The Shortlist (2023 edition)

What are some of the Montreal restaurants, bars, boucheries, boulangeries, cheese shops, and specialty stores that AEB actually frequents?  What are the places that have sustained us through a couple of difficult years?  Here’s a shortlist…

Aliments Viens, 4556B boulevard St-Laurent (Mile End), 514-379-4666—The city’s best source for artisanal charcuterie—and especially mortadella!—also happens to be a very fine butcher shop and specialty foods store.  Their selection of beef, pork, chicken, and veal is well-sourced and expertly butchered.  Their exceptional charcuterie counter (cold cuts, sausages, saucissons secs, pâtés, etc.) is always tantalizing.  And they also sell an excellent selection of conservas, pastas, eggs, cheeses, prepared dishes, and other delicacies.

Bar Henrietta, 115 avenue Laurier W. (Mile End), (514) 276-4282—Chef Eric Dupuis created this beautiful Mile End bar a number of years ago. It’s been a fixture of the neighbourhood ever since. Great wine selection. Lovely cocktails. And a short, but thoughtful, and perfectly executed menu of bar snacks and small plates.

Boulangerie Automne, 6500 avenue Christophe-Colomb (Petite Patrie)—If there’s a better bakery for bread and viennoiseries in Montreal, we don’t know of it.  Our go-to bakery for breads that I don’t bake at home, like baguettes, as well as chocolatines, pains aux raisins, danishes, buns, and other gourmandises.  Truly outstanding, and now working closely with the amazing people at Moulin de Charlevoix to source much of their flour (!).

Caffè in Gamba, 5263 ave du Parc (Mile End), 514-656-6852—For a couple of years now, my café of choice.  Features an extensive selection of third wave coffee beans from across North America, and a top-notch espresso program with some talented (and award-winning) baristas.  Plus, they renovated during the pandemic, and they’ve got a bright, light-hued new look—very L.A., actually—perfect for the New Age.

Camellia Sinensis, 351 rue Émery (Latin Quarter) & 7010 rue Casgrain (Little Italy/Jean-Talon Market)—Not only the best tea shop in Montreal, but one of the very best in North America.  Extremely knowledgeable and well-travelled staff.  Truly magnificent selection of teas from India, Japan, China, Taiwan, and beyond.

Chez Nino, 192 Place du Marché-du-Nord (Little Italy/Jean-Talon Market), 514-277-8902—One of the finest green grocers in Montreal, and an excellent source for rare and hard-to-find products like Buddha’s Hand citron and Rosa di Gorizia radicchio.

Chez Vito, 5180 rue St-Urbain (Mile End), 514-277-1981—A Mile End fixture for decades, and deservedly so.  In addition to their wide selection of meats, cold cuts, and cheeses, they also happen to be an excellent source for Italian specialty food products, including pastas, olive oils, preserves of all kinds, and seasonal delicacies (like imported panettone).

Double’s, 5171 avenue du Parc (Mile End)—Looks like a dive bar. Feels like a dive bar. Acts like a dive bar. But it also happens to be a cheerful, dive-y restaurant that’s overseen by Executive Chef Danny Smiles. The place in Mile End for a smashburger and a martini. Open LATE.

Elena, 5090 rue Notre-Dame Ouest (St-Henri), 514-379-4883—Despite its long history in our fair city, pizza was a sorry affair in Montreal until God Created Elena, and their wood-fired, perfectly blistered, slow-fermented sourdough pies put an end to this travesty once and for all.  Since then, the pizza situation across the city has improved, but it still lags behind other world-class cities. II’ve never been disappointed by Elena’s pies, however—they’re exactly the kind of pizzas I want to be eating regularly, exactly the kind of pizzas that people who live in true pizza towns are spoiled with.  Recent faves:  rossa with stracciatella; margherita; M. Funguy (with loads of mushrooms); artichoke and ham..  And although Elena is best known for its pizza, everything they do, they do well, including top-notch pasta dishes, overstuffed hoagies, a killer wine selection, coffee, and desserts.  They also have one of the very nicest dining rooms in the city, IMHO. And ever since dining rooms became meaningful again, circa 2021, that’s been a great thing.

Épices de cru, 7070 avenue Henri-Julien, C-6 (Little Italy/Jean-Talon Market), 514-273-1118—No other spice shop in the city compares, and, frankly, Épices de cru is one of the finest and most ambitious spice shops in all of North America.  Ethné & Philippe de Vienne have spent decades tracking down the most exceptional spices and herbs around the world in-person.  Their sourcing and their ability to forge contacts are legendary.  Consequently, their selection is spectacular and always of the highest quality.  A treasure.

