Subway...err...Metro Couture

(NOTE: Updated the earlier "Shamrock Shake" entry via the comments.)



By the ridiculous number of times I've referenced "Montreal" in previous blog entries, no doubt my not-so-secret love affair with that fine, fine city is now widely known. I could go on for hours ad nauseum (and I have - to the eye rolling of many a friend), chanter-ing its praises.

Of course, this wasn't always so. It's really been one of those cases of "you don't know what you got till it's gone". And well...I live in Toronto now...enough said.

So this entry unabashedly has "Montreal" written all over it. Well, at least a map of its metro system. Yes, I said "metro" - NOT subway. Yes, I'm one of THOSE snobs. The type that has a constant hang-up about people calling Montreal's underground transportation the "subway". I will politely (or not so politely - depending how belligerent a mood I'm in) correct you. I'm also one of THOSE who will travel to another city that has an underground transportation system and mistakenly (*snicker*) call it the "metro" even if they call it the subway there.

For a good year and change after moving to Toronto, I would still find myself calling Toronto's subway system "the metro". Suck on it, T-dot.

Okay, enough evilness. Back on track (so to speak).

I truly do love riding the underground rails of every city I visit which has such a transit system. Be it Montreal, Toronto, Boston, D.C., NYC....*memory flash*...uhh, oh right, the NYC subway. I actually have a somewhat disturbing story about my first experience on the NYC subway (some of you may've actually even been there)...

Back in '97, when I was still living in Montreal, a few friends from work along with my brother and I took a long weekend trip down to New York. One of our adventures that weekend took us from Canal Street towards uptown Manhattan on the subway. The 5 or 6 of us happened to get a subway car all to ourselves. And I, as usual, was annoying my travel mates with my camera - taking uninvited snapshots of them as they'd put up their hands to my lens, trying to block me from stealing their souls.

Being in my belligerent mode, I persisted. And since no one was letting me get in their face and take nice close-up shots of them, I decided to back up away from the group and get a nice wide picture instead. So I peered through the viewfinder and shuffled backwards to fit everyone in. But I wanted to frame it nicely too, so I had to back up a little more to get some of the background in the shot. Then I decided I'd have to back up even further, right into the corner of the subway car to get the most awesome angle, and so I did.

*squish!*

What the fuck was that?! My friends looked over at me as I looked down at my feet. My shoe was slipping in something. OH MY GOD. I jumped out of the corner, lunging towards my friends, who correspondingly jumped back away from me. I frantically started wiping the sole of my shoe along the floor vigorously...leaving streaks of what can only be described as fecal graffiti on the subway floor. My friends and bro were now cackling at my horrid dilemma. They moved further away from me as the stench worked its way deeper into the subway car.

(The actual resulting photo)

I was in an utter panic. I prayed that it was at least the "business" of some pet animal -- perhaps a friendly seeing-eye dog who innocently let nature's call get the better of him. Moreover, I absolutely refused to allow myself to believe it was more likely to have been of the human variety. PLEASE GOD NO.

Regardless, for the rest of that evening, no matter how much I scraped the sole of my shoe on pavement or grass or in water puddles, the smell clung to me like dollar store perfume on a cheap hooker (okay, I probably heard that line in some movie before). But I was shunned by my friends. Nobody wanted to ride in the car with me. I was the dung-shoed pariah for the rest of that trip.

Okay, back on track...again.

So what better way to celebrate one's visit to a big city than a souvenir t-shirt! But forget those "I [Heart] So-and-So" shirts and those "My uncle went to So-and-So and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" shirts. Why not get something that really shows off a city's mighty indicator of urban sprawl and industrialization: a t-shirt with the map of the city's metro/subway on it! Booyah!


Truth is, I don't even know if all qualifying city's have such a souvenir t-shirt available for purchase. All I know is I was able to pick up one of these "Montreal Metro" t-shirts in touristy Old Montreal back in the late-90's. There's certainly no shortage of souvenir t-shirt shops in that area, and at least a couple of them had t-shirts that featured the metro system map. I'm so proud of mine.

And truthfully I'm not one for novelty t-shirts at all. Hate them for the most part. Especially the faux-witty, ironic kind. But this one is all class, baby! It's the frickin' metro map!

