The first pulsing resonance each day at Edmonton Folk Fest fills the air in front of the main stage with a time-honoured clack-a-lack-clack of hammers knocking in tarp-pegs. A raffle system gives those fortunate enough to be drawn the opportunity to claim a prime location, and patrons line up in droves in hopes of being the first to receive a ticket. Tent pegs in hand, the eager shuffle quick as they can toward the out-of-season ski hill that acts as grandstand -- running was banned a few years ago due to over-eagers spilling spectacularly down the hill.

I some-crazy-how found a way to tear my eyes away from both the blistering action from one of the more epic afternoon jam sessions on stage six (Vieux Farka Touré and Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni Ba) and the omni-alluring Muttart Conservatory pyramids to note that many volunteers were clamouring into a large tent set up outside of the festival grounds. I had heard rumours circulating that all the volunteers were getting fed like Medieval dukes and I swore to find out if 'twere true.

While waiting for confirmation of my kitchen appointment, fate decided I should slake my pre-appetite by heading over to CORNSTARS, an establishment serving huge onion blossoms de-cored straight out of their oil bath, filling the now-gaping center with a dipping sauce made from horseradish, cayenne peppers, sour cream, chili peppers and Srirachi. Unfortunately, I hoovered the entire unclenched, deep-fried onion into my face, and within twenty seconds of my last bite the media tent called me over to my kitchen interview. Rushing off with thoughts of another potential meal, I willed myself to digest diligently.

I met my guides at the media tent and, heading out in a private golf cart, was able to unearth the extent of Dukedom offered to the volunteers: not just fed while on the job, all volunteers are free to enter on days when they do not work and continue to reap the benefits of the massive meals. One of the volunteers quips, "The food is why some of us volunteer in the first place."

My guides are introduced to me as none other than Glenda Dennis and Elisa Zenari, a mother-daughter force at the festival. These ladies are busily organizing staff and station, given the modest title of 'kitchen assistants', taking a brief break enough to show me around the tent at the tail end of peak hours. Glenda herself has been working in the festival since 1998, but not always in the kitchen: she initially sold and coordinated all the advertising in the program book. Working the kitchen first in 2008, Elisa took over in 2009 following several administration positions these last seven years, and now both work the 'kitchen assistant' title together.

The ladies began their operations mid-July to give themselves ample time to set up one of the largest mobile kitchens in all of North America. For these first few weeks, they can expect to feed anywhere from 60-150 staff out of a small trailer, a miniscule side kitchen that lasts the duration of the time it takes to spread out and paint the oriented strand board floor, construct the walkways, and erect the 7000 square foot tent. This amount of tent space may seem massive, but traffic per meal could be anywhere up to 2100 volunteers, which turns out to be approximately three square feet per volunteer (excluding the space allotted to necessary kitchen equipment). With two of eight large ovens given to dessert duty, as well as operating all of the other equipment, beverages and a serving area, there is not much room for a planning error. Four large trucks, two of which are refrigerated, hold all of the cooking supplies. A 'Commissary Crew' cart these products back and forth when needed and they are only a small section of the volunteers involved in the kitchen, jostling for space among groups designated for Beverages, Desserts, Main Courses, Platters, Serving Line (which includes a take-out crew for those unable to squeeze in a regular dinner time), and finally Salad.

"It is not uncommon to see fifteen tubs of salad ready for the serving line," says Glenda.

Festival Food

These women cannot laud their volunteers enough, for they are a responsive bunch that do not take these meal privileges for granted. Elisa relates a tale from two years ago: during a freezer crisis in one of the storage trucks, the volunteers were among the first to assist the transfer of food before spoilage set in.

"They were just like worker bees, helping out with no questions asked."

They inform me that they feed these helpers two meals per day, failing initially to mention that the meal times are 11am-2pm for lunch and 5pm-8pm for dinner; including time for preparation, these are long, arduous days. Stephane Levesque has commanded the 'kitchen manager-cum-chef' position these last two years and his menus are superb: I ate a plate stacked with two salads (Daikon slaw and noodle salad with a lime-chili vinaigrette), Basmati rice, cauliflower, peas, turnips, and a roasted chipotle chicken, flavoured with smoked paprika. Each dinner includes a round of dessert but, much to my chagrin, I could not possibly eat his sticky toffee pudding cake on top everything else I'd downed. Every meal included a vegetarian option (a beet/walnut loaf during my visit), with varying local meats and sides that appeal to a wide range of taste; I wish I had been asked for access on the day of the red curry chicken pineapple pot pie.

Glenda and Elisa have made notable strides to be environmentally aware: not only is the water sponsor Earth Water (a company that siphons all its profits into the United Nations World Food Programme to provide clean water to thousands), but the Festival also aims to minimize its waste as much as humanly possible, a heavy task when faced with a crowd exceeding 100 000 over five days. All volunteer staff bring their own containers for the drink station, as the use of recyclable plastic cups is reserved for guests and artists, and the entire festival is compost conscious: all cutlery, drinking cups and disposable items were completely compostable, with zealous volunteers backing it up. I once threw out a fork and, much to my surprise, a volunteer whipped his head around and lightly admonished me.