Etna Pastaficio,, 244 rue Jarry E. (Villeray/Jarry Park), (438) 408-6030—Etna started off as a restaurant and wine bar, but during the pandemic they made a brilliant pivot: they became a pastaficio, an artisanal pasta shop specializing in top-notch, freshly produced stuffed and extruded pastas, as well as wine. Having adapted, they were now better suited to face the public health restrictions and to satisfy a public that was hungry for quality take-out options and well-curated boîte-à-vins. Even better is what’s become of Etna in recent times: from noon to 2:00 pm, five days a week, they offer lunch specials right there in their shop. Wines, many of them natural and biodynamic, are available by the bottle and by the glass. I can’t think of a place I’d rather go for lunch.

Euro-Deli Batory,, 115 rue Saint-Viateur W. (Mile End), (514) 948-2161—Hands down the restaurant we’ve frequented the most in the 25 years since we moved to Montreal (or moved back, as the case may be). Does that mean that Euro-Deli Batory is our favourite restaurant in the city? It’s quite possible. The thing is I only ever order the same handful of things (potato-cheese pierogis, cabbage-mushroom pierogis, clear borscht (winter), cold borscht (summer), kielbasa, and occasionally their multi-decker kanapka (sandwich). We recommend visiting Batory Thursday through Sunday, when their pierogis taste particularly fresh, particularly ethereal. Oh, by the way: apparently some TikTok about Batory went viral in recent months. Ever since, it’s been very busy. This makes us happy. I’m not sure what we’d do without Batory.

Fairmount Bagel, 74 rue Fairmount Ouest (Mile End), (514) 272-0667—In our honest opinion, the definitive Montreal bagel. Don’t get distracted by the silly novelty flavours. Just stick to the classics: sesame, poppy, and everything. If you have any doubts, just order sesame—they are always hot, 24/7/365. There are few pleasures as elemental as biting into a fresh, hot Fairmount sesame bagel just outside the store on a bracingly cold winter day, the steam billowing into the air, the purity and simplicity of that tender, chewy, and slightly sweet flavour—no cream cheese, no smoked salmon necessary!—reaffirming life once again.

Falafel Yoni, 54 rue St-Viateur Ouest (Mile End), 514-424-7767—Montreal used to be a pretty decent falafel town, and then it really wasn’t one for a long, long time.  Thankfully, everything changed a few years ago when Falafel Yoni came along.  Yoni’s falafel game was fantastically strong from the day they opened, but it’s actually gotten even stronger over the years.  The quality is always “top shelf,” and the combination of ingredients that goes into their falafel sandwich is ideal (sauces, salads), especially if you get yours prepared “extra-spicy” (with additional zhug).  Falafel Yoni is easily one of the Montreal restaurants I’ve frequented the most over the last few years, and I always look forward to doing so.  In addition to the falafel sandwich, I recommend the house-made hummus, lemonina, and fries, while Michelle is a big fan of the sabich sandwich (chopped egg, roasted eggplant, etc.).

Fromagerie Hamel, 220 rue Jean-Talon Est (Little Italy/Jean-Talon Market), 514-272-1161—The fromagerie with the city’s largest selection of cheeses also happens to be its best.  

Jean-Talon Market (Little Italy/Jean-Talon)—One of Montreal’s two great green markets, and the one we frequent the most.  Home to a number of places on this shortlist:  Chez Nino, Épices de cru, Fromagerie Hamel, and Camellia Sinensis.

Ma Poule Mouillée, 969 rue Rachel Est (Plateau), (514) 522-5175—Our pursuit of the ultimate Montreal grilled chicken à la portuguaise keeps pushing us east all along the same axis (rue Rachel). First it was Portugalia. Then it was Romados. And now, for the last several years, it’s been the saucily named Ma Poule Mouillée. Their grilled chicken options (quarter, half, whole, or sandwich) are all fantastic, as is their grilled chouriço and grilled squid, but the true revelation might be their Portuguese poutine: fries, sauce, grilled chicken, grilled chouriço, Sao Jorge cheese, and piri-piri sauce. They invented it. They own it. Life in Montreal has never been the same since.

Milano, 6862 boulevard St-Laurent (Little Italy), 514-273-8558—Montreal’s Italian specialty foods emporium.  Essential shopping for Italophiles like ourselves.

Mr. Patty, 5312 avenue Patricia (Montreal West), 514-483-2323—The city’s finest Jamaican bakery, specializing, as their name suggests, in patties.  The veggie and chicken varieties are both excellent, but it’s the beef patty, with its oxtail unctuousness, that is the runaway hit.  Buy them by the dozen!   Exceptional rotis, too.

Pascal le boucher, 8113 rue St-Denis (Villeray), 438-387-6030—This is the full-service, responsibly sourced, and artfully prepared butcher shop Montreal had been waiting for. Attentive, knowledgeable service, and a fantastic selection of the best meat and eggs produced in the region.