I'll wear mine on set or just out in the streets (as long as I'm not actually in Montreal...that's tacky). It sometimes even brings a smile to other people's faces who recognize what the map on my chest is all about. It's almost like a secret club: no words needed...just a slight, knowing nod from the person who notices my t-shirt; followed by a slight, agreeing nod in return from me. It's all cool and the gang.


Dent in your pay cheque:
my memory's a bit rusty, but I'm guessing around $8-$10

Ideal for:
tourists with discriminating souvenir tastes; cultured Montreal expats; nieces and nephews deserving of fashionable coolness; those who want to be part of the hush-hush, ultra-hip "I'm down with Montreal too" club

Look for it at:
select souvenir t-shirt shops in the Old Montreal district

Winona & The Rialto

(Indulge me...this entry is encased in a flashback story, so...um...it's kinda epic.)

1992

It was sometime during the fall of 1992. It must've been almost three months into my first semester of university in Montreal - and my first time away from home. I was still green to the big city scene, not quite having brushed all the prairie dust off my Doc Martens.

But the freedom I now found myself with had been unbeknownst to me up to that point. I could eat whatever I wanted (which I did), I could sleep whenever I wanted (which I did - usually between classes in the library), and I could go anywhere I wanted...which I DIDN'T DARE.

For many, this was supposed to be a time of great change, a time of self-discovery, a time of experimentation -- but for me, my life existed within the 3-block radius bubble between my dorm and the university's business building. Anything beyond that perimeter was fair ground for possible muggings, abductions, and general big city mayhem. Or so I thought.

But I eventually realized that there was one thing - one person, actually - who would become the forbidden fruit that would tempt me and lure me out of my self-imposed quarantine zone. And that person would be none other than Ms. Winona Ryder.


(NOTE: You must keep in mind this was pre-notorious, snatch'n'grab Winona. Oh what do I care, she's still very yummy...)


Now, I may have related a tongue-in-cheek story to some of you in the past about how the highlight of my entire decade in Montreal occurred during my first week of being there. I had just arrived in Montreal and was still settling in when I learned of a tribute to the movie director Tim Burton that was taking place at the Montreal International Film Festival.

So, upon first ensuring that the location where the tribute was being held was comfortably within my self-preservation area, I decided to go check it out. And who happened to be there sitting just two rows in front of me? Winona! My first ever celebrity sighting. And believe you me, I was smitten to the gills! Definitely twitterpated. *sigh*


Now cut to a few months later when I learned that a new independent movie featuring beloved Winona was showing in town. Problem was, this little indie flick was playing at some far off rep cinema called The Rialto - way up north on the Montreal Plateau - way the hell out the critical comfort zone of my 'hood. We're talking about potentially French speaking-only territory! To make matters worse, this perilous trek into hostile regions (or so I thought) would require a bus ride, then a subway ride, then another bus ride, plus some additional walking to get there! Would I need to hitchhike too?

So I was faced with this serious mega-dilemma: personal safety vs. love & devotion

After hours and hours of psyching myself up in front of a mirror, I finally decided to man up and grow a pair for once, and risk life and limb - venturing out into the big, bad Francophone world - all in the name of spending two hours with my starlet queen on the big screen.


Oh, but it was such a dark and lonesome road. Admittedly though, I probably had my eyes closed through most of the journey. I know I refused to make eye contact with anyone. The first bus ride was okay at best, the subway was barely tolerable, but the transfer to the second bus was highly anxiety-ridden. Had I boarded the right bus? What if I get off at the wrong stop? I REALLY didn't want to have to walk those sinister French-ified streets any longer than I really needed to. So I held my breath the entire ride.

Then, like stepping off the plank of a pirate ship, I disembarked...

...right in front of the movie theatre. Which was brightly lit. On a street bustling with happy Francophone shoppers and strollers. In a neighborhood that even looked a helluva lot safer than where my dorm was situated. Hmmm.

And you know what? My lion-like courageousness was rewarded that night; not only with a wonderfully quirky, Winona-laced cinematic experience (the movie was "Night on Earth" by Jim Jarmusch), but - more impressively - I inadvertently got to watch the movie at The Rialto - which I quickly learned was one of the premiere, historical movie theatres in eastern Canada. I had never been in an original, early-20th century movie palace before.

