Porked up. A thank-you gift from Fed guest Christopher St. Onge.
Sort of from the book. Lentils with roasted beets, pickled onions, oregano and gentile sausage.
Foolishly ordered a whole tenderloin for tartare.
Only served half for the Gopnik dinner.
So I turned the rest into a burger.
Cooked it slightly smashed style.
Good crust on top side.
No bun. So I can conclude that even when you have delicious beef, pecorino, caramelized onions and fresh pickles, it's not a burger without a bun.
ME: I've got to warn you, that pequin salsa is no joke.
SNP: Yeah.
ME: I'm quite serious about this.
SNP: Whatevs. Y'all can't tell me nuffin'.
30 seconds later
SNP: Water! Zeus' beard, this is spicy! Why would I ever doubt Dr. Prof. Mintz, what with all his academic credentials!?
The social media notices on the bill at Fuel House put me in mind of a quote from Ian "Street-Pusher" McGrenaghan: “I find that so many people have this misguided assumption that restaurants are online fan-clubs or community centres,” says McGrenaghan. “We are restaurant workers. We’re serving you food and getting you drunk.”"
A gorgeous photo, by Dave Cooper, of Adam Gopnik, Christine Loureiro, my cassoulet and Matt Galloway's hands.
And the less-flattering photo that they ran in the paper.
The second batch of cassoulet came out much better.
And, I would add, the leftovers were even better, the flavours totally snuggling each other. And as well as the Cotes Du Rhone was, the Old Milwaukee paired better with the fatty beans.
But still there were beans. They went in lunches, here with tomatoes and zucchini.
And more zucchini. And more kale (tell my wife).
The scary abandoned house on Huron had a light on in the top window. G-g-g-g-g-ghosts? Or Sq-sq-sq-sq-sq-squatters?
Came across a cache of Basil Hayden and Jefferson at the LCBO next to Burger's Priest.
Corner Creek (which might be my new favourite bourbon, now that I've gotten over the unsexiness of the bottle), with a pre-thank you card for dinner. This is how we doosit.
Adorbs. But my grandmother's been dead for almost three years. It's time to get rid of syrupy booze with bottle caps sealed by crystallization.
When you've got multiple doubles on your shelf, you know your bourbon collecting has gotten ahead of your bourbon drinking.
Cleaned up. Doubles lined up. General list (JD, Four Roses, Bulleit) to the side.
Bourbon needed to have its own shelf. Now the whiskey is with the wine and the rest of booze is on the ghetto of the top shelf, which I need a chair to reach.
Northern Spy, like Royal Gala, are a waste of a dope name. These apple are strictly pie filling.
But Braeburn, so unassuming in name, is a champion apple. It's got the mild tartness of a Courtland, with a bit of the caramel of a Fuji, without being syrupy like a Pink Lady.
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