"No man! We're composting everything this year." Plucking the fork from the garbage, placing it in the proper receptacle, "Here, let me scrape off your plate so you can go get your deposit."

Folky Food For Folky Folks

Any vendor vying to participate at the festival must agree to its eco-plating policy, purchasing reusable plates for $2. The plate-cycle completely reimburses the vendor, as they charge each patron an extra $2 at the point of purchase, who in turn receive their deposit with a clean plate from a washing station. Thus, no paper plates were harmed in the entirety of the Folk Fest. This system amusingly spawns a clan of children that take up the business of collecting plates for profit, referred to earnestly as plate-urchins. I overheard one tenacious boy bragging that he had made $104, which means he somehow convinced 52 people that they were too lazy to collect their $2.

Surrounding the plate tent on all sides were independent food vendors, part of a caravan of tents that yawned around the back end of stage one. While traditional carnival confectioneries were sold, there were many unique, reasonably priced food vendors that deserve mention:

The INDIA PALACE RESTAURANT served delicious Chicken Bhuna and Butter Chicken, always with steaming hot naan bread atop the dish, but an Indian performer explicitly mentioned that his culture had more to offer than these few popularized dishes which caused me slight Western guilt.

IRIE FOOD served a wonderful Jerk chicken, whose thick sauce ran through the black bean rice, well-basted chicken falling off the bone having been gently nursed by my incisors.

HOMEFIRE GRILL boasts a contemporary-Canadiana Native-style fusion menu which served Bison (yes, the Woolly Sovereign of its majestic plains) in the form of a burger that made the entire lineup salivate instantly -- a dollop Saskatoon berry relish on top (a berry they also use in tarts) adding moisture to a slightly drier meat. Also on the menu: a savoury, caramelized pulled chicken sandwich.

THE TASTE OF MONGOLIA, while actually serving several dishes, forewent their name and stamped "Green Onion Cake" atop their tent, a dish called "our local love" by Elisa. This popular, inexpensive snack laced with green onions has a soft, denser-than-naan exterior and the customer has three options of sauce:
- soya sauce, for fans of salty and moist
- sour cream, as a smoother accent
- Sriracha hot sauce, adding a latent tickle
I found the hot sauce was not enough of bolster on its own, preferring a combination of all three, using of all three corners of the triangular bread as spades to dig into the separate flavours, biting off each corner in a single mouthful.

This "local love" certainly underscores the entire Festival, transcending the boundaries of their favourite snack. 2400 volunteers concerned with local events and taking care of their environment valorizes the massive effort that ensured every attendee left satiated. Although in hindsight I wish I had unlimited access to Stephen's menus, the fare offered were hand picked as local businesses, blunting any attempt at a corporate presence -- a gleeful departure from GTA events. Glenda and Elisa have given up more than a month of their summer, dedicating themselves to the organization of the kitchen, a commitment that both women undertake ardently; without them and their crews, the festival would have many mouths to feed without the proper provisions.

Thanking the women, I let them get back to their duties as I waddled back toward the main stage, tottering with an overblown stomach, but with a smile emanating from every surface of my body.

photos by Madd Hattere

It’s four o’clock in the morning in Montreal at a dive restaurant down the street from a student residence, where you go for the most drunken drunk food of your life.

They're closed, but someone's in there, so a woman starts to bang on the door with six of her friends until they let them in. She demands a pizza, but they remain unswayed: "We're not doing it, we're closed."

"Well I'll do it"

A blur of speed causes them to blink, and now the owners can only account for five girls in front of them -- as they look back to the kitchen, the ringleader has already begun gathering ingredients to make pizzas.

Exasperated, they plea: "You have to take this to go!"

She’s laid back, speaking with a slight slur: "Totally fine man, don't worry about it."

She finishes and even pays for the pizzas, receiving one order free because the owners take a picture with all the girls in the pizza kitchen. The group, now endowed with pizza, walks back home and sits at her home until 6:40 in the morning bawling, for this is her last night in Montreal.

“…and that's not the first time I've been known to make my own pizza at a pizza joint in Montreal. There have been a few... instances...”

This rogue late-night chef is Amanda Garbutt. The Ottawa resident moved to Montreal for schooling in Sociology, but has since completely shifted priorities due to the media force that is her friend.

After growing up in Toronto, April Engelberg was granted internships for CNN in New York and Al Jazeera in Washington after becoming involved with TV McGill; the idea of becoming an official cooking personality would have never occurred to Amanda without April’s background in television. When initially approached with the idea of hosting a cooking show, Amanda's first response was real surprise.

APRIL: "Basically, in second year when everyone moved out of residence, people would tell me they went to Amanda's and instead of going for dinner she made, she actually taught them how to make dinner and they made it together. Then I went over one time and it kind of dawned upon me that I should do the show. Then Amanda laughed really hard for a while, and I had to assure her I was serious."

AMANDA: "It took her a year to convince me."

APRIL: "I started second year, and at the beginning of third year she was still saying 'Yeah, maybe,' and I had to tell her 'I am totally, totally serious,' because she had never done any TV before."

