the well-crafted food, the charm of the rustic was clear. This was about the pleasure of simple food an evening spent out, nothing more and nothing less.

Woodlot's appeal lies as much in its ethos as it does in its menu. Once a garage, the space has now been converted into an open-concept, two-level restaurant: the lower floor houses the kitchen, the bar, a communal table and the all-important wood oven; the upper level is crammed with tables, and overlooks the kitchen.

Speaking of the menu, the emphasis - as if you had to ask for a new 'rustic' restaurant in this city - is on local produce and meats and simple preparation. As many have noted, there are two separate menus, one vegetarian and one for meat-eaters, and they each change depending on what chef David Haman can get his hands on. Most dishes, from the bread to mains to desserts, are either made or finished in the oven, lending a unique flavour to your whole meal (as well as a delightful wood fire smell to both the restaurant and your clothes).

Bread arrives without prompting, and while it is lovely enough on its own, it is also accompanied by unusually delicious butter. Whether it was simply fresh or unique in some way, I don't know, but it was different enough that I immediately noticed the disparity between it and the stuff I have at home. I was almost tempted to simply eat that with the Neustadt Brown Ale I had - a beer in the malty, sweetish tradition of Scottish beer like Caledonian 80 - but thankfully, I didn't succumb to the temptation.

We started with an ox tail and ox tongue terrine, which was wrapped in prosciutto and comes with a fig compote. It's rich, hearty stuff and the compote has enough acidity to go with its sweetness to balance things out nicely. It was a great, even symbolic start: it was straightforward food, that doesn't even pretend to try and knock your socks off, but is perfectly pleasant just the same.

For a main, I decided to immerse myself fully in the mantra of the rustic and ordered the chicken pot pie. The golden, buttery crust, the highlight of the dish, covers a mixture of shredded chicken, smoked ham hock and root vegetables, and for a freezing Toronto night, was ideal. A word of warning, though: even the most patient among you will probably burn your tongue, as the dish seems to stay hot for-evah.

My friend had the whey-fed pork chop, which arrives on a chopping board, sliced and topped with apple, and received rave reviews. Well, just one review actually, but it was a satisfied one.

Dessert was a lemon blueberry tart topped with scorched marshmallow. Though it was a suitably sharp, tart counterbalance to a rich meal, I was, however, a little too full to enjoy it fully. As it turned out, having beer was a bad idea. Though delicious - and ordered to match the rustic feel of, well, everything there - the portions at Woodlot are generous to say the least. A chardonnay or light red would have probably matched my choices just as well, without being nearly as filling as the beer. Lesson learned for next time.

While I can't claim to be any sort of expert, I can't see why the rustic trend is one to be lamented. It is true, as Sheryl from Taste T.O. points out, that going to a restaurant to eat that which you could cook just as well at home is a little anti-climactic. But beyond the fact that the wood oven at Woodlot means even 'regular' food tastes better, there's something to be said for eating straighforward fare at a restaurant with a great vibe, and friendly, seamless service, even if it doesn't upend your conception of what is gastronomically possible. 

At the end of the day, all we really want when it comes to eating out is to feel good - to feel that we enjoyed ourselves, that we had a nice time and that it was worth it. Wandering home, overly-full and happy, the scent of the wood oven lingered in my clothing - and an ineffable something of the warmth of those wood embers followed me home too.

And really, when you come back from a meal on a frigid winter night and collapse onto your couch, warm, with a satisfied smile on your face - well, what more can you ask for?

Out of what I imagine is the same slightly morbid curiosity that others have experienced, earlier this week, I ate at least part of KFC’s Double Down.

But while it might be, if nothing else, entertaining to offer my thoughts on the sandwich as an aesthetic experience  – perhaps describing the feeling that as it moves through your sysetm, the salty, fatty mess, as if it were an intelligent parasite, is slowly absorbing nutrients you had previously consumed – it was difficult not to think about the question that plagues anyone who, due to a variety of poor life choices, has spent far too long in academia: yes, but what does it mean?

The obvious thing to say, of course, is that KFC’s offering is a sign of excess, unhealthiness and the problems of 21st century society – the blend of corporate marketing and This Is Why You’re Fat extremity crystallizing into the perfect sign of the ills of a historical moment.