Pâtisserie Rhubarbe, 1479 avenue Laurier Est (Laurier Village), 514-316-2935—Stephanie Labelle’s boutique has been a fixture on Laurier East now for over a decade, and while her store has been one of the city’s finest pâtisseries since the day they opened, Rhubarbe keeps getting finer and finer.  Brilliant pastries, outstanding cakes, excellent prepared foods and preserves, and a truly beautiful shop.  What more could you ask for in a pâtisserie?

Piazza Salumi, 6833 boulevard St-Laurent (Little Italy), 514-276-6833—Kind of a mini-Milano, directly across the street from the mega-Milano, generally a lot quieter, and featuring Fumagalli’s exceptional line of imported Italian charcuterie.

Pumpui, 83 rue St-Zotique Est (Little Italy), 514-379-3024—Pumpui specializes in the David Thompson/Pok-Pok/Night + Market school of street/night market Thai food, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. Honest, unabashedly spicy & funky, and often adventurous, Pumpui upended the Thai food scene in Montreal. Don’t be afraid to explore the menu fully—who knows what surprises you’ll find—but don’t forget to order some of their phenomenal chicken wings.

Sabor Latino, 4387 boulevard St-Laurent (Plateau), 514-848-1078—Along with Andes, this is Montreal’s premier source for all things Latin American—Mexican, Central American, South American, and Caribbean. They also have a store up in the Plaza St-Hubert area, but this store, occupying the old Sakaris site on St-Laurent, is our local and we go there all the time. Grocery store, green grocer, butcher, bakery, and restaurant, Sabor Latino has it all. Plus, the service is always friendly and the music (cumbia, rebajada, son, etc.) is always great.

Supermarché PA, 5242 avenue du Parc (Mile End), 514-274-8782—A pillar of the Mile End food scene for decades now.  Quality, selection, and prices are always impressive.

Supermarché PA Nature, 5029 avenue de Parc (Mile End), 514-271-8788—PA’s organic and natural foods division, occupying the former location of the original Supermarché PA.  Similarly impressive.

Tinc Set, 1233 avenue Lajoie (Outremont), (514) 303-0315—Probably our favourite discovery of 2022, and one of our favourite restaurants of 2023. Exactly the kind of casual, friendly, wine-centric tapas bar we’ve always been hoping for in Montreal. Run by the people in charge of the upscale Alma next door, and sharing the same kitchen, Tinc Set occupies a former dépanneur and makes great use of its walk-in beer cooler. The menu is simple, but thoughtful: snacks and tapas (warm olives, pan con tomate, boquerones, patatas bravas, conservas, etc.), a rotating cast of accompanying dishes (a crudo preparation, a salad, a burrata plate, etc.), and two specialties of the house: a whole roast chicken à la barcelonaise and grilled octopus style pil pil. If all that wasn’t tempting enough, the bar is a showcase for Alma & Tinc Set’s wine importation business and it doubles as a bottle shop. An absolute joy of a restaurant.

Vin Mon Lapin, 150 rue St-Zotique Est (Little Italy), 514-379-4550—Talk about a power couple:    Marc-Olivier Frappier is one of the city’s most talented and creative chefs, and a long-time chef and chef de cuisine with the Joe Beef group; while Vanya Filipovic is one of the city’s most gifted sommeliers and a leading figure among its private wine importers (Les Vins Dame-Jeanne being her importation house).  Easily the most remarkable take-out meal of the pandemic that we experienced was a product of their 3rd anniversary festivities earlier this year: soupe aux huîtres à la Bocuse? Yes, please. Now, Vin Mon Lapin is back in action in their recently expanded and refurbished dining room, and the place has been bumping. It’s also back in full swing. Marc-O’s latest coup was a cheeky ode to the iconic grilled ham & cheese sandwich at Harry’s Bar in Venice, one where the ham & cheese had been replaced with scallops and mousseline that was totally hallucinant and such a joy to devour with a crisp rosato. Quite possibly our favourite Montreal restaurant at the moment.

Wilensky’s Light Lunch, 34 avenue Fairmount Ouest (Mile End), 514-271-0247—The one, the only, the original…the home of the Wilensky Special, a hot, pressed, sliced bologna number that happens to be one of Montreal’s few truly great sandwiches.  In business since 1932, Wilensky’s doubles as a museum of sorts, an artifact of Montreal’s former glory.  But don’t spend too much time admiring your surroundings, because service at Wilensky’s is brisk.  We recommend a Special with cheese (Kraft, of course), a soda fountain drink of your liking (we’re partial to their root beer and their egg creams), and a side of half-sour pickles.  Classic. And now they’re over 90 YEARS OLD! Amazing!

Wills (a.k.a. Wills.Beer), 6731 avenue de l’Esplanade (Parc Extension), (514) 708-1070—Ethan Wills and Annika Krausz, formerly part of the Lawrence team, together with Alex Wills (Ethan’s brother), have taken over both the former Alexandraplatz and the former Brasserie du Vieux Montréal complex that housed the vanguard Parc Extension bar/hang-out/festival site. They’ve put their own imprint on it and toned down the post-industrial vibe considerably—the look is simultaneously grandiose and human-scaled and approachable. Natural wines, a small but seductive selection of cocktails, and fine beers (including two at the moment from Greensboro, VT’s legendary Hill Farmstead) are issued from the updated horseshoe-shaped bar area, while the Winneburger truck from the team at Nouveau Palais is parked outside to satisfy your food cravings. One of the city’s hot spots since 2022.

