Bon Vivant on Vancouver Island

Hank’s 50th: Meeting the Half-Century with Joy, Beauty, and Lottsa Lovin’

hanspetermeyer — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 05:19:54 +0000

by hans peter meyer

I love my birthdays. For years now, I’ve made a point of throwing myself a big party (bigger every year!). I love getting attention, and I love giving it. My birthdays are the means by which I celebrate and honour the loving circle that celebrates me.

But this year is special: it was "Hank’s 50th" in August. In the months before, I let all and sundry whom I’d enjoyed (and sometimes struggled with) in my life know that my half-century mark was approaching: I wanted them to be there. And, mostly, you were there.

I live with cats. I often think they are both a mirror and an inspiration for how I want to live: lots of cuddling, attending to, fussing over. It’s what I wanted for my 50th; it’s what I got.

There were also wonderful surprises. They included: coming home from two weeks Vancouver to find my house bedecked with flowers, balloons, and playful loving signs; my son Jared arriving home from his trip to Europe in time to chauffeur me to my bonne fête; walking into a (previously ugly) hall beautifully transformed – with flowers, balloons, streamers, etc etc – by Maureen and a crew of many; Danny’s amazing ), and the quartet; and then all the things that people stood up and said about their lives with me – my father, an ex-wife, old friends and new. Many tears. Much laughter. (A few more pics and vids can be seen here on Flickr.)

But that wasn’t the end of it. Then came all the dances I had with many (not all!) of the who I’m so blessed to have in my life (thanks Judy, er Patsy!); the words and warmth of my children; and short but sweet convos with old friends, with family.

Another surprise: the gushing of pride I felt every time I came back to my table. Here were my four wonderful kids – most of them now adults, all of them shining with promise, a testament to who they are – but also to how much they’re loved and supported, how well we’ve done (despite our differences, dumbness, and divorces) as parents. I felt so good seeing most of my immediate blenderized/reshaped family sitting at the table, thinking how much ground we’ve covered, and how well we are doing today. My family isn’t neat and tidy. It’s never been that way. I’m so grateful that, despite the breakage, there’s a lot of warmth and willingness bringing us together.

I am now 50. I understand myself to be incredibly gifted, to be at the centre of so much warmth. At 50 I am finally able to stand and receive this warmth, this outpouring of attention, which not that long ago would have sent me into the shadows, wanting to hid. Slowly and awkwardly, I’ve come to accept that being warm and loving is what most of us want to do, and that in receiving love I am, paradoxically, being loving.

I stumble with most things I do. I haven’t always accepted gifts gracefully. Estrangement and difficulty with love has helped me. I’ve learned that warmth persists. As I accept this, and as I learn less selfish ways of being loving, I notice that warmth and affection multiply (exponentially) in my life – It’s a good thing I’m getting better at receiving!

I have become an expressly warmth-seeking animal. At 50 I am now comfortable being one of the "centre stage boys" (preferably "the" centre stage boy). It’s exciting: a challenging, fiery, juicy place. It’s also muy cool that so many people tell me they enjoy being close to my fire.

I have learned a little in what my daughter called "50 years of Hank." A little about patience – and a lot about playfullness. The people in my life today are here because they help me to laugh, they help me to play, because they want to be my "playmates." I am so happy that they love to play with me.

In the end, my 50th birthday was, of course, just another day. But, thanks to all of you who participated that evening, it was an occasion to joyfully feel the warmth at centre stage. Lots of people did many, many things to make the event such a success. I am honoured by this conspicuous display of affection for me. To my kids and my extended family (and that’s a huge handful of you) – I am so happy and proud to have you in my life. It feels so good to feel so much love from you. And to RM, who organized this event and whose friendship (and shared passions for dance, food, and mixed beverages) has been such a gift, thank you for the present you made of this party.

The rich and beautiful life I live doesn’t happen by accident. It grows out of the love and support and playfulness of many, many people. You are not responsible for who I am, or for what I do; nonetheless you are the reason I feel strong enough, spiritually large enough, to dance to every corner of the dance floor of this life that I am living. Thank you. I am so looking forward to what the next 50 brings me, with you!

– 30 –

Gin Tasting 101 (part 1) at Tria Culinary

hanspetermeyer — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 18:07:00 +0000

by hans peter meyer

I’d been tweeting back and forth with @triaculinary about gin etc a few weeks ago. We decided we needed to move from twitter-land to real-time/real-space with this convo and set “end of day,” August 26th as a reasonable time to unlax, try out some gins, and talk of many things.

Fortuitously, end-of-day August 26 was also the treffpunkt for @IslandFEAST, her crew, and the duo from @bluemoonwinery. For me it was also fortuitous that @triaculinary had just made some succotash and sablefish (recently adopted as my fave fish for sure).

We’d lined up 3 gins for this first foray into things juniper – Bombay Saphire (a better-than decent bar gin), Phrog from nearby Hornby Island, and the eponymous Victoria. I lined up the glasses. Then, in turn, I shook up a bit of each with ice and poured.