Originally built in 1924, it wasn't like it had been restored or refurbished in recent years. In the white-tiled lobby, the ceiling plaster was cracking; inside the main auditorium, portions of textured walls were torn; and in several places, the red carpet was worn down to the cement underneath. Yet, this decaying venue still managed to retain a grand sense of nobility and importance (kind of like Sean Connery.) Even when throughout the movie screening, you would occasionally hear audience members dropping like flies in the dark as their rickety red velvet seats would come off their worn hinges and crash to the floor.

Still, this was living history. Movie history. It was glam 1930's Hollywood. The gold leaf was still there, adorning the original moldings. The red curtain still draped in front of the actual silver-embedded movie screen, which parted in the middle just as the show was to begin. The musty smell of the aged palace gave way to the buttery aroma of popcorn in the lobby concession, wafting through the rest of the theatre. It was an aging, rundown palace to be sure, but it was the most glorious feeling to be sitting inside there, shrouded in magical darkness for a couple hours, hearing the faint clacketing from movie projector above, staring at the flickering images across the screen. It wasn't 1992 anymore. It wasn't Montreal either. For two hours, it was out of this world.



I would return to The Rialto at least a couple more times during my stint at McGill - lapping up all of its decrepit glory. Before it closed down in the mid-90's.

Like virtually all movie palaces of the era, it became too expensive to maintain and run. With the ubiquity of 24-screen megaplexes complete with stadium seating and food courts, landmarks like The Rialto never stood a chance.

So WHY on earth am I telling you all this?

Well, after some researching on these omniscient internets, I've learned that The Rialto has opened its doors once again! Well, sort of.

For better or for worse, the Rialto has been converted into a pricey, mid-end dining establishment. I'm just thankful it didn't suffer the demolished fate that so many other movie palaces of yore have succumbed to in recent decades. The current owners have sunk sufficient money into a complete overhauled refurbishment, bringing back all the grandeur aesthetics that The Rialto once proudly displayed to its patrons during its heydey. Of course, all of the theatre seating has been removed to make way for the dining room. It's unclear if the movie screen even still exists, but the stage in front of where it once hovered over is now home to a grand piano that gets tickled now and again for the pleasure of dinner guests.

Truthfully, I've got mixed feelings about wanting to go back to The Rialto at this point in time, not wanting to risk the upheaval of good memories I have of the place. But perhaps I will one day when I find myself back in that city, wandering around my former haunts.

The face of the lovely Winona may no longer be projected on to the silver screen of The Rialto anymore, but for what it's worth, a well-trimmed 16-ounce Angus porterhouse steak can be had for $32.

Yeah, I still much prefer Winona.


Dent in your pay cheque:
an average entrée looks to set you back around $30 (plus the cost of a trip to Montreal, unless you're one of the extremely lucky few who get to live there)

Ideal for:
historical landmark junkies; strollers down memory lane; the famished (with deep pockets) who just happen to find themselves in the Montreal Plateau neighborhood

Look for it:
5723 Avenue du Parc, Montréal
www.rialtoparadise.com

It's all in the gory details...

(Contributor-in-waiting Stacy just shot out her bambino numero duo, and so I thought I'd kind of dedicate this particular entry to her and the wee one. I realize what I'm talking about here today may not be the most suitable baby shower gift, but perhaps a few years down the road -- provided the kid has a mentally stable upbringing. You'll see what I'm talking about...)


So ya know, I don't really fancy myself much of an illustrator. Not at all, actually. Unlike the mega-talented friends and relatives that I grew up with who unknowingly induced feelings of crooked jealousy and inadequacy in me with their drawing capabilities, I was forever relegated to my stickmen renditions of Spider-Man and (waif-like) Martians.

And even nowadays, I grit my teeth with dreading incompetency whenever I have to storyboard my various projects.

"Umm, Benjie, how come in this scene this character has a protruding tumour?" my director of photography would often ask me.

"It's not a tumour! That's his fancy cowboy hat," I'd have to explain.

So I can somewhat appreciate the talent it takes to draw exceptionally well. And some of my favourite illustrative works have been by an illustrator by the name of Edward Gorey (who looks to have been separated at birth from fellow author Farley Mowat in his picture below).