Plum Dandy

Please, don’t forget about Michelle’s Simply Beautiful Plum Cake. It’s brilliant. I mean that.

fig. a: simply beautiful

fig. b: a simple slice of cake

I mean, just look at that. It’s great with coffee and tea, too.

fig. c: part of this complete meal

If you’re lucky enough to still have plums available where you live, don’t hesitate. Find the finest plums you can get your hands on,

fig. d: fine specimens

like these beauties I found at a Polish grocer.

If you can’t find plums, use the best, juiciest prunes you can find, like the justifiably famous pruneaux d’Agen.

If you’re not into prunes, make it with apples.

All I know is that this is a cake that’s capable of generating powerful emotions. When I brought a plum cake to work a couple of weeks ago, one of my T.A.s sent me the following stream-of-consciousness message afterwards: “Please pardon the impropriety of this response. F*** me that was amazing you did an amazing job I loved it I got the last piece way to go that was freaking amazing.”

You’ve been warned.

aj

Meanwhile, at Elena...

fig. a: exterior shot

Meanwhile, at Elena, Michelle, Willow, Janice & co. have been in a full-on panettone frenzy (“pane-mania”?) mode for weeks now. And I’m happy to say that all the tests, all the reading, all the discussions, all the artisanal panetonne-making video-watching, and all the dough-whispering have paid off. The results have been spectacular.

See for yourself.

fig. b: cross-section

Live in Montreal? Haven’t had a chance to experience a Panetonne alla Elena? Never had the pleasure of tasting a true sourdough-based artisanal panetonne? There’s still time!

Just pick up the phone and give them a call.

fig. c: pane-phone

The number to call is 514-379-4883.

Or order one online.

Still need convincing? You can find more info about Elena’s panettone and all their other seasonal offerings here.

aj

All photos courtesy of Dominique Lafond and Elena. Follow Dominique @dominique_lafond

On "Good Bread"

fig. a: “good bread”?

“Good Bread,” an article that appeared in the April 13, 2020 issue of The New Yorker, is one in a slew of recent culinary dispatches from Bill Buford, the author of the best-selling Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany (2007), and in many ways, it’s an extension of that earlier project. In fact, I didn’t realize it at the time, but it turned out to be a teaser for his follow-up to Heat, another culinary Bildungsroman of sorts with a similarly questing title: Dirt: Adventures in Lyon as a Chef in Training, Father, and Sleuth Looking for the Secret of French Cooking.

The action takes place in the years immediately following the publication of Heat. Buford is no longer working the line for Mario Batali in New York City’s high-intensity fine dining scene. He’s no longer apprenticing with Dario Cecchini in the idyllic hills of Tuscany. As his title suggests, he and his family have moved to Lyon, and Buford has decided to study la grande cuisine—and to become “French-trained”—in the city many consider to be the very heart of French gastronomy. He’s hoping to learn in an actual restaurant—a leading one—but no restaurant is interested in taking him on. (His lack of French doesn’t help.) He eventually decides to go to cooking school in Lyon, but between his arrival and his enrolment at l’Institut Bocuse, Buford takes on a fateful apprenticeship with a mad genius baker named Bob, the central subject of “Good Bread.”

Buford’s article turns out to be rather poignant, it contains more than its fair share of narrative twists and turns (don’t worry—no spoilers here!—or, at least, not too many), and, not surprisingly, it has quite a lot to say about what makes “good bread”—and boulangerie baking, more generally—good.

What are the ingredients that make good bread good? Well, it has to do with a fanatical dedication to baking, at the expense of regular hours, sleep, and one’s appearance (after describing Bob’s physique as a cross between Fred Flinstone and Jackie Gleason, Buford observes the following: “HIs hair was brownish and shaggy and usually matted with flour. There was flour in his beard and on his clogs, his sweater, and his trousers... Bathing was not a priority.”).

It has to do with proper (ideally, historic) boulangerie spaces and with well-seasoned ovens (Jacques, Bob’s brother, is the one who first discovered the space for rent, and when he found a wood-burning oven marked “1802” on the premises, he summoned his brother and father. All it took was one look from the outside for Bob’s father to declare, “Yes, this is a good boulangerie.”).

It has to do with natural yeasts (“I knew enough about yeasts to know that, here, they were everywhere,” Buford writes), a sensitivity to temperature, and patience—a willingness to not rush things, to not try to speed up the process artificially, but instead to allow those yeasts the time to work their magic.