My first comment here is that, despite what I apparently learned at Bartending 101 (thanks to Suzanne at fineartbartending.ca – more on that adventure Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3, with Part 4 forthcoming…), I shook – and therefore risked “bruising” – this 100% booze. I used to think this talk of “bruising” was haute bar foolishness. However, as @bluemoonwinery pointed out (and innocent of any knowledge of booze and its delicate bruisability on her part), our little samples of gin were “cloudy.” Bruised, in fact. Suzanne would be shaking her pretty head at me, no doubt.

Notwithstanding the bruising, which all the gins were subject to, here are the comments on the 3 gins assembled.

Bombay Saphire: Pretty transparent blue bottle, with a decidedly citrus (“lemony”) perfume; juniper dominant, but other botanicals present. One taster determined it to be a “feminine” taste.

Phrog: Again, a lovely bottle momentarily distracted the tasters, after which they pronounced the following: complex aroma – licorice (“fennel?”), earthy, “rainforest” (indeed, I’ve had one friend dis Phrog in these terms: “do moss and murk count as botanicals? – no trace of juniper; I wouldn’t even call it a gin!”). One taster said it “grew” on her, somehow reminding her of the effect of a mild scotch. Her elaboration that it had a similar “rubbing alcohol effect” failed to clarify anything for me. Such is the case with taste: we live largely in a world of our own sensual experience, and struggle to find words for sensations that are outside of linguistic/logical understanding. Another taster said the flavours were too subtle and complex to be wasted in something like the ubiquitous daily bit o’ booze, what a friend once called the “restorative G&T.” The gender-oriented drinker named Phrog as a decidedly “masculine” gin. The fave of @islandFEAST’s pal.

Victoria: Back from the weedy Gulf Islands and into one of the last outposts of the Empire, this gin conforms to the traditional gin flavour profile. Tasters identified citrus amongst the juniper, along with other unnamed “floral” accents. Several of our company had spent time in Canada’s north, and nodded their heads as one taster said the Victoria raised memories of lying in the tundra, with “the scent of willow and juniper in your face.” The gender? Another girl. And, not a gin to be wasted in a G&T, no matter how “restorative.” My fave. (And, as per recent tweet, @islandFEAST’s fave too.)

To show off one of my current fave cocktails (and, perhaps, to redeem myself for the bruising of the booze), I put together a Gin Savoy (see comments on vodka below; using gin adds a bit of botanical complexity to the already interesting flavour profile of this libation – brought to my attention by bartender Torrie Howlett at @avenuebistro, and later modified with the assistance of bartender Freddy at that same fine dining & drinking venue in Comox).

This was our first kick at a gin-tasting. For Part 2 we’re going to drag in some others of our faves. I could (and will) go on & on about Hendricks. @triaculinary is particulary fond of Crown-something-or-other. I’ve had pleasant experiences with Plymouth. And, for comparison purposes, it’s good to have a big bottle of Gordon’s around (excellent choice for G&Ts, restorative and otherwise). Gordon’s is, in fact, an important element in one of my favourite variations on the classic martini, the Vesper.

In any case, gin is – unlike vodka, about which far too much is written (I love vodkas, but really, what’s the secret? The more it’s distilled, the smoother and easier to swallow this flavourless, colourless booze is. Why pay $$$ when you can find good triple-distilled for $?) – worthy of much consideration. We’ll be back at this in the not too distant future.

Thanks to @triaculinary for the impromptu dinner, to @bluemoonwinery for the post-gin wines, and to @islandFEAST and company for good company and the contribution of many useful comments.

Note:
@triaculinary is the twitter handle for Kathy Jerritt at Tria Culinary in the Comox Valley. @bluemoonwinery is the twitter handle for George and Marla of Blue Moon Winery and Natures Way Farms (also in the Comox Valley). @islandFEAST is the twitter handle for Karma Brophy (she’s doing cool food stuff out of Nanaimo).

– 30 –

Remembering July 26 – the Table Champêtre at Tannadice Farms

hanspetermeyer — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 08:15:00 +0000

by hanspetermeyer

It’s mid-August. I’m sitting in my garden, looking through some fotos of the hottest part of the summer, July 26th to be precise. The afternoon and evening of the first on-the-farm Table Champêtre hosted by Tannadice Farms and Chef Ronald St. Pierre and his crew at Locals Restaurant in Courtenay. Here’s a pic of what the site looked like in the heat of the afternoon when we arrived.

I’m not going to talk about what a Table Champêtre is here. I interviewed Chef Ronald several times prior to the event, and he does a great job of describing why he wants to do these events, why they’re important to the local economy, why they’re important from a flavour perspective. These interviews are posted as text on the Locals blog, as an audio interview on my tumblr blog, and as a video on my YouTube channel.

What I am going to talk about is the feelings this event generated. There is an economy around food, but for most of us – and especially with the very low cost of food that we’ve been enjoying for at least a generation or more here in North America – what matters is taste, and all the other sensual pleasures that can be rolled into the taste experience.