AMANDA: "My first day on camera was the first day of shooting for the Hot Plate. My family isn't even a camera family, so literally no video camera has ever seen my body until this."

Now that the camera has shifted focus to Toronto, the ladies are looking to continue expanding their market. The proud recipients of the Dobson Cup, Amanda and April have decided upon a full commitment to the show.

AMANDA: "Originally when I was moving to Toronto it was to be in the same city as April, so we could pursue the Hot Plate on the side. I had arranged this whole marketing job, I had everything lined up and I said to April: 'You know that if we really want to do the Hot Plate I can't take this job.' She left me alone to think for a few days and then I called her to tell her I quit the job.

[April was thrilled]: "Yeah you did!"

The Dobson Cup is an award given to budding entrepreneurs. Looking at the competition for the Hot Plate, the closest runners-up seem intense: WOODSTREAM, a company that makes their own wood-plastic composites as an alternative to mainstream oil-based plastics, and BestSPEC, integrating robots into the inspection and maintenance of wood turbines. Up against extremely business-oriented competition, the Hot Plate found themselves at the top of the podium with their own plans of expansion.

APRIL: "A lot of people ask us 'Oh, so do you want to be on TV?' Basically, we're really happy with the way everything has gone, and we owe a lot to fans on Facebook and YouTube for how well we've done so far. Our goal for the next year is to keep it as a web series, to put out 25-30 episodes in the year, provide a video for each episode that profiles a recipe in the upcoming book that show our audience how to [prepare the recipes], then maybe reevaluate our position from there."

Their upcoming cookbook will transcend the static pages of print-only publication; no longer confined to the old, yellowed pages of your grandmother’s cake book, the Hot Plate fully supports online supplements. Amanda actually taught herself how to improve her knife strokes watching videos on YouTube.

AMANDA: "The new website coming out is a lot more streamlined for people to go get video tips. The glossary of the cookbook is going to be supported virally with 10-15 second video clips. What's going to separate this cookbook from other cookbooks is that we're trying to support the digital age; new cookbooks should have supporting features online for free."

Although currently tackling twelve-hour editing days, before getting into cookbook production April and Amanda became more involved in the Montreal community: after an article from the Montreal Gazette drew the attention of the Loblaw’s Cooking School in Montreal, Amanda taught four classes there between April and May, and while the Loblaw’s classes attract middle-aged women for the most part, a few younger pupils were starting to tiptoe in. After the classes were done, Amanda kept in contact with some of these older women over Facebook, which allows her to continue to coach her followers.

AMANDA: "We want to offer lots of details on how to properly use the book [and website], and how to use the leftovers from the recipes. They're all written for a family of four, but if one person wants to make the full recipe there are tips on how to freeze, save or turn it into an entirely new dish."

The focus of the Hot Plate has become increasingly more interactive: April runs the Facebook and Twitter accounts and offers prizes, such as Amanda’s cookies, in contests for those willing to try their hand at creating picturesque dishes. She’s recently received video entries as well, but my personal favourite is a zealous entry for their Ultimate Egg Competition. A fan plated a portrait of himself with a ham face, mushroom nose, scrambled egg hair and a tangerine smile, and for the eyes: avocado sclera, hard boiled egg iris, blueberry pupils.

The encouragement for ingenuity in these online contests gives viewers an outlet to hone their hands-on cooking beyond the basics of their every day routine. Amanda wants an audience that responds well to new ingredients, and can take her initial instruction to create something new and different.

AMANDA: "Your beginning recipes are your safety net, they're your guideline. [I want people to] get comfortable with them and then push themselves, try new things, experiment, it doesn't matter. You're in here to watch me make this recipe, and I am going to make a version of this recipe, but I'm never going to take a teaspoon measure out. I'll work with a new ingredient and want to know more about it -- I might know how to cook certain things but I'll want to know where the ingredients come from, what happens to them while they cook, and some of the chemistry behind it. While I continuously learn more about food, I have by no means an authoritative stance on everything. I just like to impart what I've learned onto other people."

In the upcoming cookbook, a certain portion of recipes have been chosen to appeal to everyone's dietary needs, such as vegetarian, vegan, or Kosher -- meat and cheese aren't always combined, as much as Amanda may want that to be the case.

AMANDA: "Bacon isn't wrapped around... cereal. We are making a book accessible to everybody's palate. You don't want to exclude anybody, but for some of the recipes I literally have to have a comment at the bottom to say: 'You can leave out the bacon, but you don't have to, and I wouldn't suggest it.' Bacon and I are kindred spirits. When I come back in another life, it will be as bacon."

MADD: "It'll be a short life"

AMANDA: "Yeah, but it'll be tasty."

I've finally met a carnivore after my own heart, one that selects a short-lived reincarnation in the name of a single bacon strip rather than redo the whole human fiasco. Make sure to peruse the Hot Plate, which April and Amanda will continue to spread throughout Toronto. Not only do they support the growth of BYOB restaurants in Toronto (everyone should), but they have recently been adding local guests to their repertoire -- winning their next contest could be your chance to get into the kitchen with Amanda, keep an eye on their Facebook page for all the details. And stream one of their new episodes below for the lowdown on some serious peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies.