I don't know if there's a particular category or name for his style, so I'd like to offer up my own made-up classification of "the macabre jeunesse". Why? Well, aside from sounding French enough to be a real style, his illustrations (which are primarily black & white) are certainly darkly sombre in tone, even hedging on the mildly grotesque at times. Furthermore, he tends to favour drawing children, depicting them in fairly harrowing circumstances. His subject matter is usually quite simple and to the point, even if those points tend to slant towards the bizarre. You see, the late Mr. Gorey (1925-2000) had quite the twisted sense of black humour as his drawings would indicate.

For example, take a look at these following excerpts from one of his (supposed) children's books, The Gashlycrumb Tinies...






A tad gruesome? Yes. Appropriate bedtime material for young tykes? Probably not. But damn if that man didn't have a wicked wit!

If you enjoy the films of Tim Burton (in particular his earlier movies from the 80's) or Burton's own illustrated books, Gorey's stuff will be right up your alley. Think of him as a more macabre Dr. Seuss. And with humour even darker than those Lemony Snicket books. In fact, Gorey's sensibilities are probably even better targeted at older audiences than younger. It's always filled with daring whimsy, albeit of the morbid kind.

Or sometimes his work is just wonderfully odd and peculiar. Like this Edward Gorey calendar that a friend of mine in Montréal sent me a couple years back. Each month brought another chapter in the odd misadventures of rascally siblings, Embley and Yewbert, from the story of The Epiplectic Bicycle. It made for a delightful year!

So go ahead and google more of his work...maybe you'll be a Gorey fan too!


Dent in your pay cheque:
around $15-20 for a Gorey book; around $12 for a Gorey calendar

Ideal for:
illustration junkies; gothy types; morbid humour fetishists;
children NOT preoccupied with the bogeyman that's underneath their bed

Look for it at:
Amazon.ca or many a fine local bookstore

A little bubbly, anyone?

As much of a foodie as I pretend to be, rarely do I attempt to be a Chris Columbus or Magellan in the kitchen. While I'm all for the latest in innovative food trends such as essence infusions, two & three-way dishes, or tower-style plating - I'll leave it up to the gastronomical adventurers of the restaurant world to invent the next evolution in cuisine.

However, there is ONE particular culinary innovation that I can proudly call my very own. Something I created partly by accident one snowy December evening when I was racking my brain to come up with a way to add that special "ooo-la-la!" to a certain Asian fusion dish. After toiling away in my kitchen into the wee hours of the night, it was around 4 in the a.m. when I finally stumbled upon my ultimate savoury discovery.

And, oh my, what a discovery it was!

Now keep in mind, never before have I shared the keys to this fantastical food secret with anyone - until right now! And trust me, it will literally cause you to foam at the mouth. Yes, LITERALLY.

You see, while some chefs have taken to the recent trend of creating frothy flavoured foams to enhance their dishes - I, on the other hand, have created a particular kind of foam that actually forms and grows IN your mouth! Through a combination of very specific ingredients and chemical reactions, the most astounding texture and flavour can be achieved with my recipe for mouth foam.


"But, good sir, what might this mouth foam of yours taste like?"

The truth? Heaven. Pure prosciutto heaven - with even the slightest hint of wild sage!

Now, to be fair, probably because of all the chemical intermingling going on, it may actually cause wooziness in certain people, but not usually to the point of blacking out. But a small price to pay for taste bud nirvana!

"Oh, good sir, do tell us how this can be made possible! Do tell!"

Actually, my friends, you'll be glad to know it's relatively uncomplicated...

2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
3 1/2 tablespoons alum powder
1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
5 or 6 drops of ham extract

Combine all ingredients in a chilled metallic bowl. Cover with parchment paper and let rest in a draft-free area for at least 45 minutes.

Serve with almost any Asian meat dishes. With each bite, take no more than a spoonful of the mouth foam mixture. Simply wait for the exciting reaction and enjoy!

NOTE: Do not eat with bok choy, as its higher-than-usual chlorophyll content tends to interact poorly with mouth foam.


Dent in your pay cheque:
no more than $14 for mouth foam ingredients (plus the cost of Asian meat)

Ideal for:
Asians (& non-Asians)

Look for it at:
Fu Yao Supermarket or most Giant Tigers

(Michael Scott and Dwight Schrute are peeping through the window blinds of Michael's office, observing the rest of the office employees...)

Michael Scott: "I need to know who else is gay. I don't want to offend anyone else."

Dwight Schrute: "You could assume everyone is, and not say anything offensive."

Michael Scott (rolling his eyes): "Yeah. I'm sure everyone would appreciate me treating them like they were gay."



This is just one of the many golden nuggets of hilarity from "The Office: An American Workplace".

Good Lord, this TV show is funny.

Are you already an avid watcher? (HINT: There is only one "good" answer to this question.)

If not, why not?

Don't you want to be cool too?

Then you and I can call each other up the next day and wax lyrically about how many times during the previous night's episode we peed a little in our pants because of how hysterically socially inept Michael Scott (the boss) is, how uproariously power hungry Dwight Schrute (the fascist assistant manager) is, or how poignantly star-crossed Jim and Pam (the would-be office lovebirds) are. (JAM fans, anyone?)

A couple weeks ago, it was such an exciting revelation when I learned that my good friend in New York was also a loyal Officemate. It was like we now got to gossip about these new "weekly" friends of ours behind their backs. It, like, totally renewed our friendship on a higher level! (Plus I can't help but giggle a little because one of the kooky Office characters - the Valley Girl-esque "Kelly Kapoor" - reminds me of my NYC friend! Hehe.)

Anyway, back to the show:
This is not your father's comedy. This isn't your tried-and-true (read: *yawn*), old school sitcom. And this really isn't the typical "set up then punch line"/"Charlie Sheen chasing skirts as the precocious little nephew wags his finger at him"-type humour. The Office predicates itself in those awfully awkward, cringe-worthy, painfully funny moments when others around you are oblivious to their own embarrassing, unfiltered, un-PC behaviour. Trust me, we all know people like these in our day-to-day lives.

Okay, I don't know how I can continue on with this entry without further coming off as a pathetic shill. It's not like the show needs me to recruit more pairs of eyes to save it. It's actually doing just fine.

I guess I'm just trying to do my (non-Semitic) mitzvah for the week and spread the gift of laughter with you all!

And for all of you fans of the original Brit version of The Office, you'll have to take my word for it that once you get past the first few episodes of the American version, you'll start to realize just how wonderfully different a comedic beast this one is. Give it a chance. You'll love it too.

But this American version really began to hit its stride in its second season (after an abbreviated 6-episode first season). So what I recommend to all you American Office neophytes is that you purchase/rent/Netflix/five-finger-discount a copy of Season Two as your foray into the series. Then once you are (guaranteed) hooked on the show after those 22 episodes, you can go get Season One and watch the original six. And then you can also catch up to the current Season Three this upcoming summer when it goes into repeats on TV.

Wow, WHAT AN AWESOME PLAN I just laid out for you! You can send me a tin of "thank you" cookies later. (HINT: I'm partial to oatmeal raisin.)


Dent in your pay cheque:
around $25 for Season One; around $40 for Season Two; currently FREE for Season Three!

Ideal for:
anybody who loves having their funny bone fondled; snooty fans of smart, non-patronizing television; people who work in an office and want to watch a weekly, half-hour version of their autobiography

Look for it at...
the DVDs: Best Buy (but maybe you can find it cheaper elsewhere)
the weekly TV broadcast: NBC, Thursdays at 8:30 PM!

Grimacing for my fix

(Initially I thought I'd give y'all a timely treat with this entry. But, as you'll realize, my tardiness in posting this makes it the furthest thing from being timely. Ah well.)

I debated whether I should even include this item in this blog. I mean, yes, I have purchased it in the past, and - technically - it is still available for purchase. You just might have a really tough time finding it - and will have to wait, oh, about a year for your next opportunity.

But in the end I decided, why the hell not. Because I really love Shamrock Shakes!

Yes, I am indeed talking about those nuclear green McDonald's milkshakes that appear only once a year in the weeks leading up to March 17th. At least they used to appear once a year - quite ubiquitously in fact - back in the 80's and early 90's. But nowadays, you may be hard-pressed to find these viridescent gloopy treats at your local McDick's. Not unlike those commercials that used to feature Ronald McDonald & friends, the Shamrock Shake has all but disappeared from our cultural menu board. So sad!

However, internet rumours report sporadic SS sightings throughout the northeastern U.S., as well as parts of California, and there's even been an unconfirmed Canadian appearance in Coquitlam(?), British Columbia. The interest in this elusive triple-thick delight has become rampant enough to warrant a website solely dedicated to tracking these Shamrock sightings. So true!

But perhaps equally sad to this vanishing milkshake is the phasing out of the aforementioned McDonald's characters, in particular Uncle O'Grimacey, the Gaelic emerald cousin (uncle?) of everybody's beloved purple glob, Grimace.


Okay, so maybe my love of this minty bever-essert has more to do with nostalgia than delectable taste (don't get me wrong though, it is a whole bunch of yum). But like Christmas or my birthday, this is an annual event with cause for celebration. Give me a super-sized Shamrock Shake over a stein of green beer any St. Patrick's day!


Dent in your pay cheque:
$2.50-$3.50 (the price of a regular McDonald's milkshake!)

Ideal for:
milkshake fiends bored with chocolate, strawberry and vanilla; cultural connoisseurs of 80's kitsch; the (underaged) Irish

Look for it at:
unfortunately only very select McDonald's restos just prior to St. Patrick's Day -- but to aid you in your quest: www.shamrockshake.com

(In times of desperation, you can also try making your own knock-off Shamrock Shake with this recipe.)


* * *

P.S. Hey hey! I know there are a few of you lurkers out there who have yet to sign up as materialistic contributors to this blog. If you've "lost" the invitation I sent out a few weeks back, e-mail me and I'll send you out a new one. Don't be creepy...join us!

Through a light, darkly

Butterfly LanternSpeaking of decorative lamps (that is, lamps with a main purpose that has more to do with aesthetics than illumination), I offer Hisae Homma and Philip Lewis' spinning rice paper lanterns. I picked mine up at Autumn Cottage Home Furnishings in the Mall of America circa 1998.

I dare you to find a lamp more unique and adorable (or less functional) than this one. The first thing that may strike you about these lamps is their simple, handmade design employing only rice paper, construction paper, cellophane, wood, a small light bulb the size of a Christmas tree bulb, and the required electrical parts. Heat from the bulb rises to spin the windmill attached to the inner cylinder, projecting moving images on the outer rice paper walls (and onto the walls of your room as it spins in the dark). Mine has jumping cats on it that are chasing a ball. It's so cute that I could eat it.


Jumping Cat PatternWhat occurred to me that day in Minneapolis as I examined the lamp's seemingly simple construction was that I could probably build such a thing myself. I'm glad I decided to buy it though, because the rolls of rice paper and cellophane procured for this project are still stored under my bed, having survived four moves.


Dinosaur LanternMy infatuation with this lamp only grew when I saw it featured (jumping cats and all) on one of the final episodes of "Six Feet Under" in Maya's bedroom. The only other time I've seen something of mine on TV was in 1988 when I saw Erica Ehm on MuchMusic wearing an oversized hooded sweater like one I had bought at Le Chateau. As you can see, I'm still talking about it.

Dent in your wallet:
US 79.99 plus shipping

Ideal for:
baby shower; children's room; the young at heart.

Look for it at:
www.whippoorwillcrafts.com

Seasoning 101

Okay. Some of you will snicker. Others will roll their eyes.

It's because the featured item in this latest blog installment -- well, let's just say I fully expect to get called out for my "gourmunk" wannabe snobbiness.

But, hey, it's not like I'm talking about ridiculous $2 a gram Quebec foie gras, or even ridiculous-er $7 a gram white truffles from the Piedmont region of Italy. I mean, really! Who do you think I am?? (I'll be covering those items in future blogs.)

With today's particular item, I just really feel a need to extoll the virtues of this often pooh-poohed necessity in culinary preparation. I'm speaking of the prevalent kitchen staple: Salt.

When stocking a kitchen with the basics, the standard grocery shopping protocol usually calls for the requisite box of Windsor or Sifto brand table salt. Ho hum. Sure, that's fine and dandy. For a 50's diner maybe.

But we're in the uber-cosmopolitan 00's now, and to help elicit the maximum flavour from our foods, you have choices in your seasoning. You do NOT have to be a slave to the everyday, iodized supermarket variety salts. Free yourselves, y'all.

"But, Benjie, please get your ass off that high horse for a sec....we're talking about salt here, buddy boy! Salty is salty. Get a grip, yo!"