I’m a Comox Valley boy. Black Creek actually. A 1930s German-speaking Mennonite community that was, and still is, very agricultural in its sensibility. Our family wasn’t on the farm, but extended family still held hundreds of acres of former Douglas fir forest-cum-farmland. I grew up feeding chickens, ducks, and rabbits on our Miracle Beach Road lot, and threw thousands of hay bales in my pre-teen, teen, and young adult life. Later, marrying into a farm family, I got to do it all over again with my sons. For me this is very cool stuff. I like being part of the food (provisioning) chain.

Stepping out of the car into a hot, scorching hot, recently hayed field was the beginning of a bit of romance for me: the smells, the heat, the vistas – and so much better to be looking forward to a feast, rather than thousands of bales to be thrown on the wagon!

A short walk away, on the crown of a hill overlooking Tannadice Farms (where they raise the best pork I’ve ever tasted, and some pretty fair beef and fowl as well), and out onto the Beaufort Ra nge and Mount Washington, was a large tent. Relief from the sun. Respite for close to 100 gathered there to revel in what the Locals team (and numerous other flavour providers) had to offer.

It was hot. The humidex reading was 36. ¡Muy calor! Diving into a cocktail of Bluemoon Winery Soleil (fruit wine, from apples) with soda, and some delicious ice-cold mouthful oysters from Cortez Island… in the shade of a tent… very refreshing, very “restorative,” as a friend of mine used to say.

Next, many appetizers. I liked the stuffed squash flowers, but most of all, I liked the ribs…mmmmm. Here’s me liking my chops!

After that… more great food from Tannadice Farm and a host of local growers, Vancouver Island wines from the Cowichan Valley, sweets that put the icing on the cake. In the midst of it all, my foodie friend (who is also a dance floor friend) and I shuffled through a rhumba to “Begin the Beguine” played by a jazz trio giving the scene a surreal acoustical beauty.

In the end, my friend was near to tears, she was so moved by the combination of food, setting, music, and people. The moon had risen, the cattle had moved out of whatever shadowy spot they’d been hiding in and, in the cool of the evening were doing what beef does when it’s still on the hoof: eat, chew, reflect on the quality of grass, low a little, go back to chewing.

We walked off the field, out of the purpling sky, and back into the car. I was thinking of how much I’m looking forward to what Chef Ronald and his co-conspirators are going to do next year…

Mid-Life Martini Makeover, Day 4: Competing with the Young and the Beautiful

hanspetermeyer — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 16:20:00 +0000

by hans peter meyer

“How do you do it?” my friend asked after she’d picked me up after Bartending 101 class at fineartbartending.ca.

“Do what?”

“You know,” she said, smiling, “Once again, finding yourself in places where you’re surrounded by beautiful young women.”

It’s true, fineartbartending.ca has put me into a room full of – as my friend put it – “beautiful young women.” (Most of whom are closer to my daughters’ age than my age, so out-of-bounds for this guy.) Nevertheless, it’s one of the attractions of doing this kind of thing: the people who seem to master it – from my experience of sitting at bars and ordering drinks – are confident and outgoing types. Not all of them are women, but lots are. I guess I got lucky with this class?

That little exchange happened late last night, at the end of Day 3 of Bartending 101 at fineartbartending.ca in downtown Vancouver. We’d just been handed the list of “basic” vodka drinks that every self-respecting b-tender needs to know inside out. With the list of basic whisky (and whiskey) drinks on Day 1, the gin list from Day 2, our group of 4 girls + 1 guy were now expected to respond confidently and quickly to orders for about 45 drinks. I left the class feeling
like my brain had been doing some heavy lifting. Not a bad thing for a guy heading into his 50th birthday. Every bit of exercise keeps the body/mind/spirit toned in some way.

But this 3 day x 4 hour mental workout is also showing up in my body: this morning my shoulder, the one I injured in a wee bicycle accident that occasioned an earlier mid-life makeover when I was 38, was hurting in a way it hasn’t in years. What gives?

It’s the constant shaking, not stirring, that does it. Or maybe its the shaking and the stirring? Whatever. I’m using my right arm and shoulder in repetitive ways I haven’t before. Who’d a thunk that a few hours of shaking and stirring would hurt. But it does. Ouch!

So, being a mature and self-caring fellow, I took the ache this morning (no aches from the practical exercises of trying different kinds of Islay Scotch in a “burnt” martini, though there’s a fuzziness behind the eyeballs…) as a sign. Not that I should retire to the other side of the bar, but that I should do what I know works: dutifully get out the exercises that Physio Steve gave me years ago.

And yes, the shoulder does feel better now for having done them. Thanks for asking. Again, a little life-lesson that mid-life (and my father’s sometimes bad example) reminds me of: better to do the maintenance work now, rather than risk the cost of repairs later.