Comments

• July 19, 2010, Emily writes: This looks like such a cool venture! It's a great article Ted!

Sharing in the Chicken of Knowledge Past was evidently not enough to satiate me. But it was cognitively far too much: the digestion has dislodged my primary processing and severely damaged my biological rhythms. I lay flummoxed at the side of the road, watching the traffic pass. My circadian rhythm had been knocked askew--my eyes succumb to imposing external cues, gauging time relative to light reflecting off the vehicles. I need to scale down. But I still have a hankering for chicken...

REBEL HOUSE (1068 Yonge St.):

I arrive before my fellow journeyman, and am shown to the outdoor patio: floor inlaid with brick, adorned with soil-filled planters, four large heaters (unused) and a large parachute overhanging the entire operation, surrounded by wooden gates. I cathect upon a lone wooden sunflower at the back, feeling the effects of time, stuck rapidly losing its leaves but no one else seems to notice. But I am informed we are to be joined by a third guest and we now move to a nook still outdoors, close to the interior dining room. Inside I see vacant booths elaborately stitched with picturesque landscapes; distracting.

The establishment proffers Oven Baked Wings of Rebellion, jerked in the most zealous of spices, charred to the bone, one half kilo.

"Give me half of that half." There were many more wings to be had and I could feel my time limit shrinking down around me. This half order costs $5.95 with sides of kettle fries, vegetables and chived sour cream.

"And a poutine of lesser brutality for my vegetarian photographer, the Madd Hattere." Made with kettle fries, because wings aren't his style.

The wings fly quickly. Close to the bone the skin stretches, moist, the spice transferring well through flame. The heat in my mouth builds each consecutive wing I barrel into, the spindly flat wings break easily in my clutches. Deeper in the pile I encounter insurgent drumettes, but nothing compared to the wing from what must have once been the albatross of the chicken world, a creature that wonders out loud "Why am I so massive?!" I thought its wingspan had more joints than a chicken could dare to have as I savoured the final wingtip of the meal.

I find out that our third member is a fellow known only as Char. "With a name like that, he must have emerged from the taste of the wing itself," I think. He is to drive me tonight, to what ends I am not yet sure. Thus far, he eats my side dishes at my request, for I am destined to be surrounded by vegetarians in my jaunt for chicken truth.

SQUIRLY'S (807 Queen St. West)

Surely the driver has something to do with the shifting of my internal clock, for suddenly we seem to enter a different time period altogether: I find myself sitting in a plastic, sparkling chair, and red leopard print bar stools line the curved bar. I go downstairs to the bathroom to find my bearings, and instead am confronted by a Bell telephone and a cyclical towel rack that has reached the end of its tether.

I dash upstairs to find my wings laid upon the table. My side caesar salad is swiftly snatched up by my driver and the intensity of the situation rises a notch. An ebony man wearing a large rimmed hat leaps from the wall, informing me that there is a back patio; I do not move. Instead, I watch as a mermaid with glasses hangs over the bar, lewdly gazing down the tops of leopard-skin dresses and inappropriately winking at passerbys, seeming particularly pleased with the sexy red walls and pieces of risque art. Even the ceiling is leopard print. Surely I am transported to a different time, through the wheel of Char. Finally, the bartender wears a red shirt that looks as though it were meant to match a different animal.

"Quickly, please! What kind of animal is your shirt to represent?"

"I have no idea actually... several?"

"Oh."

...

"Then I'll just have the Grilled Wings of Jumbo 1980s aesthetic. Medium strength, I don't know if I could take any stronger."

When I start eating the wings, I feel myself adjusting to the chunky, voluptuous feeling spreading through my body. The final wingtip of the evening turns out to be a 1987 wingtip collar that sprouts from my neck and makes me feel more at home. Although I keep accidentally chomping into the dominant bone at the bottom of the wing, well-disguised in the Squirly sauce, my experience remains wholly amped with these dribblers. I decide to take a chill pill and bask with my cool wings, for perhaps the 80s weren't as square as everyone loves to espouse--what's wrong with the decade that brought us the word crakalackin'?

Char shakes his head slowly, disagrees. My attention is wholly drawn to him; we were not meant to stay. Without verbal cue I settle up my $9.95 tab and scram from Squirly's. He'll lead me in the right direction, I know this even in the depths of my chicken-scrambled cognition.

MITZI'S SISTER (1554 Queen St. West):

Darker, ominous, I feel my internal rhythms choke up with fear. Wood grain, black accents and dispersed red are the themes throughout the room. Skulls and flashing ducks line the walls in display cases, and the main hall darkens towards a well lit blue stage, green stage, red stage--lights ever-changing. I am given a water with lemon and I fear that I may be squeezing my last Lemon of Self Doubt.

The waitress arrives and looks concerned at my overburdened belly, worries that their wares may not be able to please me with so much chicken already controlling my various urges, so she first offers me their Moroccan Dry Rub. The look in her eye suggests some sort of physical confrontation, so I take her other suggestion of Tamarind and Lime. These victuals arrive in less than five minutes.