And of course, it has to do with technique, too. Bob, we’re told, has remarkable touch when he works, forms, and slashes his loaves.

But it’s also about flour. In his quest to discover Bob’s secret, the source of what makes his bread so superlative, Buford grills the master baker on one occasion. Yeasts? First rise? Final resting? Yes, it has to do with all of those things, Bob tells him, “These are the ABCs.” But then he brings up something Buford hadn’t considered: “Good bread comes from good flour. It’s the flour.” And in Bob’s case, his preference was for artisanal flour, made from locally raised wheat, milled in the traditional manner, from the Auvergne region to the west of Lyon.

While Buford’s article is certainly evocative, and there’s plenty there to inspire those of us who take our bread seriously, his conclusions on what makes good bread good might be disheartening to the amateur baker. You might be quite capable of developing the patience, the attention to detail (including the vagaries of temperature and humidity), and even the basic technique necessary to become a decent baker. You might even be entirely prepared to embrace the fanaticism of bread baking, at the expense of general cleanliness, healthy sleep habits, and even your personal grooming and hygiene (Bob-style!)—plenty of non-professionals have! But what if you don’t have the ideal baking space? Or the right oven? Or flour milled in the traditional manner from small-production, heirloom wheat? Will you ever be able to create “good bread” at home?

The final section of “Good Bread” involves Buford paying a pilgrimage to the region of Auvergne that produced Bob’s very favourite flour. There he visits a miller, Philippe Degrange, whose family has been milling locally grown, small-farm-raised wheat (“nothing over forty hectares”) since the early 18th century. Degrange’s flour—his entire operation—is a true product of the terroir, we’re told, and the notion of terroir that’s presented to us is environmental, but it’s also a matter of history and tradition. Through his flour, “le goût et les valeurs sont trasmis”—both taste and values are passed on, according to Degrange. In other words, the flavours one tastes when Degrange’s flour is turned into bread by an expert auvergnois bakery like Boulangerie Vincent are a complex affair because terroir (one sense of the “dirt” in Buford’s title) is a complex affair.

Buford is gifted a 10-kilo bag of flour by Degrange before he leaves Auvergne and returns home to New York. When he and his family finish the boule he brought back from Boulangerie Vincent, he begins to bake again in honour of Bob and Degrange using his auvergnois flour. While his bread is not quite to the standards of Boulangerie Vincent, the loaves he bakes are exceptional: “[they] had fruit and complexity and a feeling of nutritiousness.” But when Degrange’s flour runs out, he quits. He stops baking bread. What’s the point?, Buford is suggesting. After all, as Degrange once told him—echoing Bob—“It’s all about the flour.”

—————

The good news is that while there’s no question that flour matters, when it comes to baking good bread, it’s not “all about the flour.” It couldn’t possibly be. Imagine great flour used by a terrible baker, or just a terribly distracted one. The flour wouldn’t matter. In fact, the end result might actually be worse than if it had been made with conventional flour. It would be an abomination.

Yes, flour matters. And, yes, there’s a lot to be said for small farming practices, and the cultivation of heirloom varietals, and the importance of healthy land, and tradition. But what if the flour that resulted from this process sat on a shelf for months and even years? Would it still have its goût? Would it still have any life in it at all? In other words, there’s more to flour than just its provenance.

Serious bakers have always been concerned not only with the quality of their flour, but also with its freshness. And it’s become clear to many bakers—myself included—that the freshness of one’s flour—how recently it was milled—might actually be of much greater significance than was previously realized, affecting not only the taste of the bread produced, but also its nutritional value and its digestibility. But, again, all of this would be beside the point if this exceptional, freshly milled flour was handled by a lousy baker. The results would be disastrous.

The reason a bakery like Vermont’s highly acclaimed Elmore Mountain Bread matters—and it does!—and the reason they’ve become pioneers of the the fresh-milled movement, is not because they are working with local producers, it’s not because they bake in a wood-fired oven, it’s not even because they only work with flour that’s been milled in the last 24 hours (!). Yes, all those factors matter a great deal, they’re all part of the reason their bread is so flavourful, and it would be hard to be a leading force in today’s “grainiac” community if you were actually using conventional, mass-produced flour (especially if it was stale, too). But the primary reason their bread is so good—the reason the public has taken notice—is because they know what to do with their carefully sourced, freshly milled flour. They are also expert at both making bread and baking bread. As a wise man once put it, “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing.”

fig. b: good bread!: country loaf with sesame seeds

What I’m trying to get at is that there are primary factors that result in good bread, and then there are secondary factors.

Primary factors:

• time—Yes, “time heals all wounds,” “time is an ocean, but it is not the shore,” and “time is a construct”, but for our purposes, time is what allows your leavener, and especially your natural leavener, to work some real magic.