Same with the mental exercise. Somehow I know that memorizing all the 50-60 drinks in this intro to the fine art of bartending is going to keep my brain young and agile. Will I be able to keep up with the veritable kids in class who’re setting speed records for successfully meeting drink orders, or who’ve graduated to fancy pours involving pyramids of glasses and stacked shakers? (I’ve got some great pics, but am tech-challenged right now [my too-smartness when packing left a simple USB cable lying at home – Why would I need that USB cable, I thought. Ahhhh... hubris...] I’ll find a cable hearabouts and put them together for a subsequent post. Stay tuned.)

I doubt I’ll match the current class queens, Michelle and Lindsay (did I spell that right? hey, at least I remember the names – a good sign!). I’m hoping to at least give them a run for the money when it comes to stop-watch time. I do feel my brain expanding, loosening up, flexing itself.

Or maybe that’s the leftover effect of the several after-class martini exercises? I wonder how my friend is feeling, the guy on whom I was practicing my new-found drinkology skills…

– 30 –

Behind the Bar: In Training, Day 1 of a Mid-life Martini Makeover

hanspetermeyer — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 21:57:00 +0000

by hans peter meyer

OK, technically it’s “day 1″ of my mid-summer back-to-school days. But I’m not even in Vancouver yet. Hey, I’m not even off Vancouver Island!

Major post-BC-Day lineups at BC Ferries and I’m sitting in the new tourist/consumer flytrap in Departure Bay. Mediocre [major chain] coffee and bagel, but a fairly decent place to hang out.

I’ll be rolling into my temporary West End digs just after noon, in time for a quick nap before heading down for the first session of Bartending 101 at www.fineartbartending.ca in downtown YVR.

I’m pretty excited about this. I’ve been mixing martinis since a girlfriend showed me how to handle a Boston shaker and few ounces of vodka about 8 years ago. In recent years I’ve picked up the “happy hour” torch from another friend, and turned the little duplex on the banks of Rio Willemar into a cocktail bar.

Now I’m about the go “pro.” Do some mixological knowledge transfer. Start pitching for work.

The reasons for this mid-life martini makeover are manifold. As a writer and photographer, income streams with trad clients have almost dried up in the wake of Market Meltdown ’08. The cash from a few hours of bar tending per week will help feed the cats.

More than beverage-induced cash flow, however, this back-to-school thing is about getting involved in the food & bev industry in a professional way. Yes indeed: yours truly gets to fulfill his dreams of being a spiritual counselor (job/career profiling in my 20s warned me I’d be a great minister – I just hadn’t imagined that I’d be ministering mixes and dispensing wisdom on liquid spirits). That’s cool. But to get an inside view, a perspective from behind the bar, that’s what’s really cool.

I imagine myself artfully arranging liquid measures, dispensing spiritual proofs for the necessary existence of bitters and lemon peel and olives and rose-petal flavoured gins, etc. I’ll be listening to stories, telling a few of my own, getting to know folks – all of it grist for the writing and foto machine that I am. Yes, this is the image that really primes my pump right now.

But that’s down the road a bit. In the meantime I’m enjoying the frisson of trying something new, of plunging into a new discipline. (It’s also a way of being a good dad: showing my kids that it’s never too late to learn something new, that it’s worth stepping out of whatever particular box I’ve created for myself. And being dad is what really animates this middle-aged man – turning 50 inside of a dozen days! I’m just starting to write about what ‘being dad’ means to me here.)

Back to the bar: I’ll be posting on my experience with Ryan and the crew at fineart.ca over the next couple of weeks at this web address. Watch it for my impressions and for a few nuggets on dispensing spiritual insights. Until the next post… Salut! Prosit! Cheers!

– 30 –

First Thoughts on Dinner Parties: Part I

hanspetermeyer — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 05:23:00 +0000

by hans peter meyer

I host or am otherwise involved a lot of dinner parties. There’s something about making food, shaking the cocktail shaker, and sharing it all with friends and family that pretty much encompasses all the best things about this life I live. Over the years, and especially as my kids have grown into my dinner and cocktail scene, I’ve been thinking about some of the basics that elevate a food-centred gathering to something more than chowing down. This is the first in a series of ‘first thoughts.’ To you they may be home truths; or they may be prickly examples of my fussy nature. But, as someone once said to me, ‘It’s not that I’m fussy; I just know what I like.’ Here’s some of what I like about dinner parties.

Thought 1: Getting dressed for dinner

A dinner invitation is always, always an invitation to dress well: not only is it the invitees’ opportunity to add to the beauty of the event; it also shows respect for the host/hostess.

But how to dress? Better to be over-dressed rather than under-dressed, and that includes dressing ‘up’ as well as ‘covering skin.’ I enjoy a revealing outfit, and there are many situations in which the advertising of flesh and sexy-ness is appropriate and desirable. Cocktail parties. Dances. A tête-à-tête between lovers or prospective lovers. A dinner party, however, is about conversation. Too much cleavage addles most men’s minds to the point of impairing conversational abilities.

A rule of thumb: Girls & women, if you want men to have intelligent conversations with you, don’t make a billboard of whatever physical attributes you possess. Most of us guys are intensely visual creatures. It is amazing, as the old saying goes, how a couple of breasts can turn us men into such boobies. They don’t call it the ‘boob tube’ for nothing. It takes most of us men considerable effort to rise above such easy temptations.