Fine, okay, I'll give you that: Salty is salty. But soy sauce is salty. And so is oyster sauce. But they certainly don't taste the same. And not all types of salt taste the same either. True, it's more subtle than the differences between soy sauce and oyster sauce. And true, I've made friends take the "Pepsi challenge" with a few varieties of cooking salts, resulting in some of them being unable to discern much between the types. (Philistine palettes if you ask me...hmph!)

But seriously, it you don't experiment yourself, then you'll have to take my word for it that, when cooking, different salts bring out the flavours of dishes in differing ways. Some punch up flavours by brightening them up (e.g. grey sea salt on roasted winter vegetables). While others coax out flavours in less aggressive ways (e.g. Hawaiian red salt in melted dark chocolate).

And although my roommate will swear by his oh so vairy Frainche "Fleur de Sel" from the marshy bogs of Camargue, France (and don't get me wrong, it is a wonderful salt), if I had to plunk down my cash for one tried-and-true, go-to salt to use when I'm dicking around my kitchen, then that cooking salt would have to be the reputable Maldon Sea Salt. Large, flaky crystals. Quality so refined from sea waters that - as they say - just a little does go a long way. Just feel those granules crumble between your fingers as you scatter them over the freshest of your ingredients...ahh, it's food porn at its most raunchy! (Yes, my apologies for that.)



But with glorious Maldon salt (along with perhaps four-plus years at a top culinary school) you'll finally be able to release your inner chef. Serving up meals with flavours you never dreamt possible in your lifetime. Angels will sing on high and doves will flock together with olive twigs in their beaks. Okay, fine, it's probably not quite the manna from heaven I'm hyping it up to be, but it's damn good stuff to season your cooking with.



But just one snobby cooking tip, if I may: When seasoning your dishes as you cook, do yourself a favour and add the salt by hand (as opposed to shaking it from a container). With just a little practice, the tactile experience will give you a much better feel for how much salt you should add to your culinary masterworks. Seriously. For real.


Dent in your wallet:
around $8-$10 for a 240g box
(yeah, I know, but it'll last you a long time!)

Ideal for:
poseur chefs; real actual chefs

Look for it at:
most schmancy food shoppes frequented by gourmands (such as Cheese Boutique or the St. Lawrence Market in T.O., probably Le Faubourg in Montreal)

Star Light, Star (Not Too) Bright

It's not like I consider myself much of an interior decorator. I suppose, if push came to shove, I could possibly make a room feel habitable, maybe even inviting. Frankly, it hasn't been much of an issue yet in my life since I've yet to purchase my own house or condo or double-wide trailer.

And I don't consider a rented domicile as something to spend my time or money perfecting aesthetically. Sure, I'll make it homey-looking, but I'm not about to start pulling out paint chips and antiquing catalogues.

But I know what I like when I see it. Usually. I mean, I do know what is considered gaudy or tacky. Example: Growing up, our family had a felt wall-hanging that depicted a pack of curiously dextrous dogs playing a lively game of snooker. This highly implausible canine scenario hung over our family's own pool table. This, my friends, was TACKY. (Yet still somehow appropriate.)

There is a piece of room decor which I now own that I treasure and is something I received as a gift nearly a decade ago. In fact, it was such a popular item among the three female friends who gave it to me, that they just had to buy the same thing for each other's birthdays that year.

So what awesome household ornamentation could inspire such buying behaviour among friends, you ask? (And not merely being ornamental but functional too?!) A lamp!

Not just any ordinary lamp, no sir-ee. It is an authentic Mexican aged tin 12-pointed star lamp. Just don't be hoodwinked by one of those Pier 1 Import aluminum knock-offs. If yours doesn't say "Hecho en Mexico", then a ball-peen hammer in the little hands of a child from some other far away country is responsible for your inferior model.



These Mexican paragons are designed with just enough intricate artisan skill to not look like random tchotchkes from Guadalajara, and will easily find a home suspended in almost any modern dwelling. But perhaps I was overselling it a wee bit when I was touting its functionality. It doesn't pump out a whole lot of illumination (with all that metal encasing the bulb and all). Certainly not enough to read or perform any suturing by. But if you're looking for some subtle hanky-panky mood lighting or an oversized night light for a little tyke's bedroom, this light's for you!

We found ours in a modest Mexican import shop on rue Saint-Denis in Montreal, circa 1998 (so whether the store is still there is questionable). It's quite possible you may now find authentic ones available at certain home furnishing boutiques as well, but probably at a premium. I also found an online U.S. retailer (funnily enough called "Direct from Mexico") that ships worldwide. Of course, there's always the absolute final resort of planning a Mexican getaway for the express purpose of picking up one these down there - at a bargainable super discount, no doubt.


Dent in your wallet:
US $87.60 plus shipping
or
a plane ticket to Mexico plus a few pesos

Ideal for:
those looking to add a quick touch of quasi-cultural flair to a room; (big) kids afraid of the dark in the middle of the night; good friends seeking a common gift to keep them bonded no matter how far they drift apart (awwwwwwwww.....!)

Look for it at:
www.directfrommexico.com

Merde, il pleut!

When it comes to choosing a rain-deflecting device, I am a big fan of the classic, full-size umbrella. None of those cute compact or ultra-mini parapluies for me. Sure, the classic model isn't the most convenient accessory to tote around. But it sure is darn classy-looking. Très sophistiqué, non? And it also doubles as a fancy walking cane (when not in primary function mode). Plus, I figure it could act as a makeshift beat-down stick to thwart off would-be muggers (though I've yet to test it for this purpose, so I make no promises).

But I think the ultimate benefit of the full-sized classic is the friendly or even romantic encounters it may lead to. What sort of possibilities do I speak of? Well, imagine the heavens are pouring down with a vengeance, and you cruise up to a street corner only to happen upon a poor sap getting absolutely doused, waiting to cross the street next to you. However, with the extra refuge afforded by your oversized parasol, you are in prime position to offer some much-appreciated reprieve from the drenching onslaught. See what I'm getting at? So now imagine if the poor sap was instead a very grateful lovely lady or hunky dude. Voilà! You are the knight/knightress(?) with drying armour! Go get'em, tiger!

But hey, while you're now swaggering down the sidewalk with your rain-deflecting mate magnet, why not make it an even more attractive piece of bait (y'know, in a peacock tail sort of way) by choosing one with eye-catching colour AND a clever, foreign-language phrase printed right on it! This sexy combination is sure to turn (some) heads.



To accomplish this, I highly recommend the bold-coloured series of "MERDE IL PLEUT" umbrellas. Myself, I have the canary yellow model, although other great colours can also be had. Of course, the true lure of this magic stick is the cheeky phrase that will speak volumes about your own witty and worldly renaissance personality, and almost guarantees to attract only the more discriminating, hoity segments of the population.



I picked mine up in Montréal at a small luggage & accessory shop on St. Laurent street. But I've since found their availability online as well. What great news for all you would-be 'brella-wielding wooers!

Dent in your pay cheque:
$45

Ideal for:
guys or gals seeking extra attention on soggy streets; rainy day romantic hopefuls; a practical novelty gift for conservative parents who don't speak a lick of French

Look for it at:
www.raindropsto.com

First...Entry...EVER.

Long time lurker, first time blogger.

Too true. Call me timid, call me self-conscious, call me a creepy Internet loiterer - but for whatever reason, this is the very first time I'm actually contributing an entry to any sort of blog or online forum or chat room whatchamacallit. Really. Scout's honour. Never have I felt the need to publicly comment, query or criticize any topic I've come across in the past on these glorious Internets, much less have the urge to start up a whatchamacallit of my own (gasp!)

But - TODAY, THIS ALL CHANGES. (How liberating typing that statement felt!)

And while I'm far from being a newbie to the online community, I slouch here before you, a self-professed virgin to the two-way street of it all. So be gentle with this first timer! Or not.

But what better foray into my WWW interactive experience than a celebration of the oh-so-fun, indulgent world of consumerist want! With this blog, I present all of us with a guiltless opportunity to share with one another the goods and services we get most giddy about. Be it what you have bought for yourself or for others, please share with us, won't you?

Henceforth, this will be our community blog. Kind of like our own secret society I suppose. Like the Freemasons. Or the Stonecutters. But without the animal sacrifices. So have at it, good people! With reckless abandon, share up those stories about your materialistic bliss!