• patience—If you want your loaves to bake successfully, and you want to create bread that ranks high when it comes to flavour and digestibility, patience is your friend. This means starting your baking process early enough that you won’t be tempted to rush things and cut corners at any point. One of the biggest mistakes you can make as a novice baker is to look at a recipe for, say, a sourdough country loaf, and see that the author recommends mixing the the batch of leaven you’ll need “the night before” you plan to assemble your dough, and to interpret that as, “1:00 or 2:00 AM is still ‘the night before, right?,” and then hope to have a nice, bubbly batch of leaven at 9:00 AM when you roll out of bed eager to mix some dough and bake some loaves. If you happened to make that rookie mistake, it’s not the end of the world. You’d just have to be patient and adjust your schedule accordingly. Your leaven will become nice and bubbly eventually. And eventually you’d be able to make great bread with it, if you were patient. Get it?

• sensitivity to one’s baking environment (temperature, humidity, etc.)—If you’re going to be baking in a fully climate-controlled environment, your results are pretty predictable. If, however, you’re going to be baking in an environment that’s subject to heat and humidity in the summer months and cold drafts and chilly air in the fall, winter, and possibly even the spring, you’ll have to learn to “read your room” and make the necessary adjustments to continue to bake successfully. Sometimes, when the weather is particularly turbulent, these adjustments can be quite elaborate. Sure, such conditions can be a challenge, and they might even result in failure. But if you manage to succeed, if you manage to ride that wave somehow, and produce great loaves of bread in spite of it all, the glory is all the greater.

• technique—Bread baking can be remarkably forgiving, but there’s nothing like technique to get you out of a jam (see “sensitivity to one’s baking environment” above), or to create not just “good” but exceptional bread.

Secondary factors:

• baking spaces—Of course, it’s wonderful to have an ideal space for bread baking, but “good,” even great bread, can be produced in even the tightest and most awkward of spaces.

• ovens—There’s no reason to be hung up on baking bread in an expensive, tricked-out oven, or in a beautifully crafted wood-fired oven (especially a historic one stamped “1802,” or something to that effect). Even your most basic home unit is capable of producing fantastic bread.

• leaveners—Many of us are devoted to sourdough baking, but if creating and maintaining your sourdough seems like too much of a hassle, even supermarket varieties of instant yeast can be used to produce delicious bread—possibly even “good bread”—especially if you’re willing to work with time and exhibit patience (see “time” and “patience” above).

• even flour—Of course, try to source the very finest flour you can find, preferably locally or regionally produced and organic, and as freshly milled as possible. But if your options are limited (including your budget), try to at least buy unbleached flour, and try to bake with flour that’s reasonably fresh.*

This should be a relief to the amateur baker. All of the primary factors are fully within your grasp. Even the technique needed to produce exceptional homemade sourdough is something that can be easily picked up over time. Mixing and folding your bread is very straightforward. Baking it requires a little care, but is not particularly difficult. The trickiest part really has to do with forming your loaves properly.

We can’t all have a ramshackle, bohemian bakery in Lyon, or even visit one—especially now, given the situation. We can’t all source our freshly milled flour from the terroir of Auvergne. But we can certainly all make good bread—perhaps even great bread.

aj

• Flour is volatile. It can go rancid and/or become infested if it’s not properly stored and it isn’t used quickly enough. This is important to remember if you’re shopping in pandemic mode. Buying large quantities of flour only really makes sense if you have optimum storage conditions or, even better, if you’re going work through such quantities of flour in relatively short order.

Today's Menu: December 13, 2020, rev. ed.

fig. a: Russian Black Bread, whole

Russian Black Bread

50% rye flour

50% bread flour

15% levain

30% coffee

15% molasses

10% honey

30% water

2.5% sea salt

1 tbsp cocoa powder

2 tbsp poppy seeds

2 1/2 tsp fennel seeds, cracked

2 tsp caraway seeds, toasted

1 1/2 tsp nigella seeds

fig. b: Russian Black Bread, crumb

fig. c: Russian Black Bread, slices

fig. d: Russian Black Bread with smoked salmon

This recipe was heavily inspired by the one for Russian Black Bread in Michelle Polzine’s excellent Baking at The 20th Century Cafe: Iconic European Desserts From Linzer Torte to Honey Cake. I adapted it according to my modified Chad Robertson method, and the results were terrific.

aj

Bread & Tomatoes

fig. a: Sunday morning loaves

Semolina-Sesame Loaf

20% semolina (preferably semola rimacinata, an extra-fine “re-milled” or twice-milled Italian variety)

80% bread flour

15% levain

85% water

2.5% sea salt

3.0% toasted sesame seeds

fig. b: levain landscape

This semolina-sesame loaf has been my latest obsession over the last couple of weeks. It was inspired by the semolina loaves that were a specialty of some of the truly old-school Italian-American bakeries of New Jersey back in the day. For a while, I worked in a wine store in Northern Virginia that used to import dozens of loaves of bread from Jersey every Thursday. I got pretty hooked on the flavour at the time. Those loaves tended to have sesame seeds generously sprinkled on top. In this case, I put an especially generous amount of toasted sesame seeds inside the loaf.