If you do insist on advertising yourself, consider that such distractions can and will have an effect on your male guests’ conversational capacities. I don’t think dinner parties should be about this kind of effort. We work hard enough the rest of the week. Give us a break. Level the playing field so we can engage each other’s mental and emotional intelligences. Dinner parties are an opportunity to get to know one another through conversation. Any subsequent engagement of sexual intelligences may be blessed as a coming together of minds and bodies that know a little more about each other than pheromones or billboards might have advertised.

As for the men & boys at the table: before we encounter the challenge of our own weaknesses in a woman’s décolletage, we must express our intention to show respect for our host and hostess and other guests. This means “making an effort.” Wear a nice shirt. Got cufflinks? A nice tie? Now’s the perfect time to wear them. Pull on a clean, pressed pair of pants. Wash your hands and clean your nails. When the doorbell is answered and the hostess shows you inside, hang up the hat and shades.

You are now ready to engage the party on the terms of a more conscious and ‘bigger’ self than you usually exercise. This is a good thing. If a woman insists on drawing attention to her décolletage, you can draw on this bigger self to go beyond instinctual, mammary-driven behaviours. You will look her in the eyes whilst presenting her with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. (Later, even when you’re not talking to her, you will resist the temptation to stare, to dip into the candy jar of male foibles/female temptations and you will know yourself to be a better, more conscious man for not succumbing.) Even later, when you may be exchanging sexual intelligence, you may even remember some of the perceptive and witty things she said. The icing on the cake. An icing that will prove to be the real meat and potatoes of the deal if you’ve been paying attention to who you are and who she is, something hard to do when you’re sorting out your own responses to the truth/lies of advertising…

None of this is easy in a culture that oozes cheap, de-personalized sexuality. I want to say that dinner parties are a civilized redoubt in the culture, but that’s not right either. It isn’t about ‘civilization’ so much as consciousness: do I as a man choose to be flung hither and thither by my short-circuited sexual intelligence (or lack thereof)? Or do I remember what I’ve learned about my sexuality: that I honour myself – and the woman I’m attracted to or engaged with – by knowing who I am and why I am attracted. Engaging as a fully sexual being is an expression of my spiritual being. Not something I take lightly (though I’m not immune to short term, short-circuited thinking/acting either). In fact, it’s because I’m not immune that I struggle to be conscious of what I’m doing, and who I’m doing it with.

Dinner parties are a place for me to make conscious choices. Conversation, where the advertising of sexuality is muted (never turned off, just turned down) allows me to do some preparatory exploration before plunging into the great unknown of a woman’s sexuality. How did Leonard Cohen say it? “It is where you move into uncharted territory….The rest is just reinforcing wisdom or folly that you have inherited. But nobody can prepare anybody for an encounter with the opposite sex….”

Next installment: Hostess gifts, cleaning up after yourself, and being a ‘good enough’ guest that you’ll be invited out to dinner again.

– 30 —

©hanspetermeyer.ca / 2009

Playing With a Four-letter Word Starting With “F”

hanspetermeyer — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 21:40:24 +0000

by hans peter meyer

There is a four-letter word beginning with “f” that stands at the heart of most of my intimate relationships. For me, this “f-word” signifies something through which I express deep love and affection with people I am very close to. At the same time, I also use it to develop and cultivate warmth with people I hardly know. I am, in fact, infatuated with this thing, and all the activity that surrounds it. Cultivation. Imagination. Preparation. Consummation. Even the clean up afterwards. All of it, such sweet bliss…

I am of course talking about “food.” With food I express love and affection. With food I create situations where tongues are relaxed and souls are warmed. With food I try to engage people I hardly know, loosening the protective shells with which most of us (me too!) clothe ourselves as we navigate the emotional shoals of this life.

I’m not saying anything new, just elaborating on the truism that sharing food brings people closer together. Like so many other things that improve with practice and attentiveness, the more I do it, the more I appreciate it. And the more my intimates — from family and friends, to colleagues and prospective dance partners — appreciate it.

I am sure that my affinity for food, the orality and the sociability of it, was initiated at my mother’s breast. As a child I gorged and blossomed into a delightful, laughing cherub. For me, the equation of laughter, emotional well-being, a full belly, and something in my mouth all came together at this tender age. How lucky for me! To understand this simple formula for happiness! And, how lucky for any woman who has had the patience and the will to nurture me, to indulge me, to give me succour. For I am endowed with a voracious palate, and will produce food and celebrate food and introduce food into many and varied situations. Every day offers many, many opportunities for the moveable feast that expands in my imagination.

And maybe this is where I am a little different from many others: Where they may understand the importance of nourishment, and appreciate the subtle form of power that is wielded by the man or woman at the skillet, not to mention the henchmen and women who set the table and clear up the dishes, few of us really, really feel drawn to putting food and love together in a way that is the knitting and perling of relationship. Gourmet magazines and cooking classes thrive. But who is cooking for love? Or, perhaps the better question is, in the absence of love, who really wants to cook?

Another truism: We live in a culture of fast food. We also live in a culture of “fast” emotion, “fast” sexuality. In my mind, there is a connection. A quote from the recently-deceased Paul Newman, in answer to why he stayed married when the enchantments of infidelity romped ‘round him: “Why eat hamburger when I’ve got steak at home?”

This is, indeed, the challenge of my generation. We absorbed the message of CSN&Y and applied it to all things. “If you can’t be with the [dinner] you love, love the [dinner — or facsimile thereof] you’re with.” This dinner delivered to our car windows by the food industry’s graceless equivalent of a procurer. I am — and I’m not too proud to say it — a regular “John” for the food industry’s procurers. It fills a basic need. But it doesn’t give me the peak experience of laughter, release, warmth, conviviality that I desire and consciously strive to create when I am cooking for the ones I love. Or, when I go out to dine.

Indeed, the “dining experience” is a profound attempt by a valiant team of often volatile individuals to create, in a commercial setting, the approximation of what it means to prepare and consummate food with loved ones. On Saturday I enjoyed such a climactic experience. In Qualicum Beach, no less. A bit of a surprise too: QB is not known as redoubt for sensualism.

When I sup with friends, family, or lovers, I am opening up not only my mouth to receive quantities of food, but I hope I am opening up my ears and heart to take in the fullness of their spiritual being. I am preparing myself to laugh, to cry, to sit quietly and let the flavours of our conversation saturate my being. Which is why I don’t mind paying a premium for those places that work hard to provide me this gourmand’s experience of food and spirit. Another truism: A good restaurant is not just about the food; it is as much about the constellation of décor, service, presentation, ambience, not to mention the particular astrological conditions for the harvesting of produce and the lunar cycles of the dining participants that determines the ultimate experience.

Any of these factors can raise the mundane to the extraordinary. There are times when the quality of the relating can redeem even hamburger, because every relationship has it’s redemptive quality. With my father, I regularly redeem a horrible luncheon of hamburger and onion rings by laughing and conversing in German; with one of my intimates, every meal was elevated to the sublime simply because we took a moment to silently thank the universe for the blessing of our union; with my children, dinner becomes a celebration of what family can be for me just in the asking of ritual questions (Who’s laying the table? Who’s cleaning up afterwards? What would you do differently?) and marvelling at the beauty of their being in my life. There are many, varied paths to redemption in the gastronomic theology.

Sometimes the path is, simply, sharing food — especially when sharing of anything is risky. And so it is that I was recently reminded how powerful this little act of sociability can be. Not by a close encounter over eggs and toast, but a rebuff to my suggestion of mixing a light lunch with business. “No,” said my one-time associate, firmly. “That’s not possible: that would mean we were sharing a meal.”

And so it turns. Through the sharing of food I become close to people, I knit my relationships tightly or loosely through the conversation and the silences over a plate of pasta, a bowl of olives and feta, a handful of nuts, or a noodle omelette. I use the food as a lubricant, to ease tensions and let blood and conversation flow. I practice my culinary skills like a devoted lover, wooing my friends and family, creating warm and relaxed places in which to unfold. And, like any practice, the real learning comes when what I know no longer works, when no amount of lubrication opens the orifices of soulful connection. Then, it’s time to rethink the practice and the recipes, and —a good time to play with my food.

– 30 –

©hanspetermeyer.ca / 2008

Always a Pleasure at the Atlas Cafe

hanspetermeyer — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 23:08:04 +0000

(originally published in EAT Magazine November-December 2007, www.eatmagazine.ca)

by hans peter meyer

Chef Trent McIntyre and his partner Sandra Viney have created an institution in the region. The tone (decor, attitude, food) is trendy yet comfortable. The service has always been exemplary. And the food…

My friend and I started with caipirihnas. I’ve been on local bartenders to jump on the cachaca wagon for months now, ever since I stopped in at Maria Fu’s in Buenos Aires and was smitten with this, the “national drink” of Brazil. As we walked in the door, Tory the bartender waived the bottle of cachaca at me and started to prepare the potent potion… We had two. ¡Muy bueno!

For our meal, we stuck almost entirely to the fresh sheet. Our appetizers reflected the Atlas approach to cuisine: the sweet and salty astringency of Asia in the inari pocket, the melt-in-your mouth succulence of the Italian-influenced duck breast salad. With the world as its resource if not on its shoulders, Atlas is a new world laboratory transforming the tastes of the old world..

My friend chose lamb, dressed in rosemary and mustard. The mustard and rosemary were minor flavours. Indeed, it was the deep, brown sauce that held her attention. A “jus marapois,” we were told, made from a host of relatively ordinary vegetables — and including orange and caraway. “Deep, very deep,” she said. “Rich and tangy, with a bit of an edge.”