I take the garnishing Lime of Self Importance and spray it all over the pound, also $9.95, and take a life-altering bite. I feel an immediate strong union with Androsthenes, a ship captain serving under Alexander the Great, who described in detail the leaf movements of the tamarind tree. He supplied the earliest known account of a circadian process while I am simply eating chicken, but the Self Importance has already soaked into my thoughts, and the Tamarind of Circadian Descent causes a tranquility in me that I had thought nigh impossible at the outset of my journey.

Then the band begins to play. In a flash I know where I must travel next, this time without Char, who has led me to this final destination to traverse alone.

I walk down the hall toward the ominous curtain, lights changing along the way; red, blue, green. I walk through a confused quartet and knock my nose on the wall behind the curtain, but at last I know I've been cured.

Comments

• June 17, 2010, Nic writes: this is awesome.....and delicious.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! IT’S HORRIBLE!”

Other customers enter the restaurant, looking quizzically at the man as he flails around, disoriented and trying to find an explanation for such a sudden exposure to this massacre, or at the very least a sympathetic ear.

“WHY?! WHY?!”

It’s at this point the man who has the battered and flayed remains on his plate looks over his shoulders, sees the man stuck in the doorway in an effort to flee the scene, walks forward and slaps the man full out in the face.

“Relax you fucking philistine, haven’t you ever seen Ethiopian food before?”

For this jabbering ape has prescribed to one of many ignorant misconceptions that plague new comers to cultural dishes: other cultures are willing to eat food that does not contain sharp corners and boundaries, an alternative visual array that serves an important cultural function; other cultures eat communally, unafraid to eat off the same plate; or perhaps, to address the tasteless Western joke, the man assumed that the Ethiopian culture has no food to eat, expecting to be presented with an empty plate after which he turns to his family and says “well that was fun, now let’s all go to Mickey Ds!”

I’ll take a moment to beseech the first-time Ethiopian diner not to blanch at a finished plate of Ethiopian food at the restaurant, which can look quite messy and may put the squeamish off the meal entirely.

Don't let the gruesome aftermath throw you!

Ethiopian tradition places importance on a unique eating experience, notably separated from Western cuisine by a lack of utensils; the diner tears pieces of spongy pita called injera into a manageable strip to pinch victuals off a single plate, an action that places focus on the communal experience. As I learned from my meal at Rendez-vous, an Ethiopian eatery on the Danforth strip: “Breaking the same bread and eating from the same plate has social significance in Ethiopian culture, strengthening bonds of loyalty and friendship; it is said that people who eat from the same plate will never betray each other.”

Rendez-vous:

I exit Greenwood station and head east on the Danforth, making a beeline to the Ethiopian eatery nearby. Inside, woven canopies hang over a few of the tables, which consist of traditional tables, the circular woven mesob, and tables with a black and orange tablecloth underneath thick sheets of glass. Plush black chairs are set up all over the restaurant and a few white plush booths line up against the wall next to an ample bar. The dark maroon walls are interrupted by woven runners that run the expanse of the restaurant, as well as beautiful ink drawings that are scattered on the walls and over the top of the bar. Oddly enough, I notice a few of the fake plants actually encroach on some of the chairs, so I choose my table accordingly.

I feel as though I’m in more of a lounge bar than a restaurant, particularly when the water I’ve ordered takes a while to process and I register a large flat screen television in the top corner near the entrance, but I notice elaborate ornamental coffee sets behind my table, which are used an important cultural process that involves three rounds of coffee served from a jebena, the Ethiopian clay coffee pot. The menu contains a large lamb section and after asking for a recommendation from the server I decide upon the second option, Ye’Beg Tibs: “Cubs” of tender lamb, which I assume arises from a complex crossbreed of lambs and bears, sautéed with onions, garlic, green pepper and awaze, a paste made from small hot red peppers, cardamon, and cloves.

My lamb cub(e)s take a while to cook but eventually arrive steaming from the kitchen. Since I’ve asked for spicy as opposed to mild, my server warns me to avoid the large chunks of jalapeño, which proves to be difficult in the dim, red tinted light. My lamb rests on a large oval of injera, sitting in an ample amount of sauce with a salad balanced on the edge of the plate. My personal supply of injera is served on a separate plate, folded into a triangle, ready to be torn into. Every foray into the pile of lamb procures tendrils of onions wrapped around every bite and the jalapeno gives these lamb cubs a serious kick in the proverbial ass.

M&B Yummy:

M&B Yummy is the only completely vegetarian Ethiopian restaurant in Canada. I enter to a red walled interior with wooden slats that rise beside some of the tables. The walls are adorned with still life depictions of Ethiopian culture, a revered Eye Weekly article plaqued onto a map of Ethiopia and two crudely cut, large wooden murals: one depicts rain descending into steaming coffee mugs that are filled from a jebena placed on a narrow ledge, the other depicts a larger than life krar, the Ethiopian stringed instrument. All the tables are wrapped in plastic that cover the red and white table clothes, where a water-filled vial containing a healthy coral-hued flower sits. Vegan-friendly desserts are served from the front counter, in front of which a small white-skinned orange-haired heavily-mustached mannequin smiles widely, wearing an apron that holds the to-go menus and raising one hand in the air in a suspicious salute, his presence a little out of place in the surrounding atmosphere.