Yesterday, I celebrated the arrival of my latest batch of semolina-sesame bread by making a somewhat old-school spaghetti dinner with lots of garlic and a couple of anchovies in the sauce. I wanted to have something that was saucy and savoury, something that would need some sopping up, something that was just begging for a freshly baked loaf of crusty bread.

This time of year, fresh tomatoes that have any flavour to them are a little hard to find, for reasons that should be obvious. Therefore, from the tail end of fall until the early days of summer, I tend to seek out the tastiest canned tomatoes I can find for many of my home cooking projects, including the making of tomato-based pasta sauces. Without being ridiculous, use the best tomatoes you can afford. Spending a few bucks on a can of tomatoes might seem extravagant to some, but, unless you grow your own, the best fresh tomatoes can also be pricey (rightfully so, in most cases), and a good can of tomatoes packs a lot of potential into its tight, tinned confines.

If you happen to be in the States, keep your eyes open for these sweet, delicious Stanislaus 74-40 tomato filets from California. (They’re worth buying for their anti-Brand X propaganda alone!).

fig. c: 74-40 or bust!

If you’re in Montreal, it’s nice to see that Bianco DiNapoli’s phenomenal canned tomatoes—also from California, but this time organic, too!—are readily available.

I like breaking open an extra-large can like the one you see above and then parceling its contents in a variety of ways for a variety of different projects, at least one of which will usually be a pasta sauce of some kind. The one I made yesterday was quick, easy, and super-satisfying:

Simple Umami-Rich Pasta Sauce

1 28-ounce can canned tomatoes (or equivalent), crushed by hand in a bowl

a generous glug of extra-virgin olive oil

1-2 oil-packed anchovies (preferably packed in olive oil)

1-2 medium to large cloves garlic, minced

1 generous pinch crushed chile flakes

salt to taste

Heat your olive oil over medium-low heat. When your olive oil is warm, add the anchovies and stir with spoon until they have broken down and melded with the olive oil. Add the chile flakes and cook 15-30 seconds, until aromatic. Add the garlic and cook for another 15-30 seconds, until the garlic becomes aromatic and it takes on a hint of golden colour. Add the tomatoes with all their juices and simmer for 20-30 minutes over low heat. Season to taste with salt before serving.

Serve over spaghetti, with freshly grated Parmesan, some garlicky homemade breadcrumbs (if you got ‘em!), and some freshly torn basil leaves.

When you serve this sauce with pasta, don’t be stingy. There should be a little sauce left in the bottom of the bowl that’s calling out for a crusty bread.

Of course, crust isn’t everything. There’s also something to be said for structure, and for a tender, flavourful crumb, like these two specimens:

fig. d: semolina-sesame crumb #1

fig. e: semolina-sesame crumb #2

Using semola rimacinata instead of standard semolina is one of the big reasons the crumb on this loaf is particularly tender and fine. Plus, semola rimacinata is a great product to have around the house—it’s fantastic for making homemade pasta.

Anyway, although they’re hard to see, there’s plenty of flavour-packed toasted sesame seeds in this loaf, which only add to the taste sensation. I used to toast my sesame seeds myself, but it was a bit of a hassle, especially because sesame seeds are delicate and easily scorched if you don’t watch them carefully. These days I just buy large bags of Japanese toasted sesame seeds—we use them all the time when we cook Japanese dishes, and they’re perfect for bread baking.

This bread is delicious on its own, phenomenal with butter, and simply crazy with red sauce.

aj

Today's Menu: November 17, 2020

Sesame & Corn Country Loaf

15% cornmeal

10% whole wheat flour

75% bread flour

15% levain

85% water

2.5% sea salt

2.5% toasted sesame seeds

aj

Ceres Arises: A Cereal Narrative, pt. 1

I should start off by saying that my attachment to Ceres, the Roman wheat sheaf-wielding goddess of agriculture, began in London and not in Montpelier. That’s because I worked at a vegetarian café and bakery called Ceres on Portobello Road in my early twenties. The “grain shop,” as it was known, had begun as a macrobiotic pioneer back in the Hippy Era—one that looked something like this.

fig. a: Ceres of London

By the time I got there it was owned by a couple of crazy bon vivants and it had little to do with Zen. And in the time I knew it, Ceres was mostly a veggie take-out, with a decent pastry and bread program, and very close ties to the community.*

Anyway, I started off at Ceres as a replacement baker, but I stayed on as a kitchen hand and cook, and it was definitely the best job I held down during my two years in London. I wasn’t paid much, but I was paid under the table, and I got fed 2-3 meals every day that I worked there, so somehow I still managed to save money to go to shows, see films, and eventually even travel. And I still get incredibly nostalgic about the carry-out containers we used to pack full of brown rice, mac & cheese, fried tofu, veggie curry, sautéed mushrooms, stir-fried broccoli, “cheesy spuds,” and salads of all kinds, including their signature lemon-tahini pasta salad (based on a recipe from a famous veggie café that was located in Harlem in the sixties, or so I was told).