Ever since my visit to faraway Buenos Aires I’ve been taking more notice of my beef. I decided to continue my research with a 10oz ribeye with a healthy dressing of chantrelles. One of the interesting things a local rancher pointed out to me is that the tougher cuts are generally more flavourful. Yet the focus is so often on the tenderness of the meat. I’ve still got my teeth, and I’d rather have a mouthful of flavour that I had to gnaw on, then something bland but melting in my mouth. This time I got lucky: lots of flavour, and tender too. The rich balsamic, champignon-flavoured sauce didn’t hurt. Rare. Excellent.

Both our plates featured an arrangement of the day’s vegetables that had each of us turning our plates, looking for an entry point, a way into the beautifully arranged palate of colours and flavours. Shredded beet. Chinese greens al dente. A bit of roasted squash.

Our hostess suggested a thoroughly enjoyable Pirramima Cab Sauv (Australian, 2000). We let it breathe while we quaffed our full Brazilians times two. And then we plunged into its soft, richness. Yes, it was a cab sauv, but a tender one with lots of ripe, fruity depth. An excellent choice. Gracias Connie!

Then we lingered. I ordered a scotch, an 18 year old glenmorangie. My first from the “bay of tranquility,” I quickly realized what a treasure I’d found.

For dessert my date enjoyed, but couldn’t finish the “pecan stack” — an elaborate and delicious tower of pecan meringue alternating with local vanilla ice cream and chocolate. I chose the creme brulee: a lovely vanilla variation with a layer of crispy banana slices. I managed my dessert with the help of a coffee or two. Maybe it was the capuccino that put her over the top, but my friend couldn’t conquer the pecan stack, even with my bit of help.

Cost of our meal, including cocktails, full bottle of wine, and post dinner whisky (but not gratuity) was a very reasonable at approximately $170.

The Atlas Cafe at 250-6th Street, Courtenay.

– 30 –

The Great Escape – modern Indian food tucked into the foothills of the Comox Valley

hanspetermeyer — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 22:44:48 +0000

(originally published in EAT Magazine, May-June 2008, www.eatmagazine.ca)

by hans peter meyer

Driving into Cumberland, just off the Inland Highway, it’s easy to see why old nickname of “Dodge City” still has currency. On reaching the restaurant, however, the faded frontier town is left behind as one steps into yet another aspect of the cultural phenomenon that is transforming this former mining boom town. Chef Nicola Cuhna and her partner in The Great Escape, Jean-Francois Larche, are symptomatic of what is happening here. Young, talented, entrepreneurial, and visionary they are helping to shift the cultural centre of the Comox Valley. Others are doing it with music. Chef Nicola and Jean-Francois are doing it with food.

Raised on her mother’s cuisine, Chef Nicola draws her inspiration from the cooking of Gujarat (Northwestern India), Karnataka(Southwest), and Goa. This is lighter fare than the Punjabi and Bengali-based cuisine I usually associate with Indian food. She also pays homage to the modernizing influence of Vancouver’s Vij. This is evident in the lightness and the combination of flavours and colours that make eating at The Great Escape such a treat.

My dinner date and I started with the two recommended cocktails – a Lychee martini that was sweet and smooth, and a rum-based Spicy Mango drink that was substantial, warm, and spicy. These were accompanied by several appetizers. First, intense little chicken samosas served with in-house plum chutney. “The best chutney I’ve ever had,” opined my friend, somewhat of a chutney fiend. We also enjoyed the Papadam Cigars, a kind of “Indian spring roll” served with tamarind chutney, and Masala Wadas, subtley flavoured lentil patties served with in-house organic pumpkin chutney. These were accompanied by Chef Nicola’s special variation on naan – a moist flat bread rich with flavour.

The drinks and the appetizers were an indication of all that was to follow: richness of variety, subtley of texture and flavour, layers of flavour, all of it a light collage of sensation that was delightful without being overwhelming.

For our main courses we sampled several dishes. The smoked local lingcod cakes in a fenugreek-fennel curry offered a mild blend of flavours layered above the delicate smokiness of the fish. The Pathrade presented us with a Gujarati specialty of spinach, ground rice, and lentils, steamed and sliced, served in a clinging cocount-tamarind curry. Because I don’t know when to stop, I had to have the pork vandaloo. This time with the flavours of Goa: cinnamon, clove, ginger, and chilies. Very tasty, but a little over the top, given what else we’d been tucking into and enjoying.

Pairing wine with Indian food is generally a challenge, given the heavy, hot, and spicy nature of much Indian cuisine. At The Great Escape, however, we experienced the happy marriage of a lighter, “modern” Indian cuisine as prepared by Chef Nicola – and Jean-Franciose’s devotion to wine. He suggested a half litre of Domain de la Grand ‘Ribe Organic Cotes du Rhone 2004. This blend of syrah and grenache from old vines with it’s own smokey, spicy flavours complemented meal.

For dessert we shared the cardomom studded marshmallow – a bouyant and chewy concotion – and the chocolate pate drizzled with red wine and pear sauce. Both very nice ways to ice the cake.