The woman that owns M&B is a delight, attentive as soon as I enter the restaurant, answering each question diligently and openly offering information regarding her cooking techniques: she receives her soy and seitan materials from a special shop, then flavours and slow cooks as if it were true meat. She recommends the chicken platter, containing an ample portion of seitan chicken as well as a smattering of all the vegetarian dishes the establishment has to offer. When my meal arrives I am given both a napkin and a wet nap, both of which I will surely need.

All the dishes are arranged around a small salad splashed with onion vinaigrette in the center of the plate, but I am also given a fork, a very uncommon gesture and I do not plan on using it. The thick injera has been rolled for me and separated from the rest of the dishes, predominately served as wot: soft stews that are slow cooked with a large amount of chopped red onions and, in the case of vegan dishes, vegetable oil instead of spiced butter. Each vegetable has its own particular strong point: the gomen (collard greens) tastes of strong, delicious garlic; the fasolia (string beans and carrots in tomato sauce) and the cabbage and carrots are the only two dishes not served as wot, which help temper the strong spices infused into the other dishes; the missir wot (red lentils) contains the strongest flavour on the plate, the strong berbere (dry, pepper powder) liberally added; the shrio wot (chickpeas) turn a light red due to the spices and became soft and pleasant, but the true highlight turns out to be the yellow beans (split peas served with onions and garlic) which hold a slightly bumpy texture until pinched in between injera, when they relent, containing a subtle flavour that dissolves on the tongue as my teeth penetrates the spongy pita.

I save the seitan chicken until last, but that turns out to be a mistake when I am already slowing down from the large portions of vegetables. However, I man up and rip off another piece of injera, only to be mystified by the curious taste and texture that I’ve encountered: the chicken becomes soft from the slow cooking technique, yet has an underlying spring due to the seitan. The chicken is spicy in a way that is not immediately apparent, and only becomes more prominent as I chew the chicken into a paste. However, I cannot shake the fact that the seitan does not actually taste like chicken; the chunks of wheat gluten simply take the flavour of the spices offered, yet cannot compare to the actual taste of a fresh breast of chicken.

Queen of Sheba:

Approaching Queen of Sheba on Bloor West, Jessica Swanlake and I enter the main room and are led through a red brick arch into the back dining room after a brief delay. Small Ethiopian ornaments adorn the wall and beds of replica vegetation are set up near the entrance; a fake rose, complete with fabricated water droplets, are set on every table. A tropical bead curtain depicting a scene on the coast with palm trees and wooden huts separates the back kitchen from the dining room and appears to be waving back and forth occasionally, confusing in an indoor setting. Elaborately carved wooden-framed mirrors are set up above a few tables and traditional music plays in the background as Jessica and I peruse the menu.

I order fresh guava juice with my meal of special kitfo: a specialty of the Gurage people of central Ethiopia, consisting of minced, lean beef traditionally served raw or lebleb (very rare). The beef is mixed with keebe (spiced Ethiopian butter) and mitmita, a powder made from small hot red peppers, cardamon, and cloves or afrinji made from red pepper seeds, ginger, garlic, onions and black pepper. However, for a nearly raw dish the food takes a long time and I’ve nearly finished my entire guava juice before the meal arrives.

The meal is well spaced out on the underlying injera: the kitfo arrives as a loose pile of ground beef, served with a side of kale (green cabbage) and some extra mitmita on the side. The kale was extremely savoury and the kitfo very spicy, but when both are mixed together with a single pinch of mitmita they blend to prevent the spices from overpowering the experience.

Preferring the carnivorous aspect of life, the nearly raw meat certainly appealed to me, yet I cannot recommend Queen of Sheba without warning about the rather lackluster service. Although the server checked on the meal once, which is fairly standard, it took far too much time to place an order and receive the meal, particularly considering that we were the only two people eating at the time in the entire restaurant. Instead of waiting for the bill to arrive I ventured to the front counter to pay and was surprised to find that the woman who had just finished serving me did not remember who I was and attempted to seat me for a second time!

Ethiopian House:

I walk into the restaurant with Carroll Eventyr and am hit immediately by an intoxicating scent that wafts toward me. Fabricated potted plants hang in the ceiling corners of the orange and green walled dining room, and dark red, floral printed tables cloths are adorned with faded yellow napkins. Tall orange napkins erupt from wine glasses, which are swiftly replaced with our drinking water as soft Ethiopian tunes play in the background. Colourful Ethiopian still lifes hang on the wall, the highlight of which is a large mural over my shoulder that depicts beautiful waterfalls and thriving herds under a crescent moon on the left, and Ethiopian people and buildings under the sun on the right. Heading upstairs, strips of coloured lights lead the way accentuating pictures of Ethiopian people in cultural garb that stare out of the wall at anyone who passes, a theme that continues throughout the upstairs dining room.

Since Carroll doesn’t eat beef, she orders a round of lentils and I order pan-fried Beef Tibs, Tikil Gomon (cabbage and carrots) and Atakelet wot (string beans, potatoes and cottage cheese). Both dishes arrive in the standard communal dish, served with a large woven lid that the server removes dramatically as she places it on the table; the meat has been piled on my side of the plate mixed with peppers, onions and tomatoes, heavily spiced with mitmita. As I look at the mural behind me I mistake a big, green pepper for a zucchini that turns out to be hotter than the sun! Turns out that I’m scarfing a large jalapeño and am forced to quickly eat a large dollop of the crisp cabbage and carrots, which I quickly follow up with the potatoes, soft from the slow cook and lightly spiced in a way that allows me to comfortably recover.

The Ethiopian House, I must admit, turns out to be my favourite restaurant of the bunch. The scent marks the entrance to the restaurant, creating an instant immersion in the atmosphere of the dining room. After sitting down, I am given a menu that has an introduction page with punchy introductory lines such as “Cutlery? Look around you. There is none!” and wishes you a great meal in Ethiopian (“Melkam Megibz!”) and in French (“Bon Appetit!”). The meal is brought promptly and presented with a noticeable flourish, steaming hot and perfectly spiced. No other Ethiopian restaurant delivers such a flawless performance: Queen of Sheba delivers phenomenal food, but on their own time; M&B Yummy caters spectacularly to a vegetarian patron, but leaves meat eaters feeling more at home elsewhere; Rendez-vous serves a phenomenal lamb-bear anomaly, but the atmosphere, including the television, splits the emphasis of the establishment between food and entertainment. None of the restaurants particularly outshine the others in the quality of the food, but for a first-time Ethiopian eater tentatively testing a new cultural dish, the Ethiopian House delivers on every register, representing a delicious traditional cuisine that is certainly worth seeking out.

Comments

• October 15, 2009, Nancy writes: You've got to try Nazareth which is just down the street from Queen of Sheba. The place is tiny and there's often a line but the food is so good and it's the cheapest place to eat this side of the Prime Meridian.
• October 23, 2009, Steven Khor writes: Hi Ted: Would like to invite you to Nosh Bistro to experience our services, and most importantly our European fare cuisine. 2210 Dundas Street West, Toronto, On. (Dundas and Roncesvalles) Operation hour are 9 a.m.. to 3:30 p.m. Tuesday to Sunday. We welcome you!

photo/Matthew Filipowich

I have undertaken, in these notes, the challenge that a vegetarian faces every day: not eating meat. I am skeptically hanging up my canines to embrace the molar action that I predominantly deem less important. Not that I am against the vegetarian movement in general – I mean hell, everyone has got to eat something. I simply cannot understand how a human being can willingly look at a monstrously over-sized steak and say: “Not for me.”

Or how anyone could possibly smell bacon sizzling and not sit erect at the table, eagerly awaiting the moment when it arrives, pancakes and syrup a pleasing afterthought. As a direct consequence of a thoroughly healthy suburban upbringing, I can certainly appreciate the inclusion of vegetables into a meal, but will never comprehend the decision to abandon that pure bliss of ripping into a hank of meat and picking the bone down to its last. In spite of this overwhelming condition, I have decided to provisionally pass up my established animal-driven food chain and settle down with some vegetarian and vegan Toronto alternatives.

Vegetarian Haven

I turn onto Baldwin street to enter Vegetarian Haven with Jessica Swanlake for the dinner menu. The dining room contains white tiled tables and while older red brick walls one side of the room, white-edged mirrors dominate the other. Although the Vegetarian Haven logo hangs dramatically alone in the dining room, independent art hangs further down the wall.

When the server comes to seat us he wears a large grin, thriving in the busy dinner rush. He then belts off a speech of such precision that I had to ask him to dictate back to me later:

“Alright everyone move in close, I’ll present the daily specials once for all of you! These are our amazing vegan sushi rolls with crispy seaweed wrapped around our chewy tofu skin center – it’s a light, flaky texture – which is drizzled with our house black bean sauce. The dish rests on a bed of Cantonese chow mein noodles with stir fried green beans, mushrooms and red peppers on the side.”

Yeah, I got that. I could barely even listen when he talked about the soup. When I sat at the table I mulled over a few other dishes, but I had to get that. And get this, I ordered Outrageous ginger ale with my meal based on name alone, supplied by an organic brand name “Real Brew.”

This version has less of a sugary bite than a commercial brand and the waiter pours it from the bottle into a glass for me. Jessica Swanlake has already eaten, but orders an appetizer for us to share, avocado rolls.

The avocado arrives in a light, paper-thin tortilla with sprouts, apple, tomatoes and lettuce. Loosely rolled, these cannons supply a shot of wasabi-mayo countered by the crisp apple strips and the avocado. My meal arrives shortly after, still steaming from the kitchen: lettuce, carrots and bean sprouts weave through the chow mein along with stir-fried vegetables, the black bean drizzle spreading from the tofu into the noodles to give the dish a consistent black-bean base. The dinner special changes every few days, so perhaps you’ll come in one day and they’ll make this again, but if not you’re fucked because it was delicious. But so were the avocado appetizers, demonstrating that there are many other Vegetarian Haven dishes to explore.