But the obvious is not only a bit yawn-inducing – *sigh*, fast food leads to, like, obesity and that’s like totally ruining everything dude – it’s often very wrong.

See, the Double Down is fascinating not as an object: it’s simply the same KFC chicken you’ve always – well, given this readership, probably looked at from a distance – but now with a bit of sauce and cheese and bacon slathered on top, largely, one imagines, because  this is the kind of sandwich that was developed in a boardroom but never actually taste-tested. When it actually came time for it, KFC executives shook their heads and claimed “what we’ve created here is a conceptual project; it doesn’t need tasting”.

No, the Double Down is fascinating because it is the pivot for the swirling mess that is the contemporary relationship to health.

To say it has people intrigued would be to engage in litotes. There was live tweeting and video of its consumption. Entire news articles were dedicated to its Canadian arrival. There was even briefly chatter about it being banned because it represented such a gross contravention of all that was good and holy and true.

But here’s the thing: the Double Down ‘works’ as a cultural symbol precisely because it flies in the face of the ways in which we’ve begun to speak about health. It’s the fast food equivalent of the orgy in porn: that it’s deliberately ‘so much’ is exactly the point. The mess of dripping cheese, superfluous bacon and – I use the term sceptically – ‘sauce’ is not only meant to be an orgiastic celebration of fat, gluttony, and fuck-it-all indulgence, it’s also a consumerist avenue for the expression of those ‘resistant’ values. Far fewer people participate in orgies than watch them on screens. The Double Down is the mass and mess of limbs, genitalia and bodily fluids made manifest in a junk-food sandwich. And if the orgy is the ultimate fuck-you to a kind of Victorian sexual prudishness, then the Double Down does the same thing to early 21st century discourses of health.

To be sure, the broad public turn toward health – at the first point in human history when billions of people can consume far more calories daily than they need – has myriad benefits, both personal and social. But “Health” is also a discourse of self-policing and self-denial – of the late-capitalist gaze turned inward, turning health from a concern into a personal responsibility. It is not so much that we want to be healthy; we want others to be healthy too. We want to see them being healthy. And we feel sad when they’re not.

But what is also crucial is that we perform our relationship to health – why go to the gym if you cannot slip into your new outfit? It’s the fit body as the performance of the late-capitalist work ethic. And as if on cue to support the idea, take this utterly disastrous Marie Claire column in which the author, talking about new sitcom Mike & Molly, gets grossed out by the idea of larger people making out:

So anyway, yes, I think I’d be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other … because I’d be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything. To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room — just like I’d find it distressing if I saw a very drunk person stumbling across a bar or a heroine addict slumping in a chair.

[...]

But … I think obesity is something that most people have a ton of control over. It’s something they can change, if only they put their minds to it.

(I’m happy to give you some nutrition and fitness suggestions if you need them — but long story short, eat more fresh and unprocessed foods, read labels and avoid foods with any kind of processed sweetener in them whether it’s cane sugar or high fructose corn syrup, increase the amount of fiber you’re getting, get some kind of exercise for 30 minutes at least five times a week, and do everything you can to stand up more — even while using your computer — and walk more. I admit that there’s plenty that makes slimming down tough, but YOU CAN DO IT! Trust me. It will take some time, but you’ll also feel so good, physically and emotionally. A nutritionist or personal trainer will help — and if you can’t afford one, visit your local YMCA for some advice.)

Right? Not only does it express disgust at the notion of obese people, you know, doing shit, it also frames it in terms of a personal responsibility, so that the author’s disgust can be prevented. Here, look, it’s just a bit of work, and we can fix you, and really, isn’t this better for all of us? You’ll feel better because being healthy is good – and I won’t have to look at you.

And so the Double Down is not only the orgy, it’s the cigarette: it’s the purposefully self-destructive act meant to become a personal (but market-based) expression of one’s refusal to entirely be subsumed by a notion of health. I’ll eat this thing, but it’s a laugh, I don’t mean it seriously; I know what the right thing is to do. The people who really eat at KFC, though? They’re irresponsible. They don’t care about themselves.

Yet, simmering under all this, there’s a slightly funny elision: the Double Down isn’t actually all that unhealthy.  Yes, it has an incredible amount of salt – 1.7 grams – but at 540 calories and 30 grams of fat (pdf link to KFC’s nutrition data) it is significantly less ‘harfmul’ than not only most ‘signature’ fast food burgers like the Big Mac or Whopper, it also contains about a third of the calories of a saag paneer roti at Gandhi’s (which, for those not from Toronto, is an obscenely good roti shop). Another sign: people don’t really know that much about nutrition; they perform their knowledge of it anyway.