Years later, I can still remember the experience of visiting Montpelier, Vermont for the first time. It was such a tiny town (the population was about 7,000 at the time, but sometimes it felt even smaller than that), such a charming one, but the skyline was dominated by its rather impressive, if diminutive, Vermont State House, with its majestic golden dome. I’m sure I noticed the statue that adorned the dome the first time I laid eyes on it, but it took me years to realize who the statue represented. I’m sure I just assumed it was a statue of Ethan Allen,** or one of Vermont’s other founding fathers, but, in fact, it was Ceres (or, rather, Agriculture) who graced the dome. Wheat sheaf and all.

fig. b: Vermont State House, featuring Ceres, Montpelier, VT

I never took a close look at this Ceres. I mostly just admired her from afar. So it was only in the last couple of years, when the word began to get around that Ceres needed to be replaced because she was literally falling apart at the seams, that I learned that she already was a replacement.

The original version of Ceres had been carved and erected by a Vermont artist named Larkin Goldsmith Mead. It was Mead’s first major success, and it established him as an in-demand sculptor—one who would have a long and prolific career in public art.***

In 1938, hasty arrangements were made to replace the original Ceres when it was discovered that Mead’s version was in an advanced state of deterioration. The contract for this Ceres was awarded to Dwight Dwinell, a State House employee who was close at hand and willing to take on the challenge. Dwinell was 87 years old at the time. He was also something of an amateur.

fig. c: portrait of the artist as a sad woman

As it turns out, in spite of his relative inexperience, Dwinell’s version lasted roughly as long as Mead’s had, but when it became apparent that Ceres 2.0 needed to be replaced as well, an effort was made restore Ceres to her former neo-classical glory, and to make sure this version was built to last: 150 years, if at all possible.

This time it took two artists to recreate Ceres. One of them, Jerry Williams, created a 1/4 scale model based closely on Mead’s original design. The other, Chris Miller—a local stone mason and woodcarver—was the one tasked with carving the 15-foot version out of a block of mahogany (as opposed to the pine that Mead had used).

Miller is a gregarious guy, and a true local character, and one of the conditions he placed on his contract was that his workshop inside the Vermont Granite Museum in nearby Barre be open to the public throughout the carving process. He saw Ceres as being a “people’s artwork,” and, therefore, it was important to him that the people have access to her as she came to life, so to speak, and before she ascended to her summit for the next 150 years.

A little over a week ago, we received an invitation to join our friends M., R., and E. at the Vermont Granite Museum to pay Ceres a visit. Chris was going to be putting the finishing touches on Ceres—applying the final coats of protective white paint, and adding some gold-leaf details—as she was just under a week away from making her ascent. That this was a rare opportunity goes without saying. We jumped at the opportunity.

When we arrived at the museum, we could see that our friends had beaten us there. So we followed the signs to Ceres.

fig. d: “Ceres statue? Come in. Follow signs.”

fig. e: “statue —>”

fig. f: “statue in here”

When we reached our destination, it was a little like we’d stepped into a cavernous medical theatre to witness some kind of strange operation.

The patient was there in all her splendour.

fig. g: Ceres at rest

An artist/artisan/surgeon was at work.

fig. h: Chris at work

Informative panels/collages had been set up nearby to help explain the history of Ceres, and of the current project.

fig. I: a brief visual history of Agriculture

Hoiy relics had been made available.

fig. j: authentic relics here!

Fittingly, a crowd of pilgrims began to assemble.

fig. k: pilgrimage

And about an hour after we first arrived, we were lucky enough to witness Ceres being anointed with gold.

fig. l: enter the gilded age

The application of gold-leaf details was pretty much the final step in the process of creating Ceres 3.0.

A little less than a week later, she took flight again, with a little help from some friends, and in front of a crowd of a few hundred onlookers who’d braved the unusually cold November temperatures to witness a resurrection, Ceres assumed the pedestal she will adorn for the foreseeable future.

fig. m: Ceres arisen!

Or as long as the Good Lord is willing, and the Winooski don’t rise.

Of course, we’re no fools. We know how these things are bound to end.

fig. n: all things must come to pass

But, in the meantime, we feel confident that Ceres was built to stand the test of time. And that she’ll be able to communicate an important message or two to future generations.

aj

* At the time, Ceres also did a very brisk trade in Guarana, if you can remember that moment.

**Allen’s marble statue is actually located inside the State House.

***As it turns out, Ceres is a subject Mead would revisit some 45 years later, when he received a commission to design and carve another version of Ceres—”The Triumph of Ceres”—this time as part of a bas-relief group that would adorn the Agriculture Building at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago.