Martinson coffee, founded by my great-uncle Joe Martinson
This column appeared in the Toronto Star in 2002. I was reminded of it recently when I stayed in a hotel in Kitchener, Ontario, and found this coffee in the room.
A cup of joe.
Who would have thought I am related – albeit distantly – to the “Joe” of that famous culinary phrase.
Here is a link to my audio podcast “Nugget Man” on SoundCloud.
Recently, Ross and I mulled over ideas of where to take a much-needed one-week vacation.
In May, we’d been to London (U.K.) to visit my mum – a fantastic two weeks spent wandering, sleuthing and noshing our way around the wondrous city where I spent formative years. (See previous blogs for more.)
As I write, my kitchen is filled with the luscious aroma of goat curry warming in the oven. And I have Melissa Leithwood to thank for that.
Mexican chef Francisco Alejandri at his eatery Agave y Aguacate in Kensington Market.
I don’t need another reason to rave about my favourite Toronto ‘nabe and longtime home: feisty, gritty and never-dull Kensington Market. But hey, now I have one.
For 18 years, as food editor and food columnist for the Toronto Star, I shared my passion for things culinary.
Most important and gratifying was the joyous connection it gave me to people who enjoy and prepare food – from the Filipino taxi driver who enthusiastically described how his mother makes Chicken Adobo to the firefighters with whom I cooked and then ate a luscious, convivial meal of grilled chicken and rhubarb crumble at their downtown Toronto firehall one lovely evening.
I know the name Ruby Watchco keeps popping up in this blog – and it’s for good reason.
The meal Ross and I enjoyed there one Saturday night a couple of months ago was simply stellar, “simply” being the operative word. The uncomplicated, vibrant flavour and texture combos of each and every dish from the sensational salad with still warm buttermilk biscuits to a wondrous baked apple bathed in silky sabayon were all that good food should be.
When asked by me some years ago why our nutty nuclear family always celebrated Christmas, my mother gave the usual explanation for her and my late dad’s often bizarre parenting decisions: “Well dear, we did it for you,” meaning me and my two younger brothers Eric and Jonny.
NEW YORK: Okay, so the title of this entry is an understatement, a serious understatement.
This city – my favourite place to be and one that truly feels like home – has gone bananas over meatballs. And no, I did not eat “a meatball” as the title of this entry implies – it was more like 15 but who’s counting.
I cannot turn down an opportunity to sleuth the origin of a famous food.
Such sleuthing has taken me to foreign lands – Bakewell Tart in the U.K.’s Peak District, puddin’ ‘n’ souse on the windy side of Barbados and the Waldorf Salad at Manhattan’s hotel by the same name being three examples. On home turf, I’ve cruised the highways and byways in my search for the best butter tart. And, most recently, I shuffled off to Buffalo for chicken wings at the Anchor Bar where this hugely popular bar snack, says the lore, originated.