So here we have a sign of both excess and gluttonous indulgence that, in many ways, is neither. Instead it, almost literally, is  an empty signifier for our desire for rebellious self-destruction, all of which has been instigated by a combination of traditional marketing and social media buzz, where much of the latter consists of claims of incredulity: at how unbelievably unhealthy and over-the-top this thing is, and how I’ll never eat it but, because there’s been so much hype about this ‘counter-cultural’ thing, you eventually do out of curiosity anyway.

So, yeah, if you were looking for symbols of the contemporary…

Spelling/pronunciation note: The ''rh' sound is warhi is made by curling the tongue up against the roof of the mouth. For whatever reason though, this gets written as a d in English, and Wadi is the most common spelling I've seen. That said, if you find yourself asking for it out loud, 'waria' (pronounced like worry-ah) is your best bet. I'm going to write it in this post as warhi, because it just makes more sense to me.

On coming upon the picture above - with its, shall we say, rather unappetizing appearance - on a blog dedicated in part to celebrating the aesthetics of food, you might quite legitimately be inclined to wonder: "What. The fuck."

But the warhi - one of those ingredients that seems to stay within its own little 'ethnic' enclave - is something of a marvel that, despite its rather unappealing look, is all sorts of awesome.

What's a warhi? They are, for lack of a better description, little clumps formed of lentil flour and a collection of spices, and are used to impart a distinctive flavour to various North Indian dishes. (You can see a picture of them whole here). Although they are used in a variety of places, the Panjabi version (most famously from Amritsar) I am most familiar with usually contains cumin, coriander, black pepper and crushed chillies. They are also apparently formed by hand and left to dry in the sun. Who knew?

Anyway, what's the point? Well, I have no idea how this was discovered, but some clever clog figured out that if you break the clumps up into small pieces, fry the bits in oil, the resultant flavour of toasted lentils and spices becomes a deep, potent addition to a variety vegetable dishes. Not only do they add a pretty serious hit of spiciness, fried warhi's also contribute a depth sometimes lacking in simply prepared veggie recipes.

Perhaps because of this capacity to add some excitement to the bland, warhis are very often used in conjunction with squashes and gourds, which don't always the most distinctive flavour (not counting things like roasted butternut squash, obviously).

I should note, however, that if you are partial to the decidedly more subtle flavours of something like French bistro food, warhis may not be for you. They are quite strong and hot and particularly for those who aren't great fans of the flavours of North Indian cooking, they will likely be too much of a jolt to be enjoyable.

That said, however, I have grown to really enjoy them. Most often, my family use them to prepare the slightly ridiculous amount of zucchini and gourd we grown each year (and then freeze, so as to get this burst of fresh garden flavour in mid-November).

The way you use them in Panjabi cooking is actually quite straightforward. You break up the warhis into small pieces, and saute them in one layer in oil over medium heat. You then remove them and then, in the same pan, prepare the usual concoction of onions, garlic, ginger, tomatoes and spices that form the base of many Panjabi dishes (I'll get to it).

Warhis are widely available at Indian grocers, but not at stores like Loblaws or Metro. They are, however, often lost among an array of spices and legumes, so it's usually better to just ask rather than look for it oneself.

What follows is a recipe for zucchini made with warhis - or what is simply referred to as zucchini warhi.

Ingredients

2-4 tablespoons of vegetable oil (or half oil, half butter, if you're feeling a little indulgent or a little 'fuck it all')

1/4-1/3 cup of warhi, broken into small pieces

1 large zucchini, diced into inch cubes (so about 2-3 cups of cubed zucchini)

1 1/2 cups of tomato, fresh or canned

1 large onion, diced

2 cloves of garlic, finely diced

1 inch of grated ginger

1/2 teaspon turmeric

1/2 heaped teaspoon each of ground cumin and coriander

Pinch or two of garam masala.

1/2 cup of finely chopped fresh coriander

Instructions

1. Heat half of the oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat.

2. Warhi start off a beige colour. Add them to the oil and, stirring frequently, saute them in the oil until they turn a deep brown, being careful not to burn them. This should only take around 2-3 minutes in a heavy-bottomed pot.

3. Remove the warhis from the pan. Add more oil if necessary and put the onions in. Saute until they begin to turn golden brown.

4. Add the garlic, ginger and spices and saute for another 4-5 minutes, or until the onions have significantly shrunk and started to release the oil they previously absorbed. (If you find everything starts to stick excessively, add more oil.)

5. Add the tomatoes and the browned warhi and continue to cook for another couple of minutes.

6. Add the zucchini, reduce the heat and cover. Stir occasionally.

7. When the zucchini are cooked through - which shouldn't take more than 10-15 minutes (if that) - turn off the heat. Add the cilantro and mix it through evenly.

8. Serve. If you like, you can also sit down and feel a little smug that you have now made something you can't get at your local Indian takeaway.

As I said, this is definitely an acquired taste, and one that elicits either love-it or hate-it responses. But if it's the former, warhis can be an excellent addition to the repertoire.

Instead of zucchini, other options include potato warhi, squash warhi (of all sorts) and some loopy people just make the onion/tomato/spice/warhi mixture on its own. The dish can be eaten with rice, though my personal preference is with freshly made chapatis or naan.

Caplanksy's Delicatessen

365 College St. (at Brunswick)

Menu

Full meal, with tax and tip (no alcohol): ~$16

Even on one as rarely updated as WNFS, writing a Toronto food blog involves certain inevitabilities. These include, but are not limted to: comparisons to New York, Montreal or Vancouver; chatter about the latest trends, whether gourmet burgers, charcuterie or, now, 'modern Italian'; and, in the last year anyway, at least some mention of Caplansky's Deli.

If you've been living under a rock - or are perhaps one of those odd people who think the mass slaughter of millions of animals under inhuman, environmentally unsustainable conditions is somehow 'wrong' and therefore have always glossed over descriptions -  Caplansky's Deli is the brainchild of Zane Caplansky. You can read up on the history of Caplanksy's all over the place, but it's owner has already become famous in Toronto for his affable demeanour, his tendency to sometimes be a bit prickly, but most of all his serious commitment to smoked meat.

But Zane's popularity is, I think, more than just the result of his food. The story of him and his dell - which started as a cobbled-together operation at the Monarch Tavern - is exactly the kind of narrative that cities are made of. Caplansky has, after all, sunk all of his time and money into the deli to make it work. So in a sense, the frequent comparisons that Caplansky's is subject to - to Katz's Deli in New York, Schwartz's Deli in Montreal, or that one dude's bubbe - are about more than simple food nerdiness: they are about Toronto's relentless quest to be 'taken seriously as a place that has stories of its own.

Yet the difficulty of all this unending chatter and debate  is that actually visiting Caplanksy's is now impossible to do without bringing all the rapturous praise to mind. To wit, when I once asked someone whether it was worth all the hype, they said "it was so good it made me regret being a vegetarian for all those years". Going here with an open mind has, to put it mildly, become something of a challenge.

But the thing is, at the end of the day, what one has to keep in mind is that it's just a deli sandwich. Why do I say this? Well, because the first time I went to Caplansky's, mouth positively salivating with desire, I was... underwhelmed. Whether the sandwich, which I ordered 'medium' (as opposed to fatty or lean) needed more mustard, or simply a bit more whelming, I don't know. But underwhelmed I remained. It was tasty, no doubt, and clearly the kind of indulgent, meaty, hearty thing that would be great after riding 20 or 30k - or drinking 3 or 4 beers. But it just wasn't that big of a deal. To make matters worse, the fries that came with the sandwich combo ($11) were too salty. I left the establishment disappointed - and uncomfortably full of fat, meat and sodium.

Still, on his blog, Zane himself has been very open about consistency problems. Initially, the meat was sometimes too tough, or too salty, or too smoky or not smoky enough. So I decided to give it another a shot. That's what people who 'review' restaurants do, right?

On the first time I went back, it was one of the first nights of the year it was warm enough to sit outside. On the nice but noisy patio, I had a pint with a the BBQ Brisket sandwich ($8). Served on an onion bun, it comes topped with caramelized onions and smothered in BBQ sauce. The onions are a great addition, but the meat was ever so slightly tough, which detracted a bit from the whole experience. One tends to associated BBQ brisket with 'melt in the mouth', and this wasn't quite there. Once again, I unwisely ordered a side of fries, which though very tasty - obviously double-fried and, this time, perfectly salted - are just way too much. At Caplansky's, a sandwich alone feels like enough - and this is coming from an unabashed glutton.

When I returned again, it was for lunch. But this time, I walked in on a whim after running a couple of errands. I wasn't looking for a mind-blowing experience, or the greatest sandwich I'd ever eaten. Simply something a little indulgent and unhealthy. Perhaps because of this, the sandwich was thoroughly enjoyable. The meat was tender, lightly spiced and smoky, and the choice or four or five different mustards certainly helped. I once again ordered fries - because, apparently, I'm totally insane - and once again they were totally unnecessary.

The deli also offers a number of dishes I have yet to try. Among the most intriguing are the smoked meat hash, the burger made with 20% smoked meat or the liver and onions. I should note, however, that as of August 2010, Caplansky is in the process of redoing the menu.

So will Caplansky's change your life? No. It probably won't even change your definition of what makes for a great sandwich (I'm much more partial to sandwiches with multiple ingredients, particularly if they involve fancy cheese). But, if perhaps after a grueling workout or really long day, you just want something straight-up, tasty and filling that isn't cheap fast food, a smoked meat sandwich from Caplansky's certainly hits the spot.

Just don't order the fries.

 

When May takes an unexpected chilly and rainy turn - and yikes did it ever today - I'd say you have one of two options: stare out of the window and bemoan the howling, frigid wind; or use it as an excuse to cook the kind of food you'd usually enjoy in the colder months. So guess which one I picked?

No, you guessed wrong! I went with the 'cozy cooking option'. Jerk.

Anyway.

On those cloudy weekend afternoons of autumn and winter, my family will often whip up some sort of spicy snack to ward off the cold. Among our favourites are vesan pooras, pancakes of any given size composed of chickpea flour and various other ingredients. So, this is what we did today. And by 'we' I mean 'I'.

Now, mixing flour to make a pancake requires liquid, right? So, rather than just adding plain water (which is totally fine too) what I often do is use grated zucchini instead. Not only is it delicious, it's also a little healthy - plus it makes me feel like I almost know what I'm doing. Anyway, mixed together with something spicy and something a little sour - say like green chillies and pomegranate seeds respectively - they are downright delicious.

A note about the ingredients listed here: they may be hard to find at Loblaws/Sobeys/Metro etc. depending on which area you're in - but will definitely be easy to procure at your local Indian grocery store or even at T&T or B&T . And though the chickpea flour is sorta' mandatory, all the other stuff is totally optional. Like any pancake, as long as the thing stays together, you're good to go. What I'm saying is that these are the perfect sort of thing to improvise with.

Ingredients:

• Chickpea flour, adjustable amount (in Indian grocers, this will be labeled as vesan or besan flour)
• 1 small zucchini
• 1 small onion
• Somewhere between 1 and, oh I dunno', 27 green chillies
• 1/2 teaspoon carom seeds (Ajwain)
• 1/2 teaspoon of crushed pomegranate seeds (Anaar dhana)
• 1/2 teaspoon dried coriander powder
• 1/2 teaspoon cumin powder or crushed roasted cumin
• salt and pepper to taste (I'd suggest at least half a heaped teaspoon of salt though)
• 1/3 cup of chopped cilantro, or to taste
• 2-3 tablespoons oil for frying

Directions

1. Grate a zucchini. Preferably into a bowl or something, or it will be really messy.
2. Add all the dry ingredients to the bowl and mix - but put the salt first. No, this isn't some weird superstition. It's to draw the moisture out of the zucchini.
3. Give it a few minutes and then start to add the chickpea flour. Measurements are a little temperamental, but keep adding it slowly - say 2 tablespoons at a time - until you get... um, a pancake-batter like consistency? That's helpful, right? If all else fails, there's a photo above that may help you get a sense of what you're after. 
4. Add the cilantro, chillies and onion and give it a final mix
5. Heat oil in a wide skillet (non-stick will probably make your life easier) on medium heat. At this point, you can either drop small amounts of the batter in with a tablespoon or, if your pan is large enough, put the whole mixture in for, like, a super fritter-pancake-type-thing.
6. You of course need to let these 'set' before you flip them - 3-4 minutes on medium heat should be good. Once you do turn them over, I'd suggest turning the heat down a bit and letting them sit for 6-8 minutes so that they cook through fully.
7. Once they're done, they will be golden brown on both sides, and firm yet still a little spongy.
8. And when they're out, you may want to serve them with a coriander-mint-yogurt chutney - but ketchup is pretty tasty with these too.

As I said, there are a number of variations. You can mix water and chickpea flower and add anything like corn or peas or caramelized onion or maybe even cheese (though I've never tried the last one). And if you do come up with an inventive variation, be sure to let me know!

 

Photo via Flickr user qmonic, under a Creative Commons license.

'The local' - that ineffable bar that becomes like a second home - is something of a dream for many of us in Toronto. In a huge and often alienating city, there's a romance to the idea that we might find a place, 'out there in the cold world', that is not only as familiar as our own living room, but welcomes and comforts us like it does too.

As someone who tends to only be extroverted sporadically, however, I have yet to find 'my local'; I tend to slip in and out of places rather anonymously, and doing so, it's hard to find a place where, so to speak, everybody knows your name. Still, if the local is simply the bar that you head to by default - the one you turn to when you have no desire to think about 'where to go' - then I'd venture that The Victory Cafe is the closest thing I have to one.

Located on Markham Avenue in Mirvish Village, The Victory has mainly become known for two things: an impressive selection of beer, not only limited to local microbrews, but also Ontario's burgeoning cask ale movement; and a large patio, always full during the summer, that has become something of a victim of its own success. As a result, it isn't quite right to talk about the Victory as a singular entity. There are two Victory Cafe's: the crammed noisy hipster-filled patio of the summer; and the quieter, candlelit interior of the winter months.

It's the latter of those two versions that draws me back time and again. Maybe that's why I felt it was time to write about the place now - as Spring and Summer dawn, it'll be time to cease my weekly trips to read by candlelight as I sip on a beer late into the evening.

The bar itself is composed of two floors, both of which are equally pleasant - though, as a rule, the upstairs is better for groups and downstairs better for couples and people going solo.

The aforementioned beer selection is great - Denison's Weisbeer is here, as is Nickelbrook Maple Porter and an IPA from Duggan's Brewery, which itself just opened up a brewpub on Victoria St. Bottled selection ranges from KLB Rasberry Wheat to Labatt's 50, which, if you haven't heard, is Toronto's equivalent hipster beer to Brooklyn's PBR. I have yet to try the cask ale selections though - I guess I'm waiting to have a friend there to try them with me.

While the food at the pub certainly isn't fancy, it's still generally excellent, and just the sort of thing you might want after a long day of work. The macaroni and cheese is made with three cheeses and comes piping hot after having been put under the broiler. It's rich, indulgent and decadent, and with a side caesar, a pint of dark beer and something good to read, may be about the most perfect way to spend a winter evening. The burger too is solid, with a nicely charred patty and simple traditional toppings; it's satisfying and hearty. Also available is a club sandwich, with chicken breast, bacon and chipotle mayo, and it's another for the 'win column', even if its ciabatta bun collapses a bit too readily.

Most importantly, however - at least when it comes to the food - are the fries, which are always fresh and hot, well-seasoned and a perfect mixture of crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. On top of that, they come with an insanely addictive garlic dipping sauce that I, quite literally will wake up the morning after a visit craving. It is, as pub food goes, excellent.

Of course, at the end of the day, if it's a local that's our concern, then how's the vibe? Pretty damn great. It's about the only place in Toronto where I will occasionally run into people I know, and even when I don't, people are, for the most part, friendly and kinda' nerdy and academic. The low light, candles and exposed brick are just the sort of atmosphere conducive to solitary reading, late-night chats with friends or even a date. And while the music runs the gamut from mainstream hip-hop to indie rock, it's rarely too loud to make conversation difficult.

The Victory Cafe is is a pleasure, and one of the few bright lights that makes the Annex, which I am otherwise tiring of, still enjoyable. It's got decent, well-priced food, a great beer selection, a lovely patio for the summer and a perfect interior for the winter. If, by some strange twist of fate, you have yet to visit, grab a book - or, better yet, a couple of friends - and spend an evening there soon.