Hibiscus

I walk up to the crossroads of Augusta and Nassau in Kensington to reach a small vegan café named Hibiscus. As I enter to a fairly erratic seating arrangement, the oscillating fans spin lazily in the cool weather, swinging above as many tables and benches that can be crammed into the small dining space. At the back of the restaurant, an old Kensington station clock from London keeps accurate time above an assortment of tea that wraps around the wall. The kitchen is tucked away at the back of the café and the cashier’s counter is in front of my table below a wall unit that holds jars of spices and dry pasta. Some independent art on the wall includes local photography and craftwork.

After checking the menu I decide to try a “Mad Crepe,” which is a buckwheat crepe that contains no wheat flour, dairy or egg. From a menu of either sweet or savoury, I choose one of the “savoury gallettes,” consisting of vegan mozzarella cheese, spinach and mushrooms. The menu is fairly scant: with only soup, deserts, coffee and other drinks, the emphasis lays firmly on the crepes, but for good reason because my order arrives packed with basil, garlic, pepper, roasted eggplant paste, and pesto, which I am once more assured is entirely gluten free. The thin crepe is folded with one side open, mushrooms blooming out the top with a tuft of spinach applied for colour, mozzarella and spices generously applied throughout.

The meal was great for late morning –a substantial midday vegan portion to keep you going for awhile without any sluggish digestion resulting from meat consumption. The staff are friendly and diligent; they grin easily on my way out, thanking me for my patronage.

Get Real!

I approach another vegetarian café, Get Real!, heading south on Ossington below Dundas. Upon entering the small sitting room, I catch sight of very colourful abstract art on the wall and green leaf table clothes laid upon every table, all of which hold the smallest potted daisies I have ever seen. The counter at the front sells take-away treats while the cashier counter at the back serves coffee.

The waitress serves water with a single grape which, although I did not taste a difference, is a nice touch nonetheless. I order a crustini with arugula pesto spread, portobello mushrooms sautéed in rosemary, sliced tomatoes and brie cheese, garnished with fresh basil. After my Outrageous ginger ale experience, I decided to try some organic root beer, which is much less sweet than its commercial counterpart and turns out to be completely colourless.

My meal is served open faced directly off the press and the service is quite good, although my server is fairly reserved and does not stand out in the face of the extremely exuberant service I have received at the other vegetarian locations. A great up and coming location, I will return in the summer for lighter vegetarian portions.

Fressen

Under the red puck light of my small upstairs table, I check out the décor at Fressen, which is a large split level restaurant residing on Queen West. The lower level is a full dining room, while a large wooden bar splits the upper level; some trees bridge the gap between levels, creating a dark, subdued atmosphere in the restaurant.

A waitress hails me from the bar and when I cannot supply a satisfactory answer to a menu decision, she insists that I have the pan seared king shitake and honey mushrooms, served on cold spinach with lemon garlic sauce. She avows that she has eaten the dish every shift for the past two years and that the mushrooms are definitively the best meal on the menu. So, with my assent, she promptly submits my order to the kitchen only to return swiftly with three pieces of warm bread, served with an incredible bean dip made with white beans, dill, hemp butter, garlic, olive oil and lemon juice, which is so flavourful that I ask for a second order.

While waiting for my order I continue to peruse the menu, which I turn over to find that Fressen has posted the definition of sharing:

• To divide and parcel out in shares; apportion

• To participate in, use, enjoy, or experience, jointly or in turns

• To relate (a secret or experience, for example) to another or others

• To accord a share in (something) to another or others: shared her apple with a friend

But then my meal arrived and I forget everything I just learned about sharing, glad that I am eating alone because I definitely don’t want to give up a single mushroom. The bed of spinach is well dressed with lemon sauce, yet staving off any notion of sogginess. Garnished with thyme, garlic, leek, white wine and olive oil, the lemon sauce spreads flavour to the entire dish, the honey undercoat barely able to rise through to the surface; while the mushrooms are well cooked, the highlight of this dishes is the sauces. To finish the meal, the waitress brings me an apple ginger lemon juice that she informs me can be made into a great cocktail – the drink certainly has the edge to snuff the taste of the strongest of alcohols.

Perhaps simply because of the touching sentiment of the Fressen menu, I have to recommend checking out all of these locations: Vegetarian Haven or Fressen for a substantial meal and Hibiscus or Get Real! for a midday stop. I may have had a more personal experience with the servers at my dinner locations, yet the café environment has much quicker turnaround, which allots less time to establish even a temporary relationship. Each of these locations have delicious dishes to offer and all of them support the local arts; I cannot imagine not supporting them back. So while this jaunt into vegetarianism is in no way permanent, I actually have had no real problem without meat, although I still find it hard to believe that beans can supply an equal protein supplement to meat; somehow it just doesn’t seem proper. Call me a callous carnivore, or even a malicious meathead if you must, just don’t call me late for a steak dinner. Oh, and that ambiguously phrased bacon reference in my opening remarks can absolutely be taken sexually because that is one hell of a visual.