A note on portions: When The Great Escape opened several years ago some patrons were unhappy with portion sizes. The owners paid heed, and increased portions. They also noticed an increase in take-home boxes for leftovers. They remain committed to “healthy” serving sizes, enjoyment of the meal, with room for a variety of different flavours. For my part, I was satisfied, and I had a bit of take-home as well. Enough for a light lunch the next day, with pleasant memories.

Cost of meal, including beverages but not including gratuity, was just over $100.

www.greatescape-cumberland.com/

– 30 –

The Best Things Happen When I’m Dancing…

hanspetermeyer — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 20:34:52 +0000

(originally published in The Island Word, September 2008)

by hans peter meyer

“The best things happen when you’re dancing.”

Irving Berlin, as sung and danced by Danny Kaye & Vera Allen, White Christmas

I love to dance. Why? The best things in my life so far have happened because I was dancing.

In high school I shuffled around, dumbly, gropingly during dances. Later, I dabbled in modern dance and weirded my kids out by donning tights and painting my face and body white, practicing at butoh, a meditative Japanese dance form. I’ve resisted disco and techno; then succumbed to their hypnotic beats. I’ve done my share of free form, part of the shuffling, swaying mass in countless bars, music festivals, and community centre dances. But my passion for dance really awakened when I discovered partner dancing.

I’m not alone. There are millions of us who’ve been swept off our feet in the current global latin and ballroom dance fever. My candle of desire was lit about a dozen years ago. The music at the party was from Brazil, bossa nova. I wanted to move. But I stood, impotent, confounded by the lovely, intoxicating rhumba beat. I watched an acquaintance move his partner beautifully, passionately, effortlessly around the dance floor. And I knew: that is what I have to do.

Eight years ago the woman of my dreams was the dance partner of my dreams. We courted through dance workshops. Moved by the ambient music while shopping, we danced in boutiques. Driving our Brady Bunch down the road we’d be overtaken by a song on the stereo. We’d pull over and jump out and shake our hips on the roadside, horrifying our kids.

So began my apprenticeship into one of the finer, deeper arts of being fully alive as man: how to move with my partner with intention and care; how to guide her so that she unfolds, blossoms, and becomes — if only for the 3-4 minutes of the dance — the embodiment of beauty and grace.

Heady stuff. And when it happens, it is heady. One of the best feelings I know. But, like many good things, the path to terpsichorean enlightenment (ie, the peak experience of dancing) is one of patience, persistence, and practica, practica, practica…

Everywhere I go, I see that I’m not alone. I feel the heat of the global fever in people I meet from around the world, passionate in their pursuit of partner dancing. Salsa. Tango. Waltz. People want to move, together. To create dyadic patterns against the rich background of the amazing flood of music that is washing over the planet. Very cool.

I certainly benefit — from dancing, and from the wealth of dance instruction and opportunities in my town. Dancing has introduced me to the women in my life (I’d known my mother before I danced with her; I try to make up for this faux pas by dancing with her whenever I have the opportunity). Most recently, as I navigate yet another change in my life, I’ve been intently learning & practicing foxtrot and waltz, rhumba and cha cha. I’ve travelled to Buenos Aires to study tango. I’m making plans to study salsa and rhumba in la Habana. And I’m practicing practicing practicing several nights a week.

For an hour or five, dancing helps me slip out of my thoughts and worries. I deepen my art, and I exercise my body and my soul. My face smiles. I see my dance partners engaged (always), happy and warm (usually), enchanted (sometimes). We laugh. As I learn to lead, her trust in me builds. Together we create a beautiful, almost mystical place.

My observations and experiences suggest that dancing may be one of the best ways for men and women to be together, to appreciate each other.

On the dance floor I exercise my abilities to be directive, assertive, etc AND protective, creative, and emotionally tuned as I lead. If I do my job with integrity and soul, my partner feels secure and responds with confidence, grace, and passion. Partner dancing is one of those wonderful places where the typically “masculine” qualities mesh beautifully with the typically “feminine.” The result, for me, is pure pleasure.

Getting to this place hasn’t taken particularly long. But it’s required persistence. The learning curve for most of us guys is steep: we have to lead, to feel the music, to think about our moves and where we’re going, often while our partners are — with good intention but generally poor results — telling us what to do. I have been blessed on my learning curve: I started with a very sympatico partner, and benefit from excellent teachers.

After my family, I live to dance. And I’m lucky. Because in the mid-Island/Comox Valley area we have a surfeit of dance classes, workshops, and venues.

My faves? Valdance.com offers classes four nights a week and a Friday night workshop and social dance in Courtenay. Vancouverislandtango.com has classes and practicas in Argentine tango in Royston and Cobble Hill. KHDancin provide a variety of classes and events in the Campbell River-Comox Valley region (khdancin@shaw.ca FMI). To the south, there’s Wanna Dance (http://membe rs.shaw.ca/wannadance/Events.html) in the Nanaimo area.

Tango y Buenos Aires: Un Proyecto Personal… (Pt 2) (hanspetermeyer.blogspot.com)
hpm’s Buenos Aires / Argentine Tango Project: Primero Paso… (hanspetermeyer.blogspot.com)