A can of buttery thanks

Last week, two of my work friends (whom I shall refer to as Lady N and Lady K to preserve their anonymity, for reasons that will soon become apparent) took a business trip to Montreal. They knew I'd been a few times, so asked me where they should eat.

Of course, I only had one suggestion.

"Au Pied de Cochon. And get the duck in a can."

So they did. And they did.

I got a message from Lady N on Monday morning:

"PDC. Best. Meal. Ever!"

So that made me feel good.

People often ask me for restaurant recommendations, and while I love to help, I always have a nagging fear that I actually have terrible taste and I'm sending unwitting diners to the worse experience of their life.

(Case in point: Lady N went to L'Espalier for Restaurant Week a couple of days after us. She got body-checked by the elevator, to the maître d's apparent disdain, and there was a hair in the butter and in dessert.)

At least in this case it turned out well. Back in the office, they pronounced Au Pied de Cochon fabulous, the duck in a can awesome, the place fun and lively, and the check not outrageous.

And then ... they presented me with a token of their appreciation.



Yes. Yes. Duck in a can, along with a serving of the oh-let's-just-be-honest-and-call-it-butter celery root purée that accompanies the dish.

(There was also a piece of bread for authenticity, but it had been traveling for four days and was slightly past its best.)

Now, let's just break down how much work was involved in this gift.

First off, the dish is not cooked inside a sealed can; the ingredients are fresh. Which means it needs to be refrigerated. So Lady K had to plead with the hotel staff to help her chill it for the trip home.

Second, I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to transport fresh meat across the US-Canada border. This means Lady K had to pull a Midnight Express (except the duck was in her suitcase and she got away with it).

Needless to say, I was moved and delighted by this gift. And I knew what we were having for dinner that evening.

The cooking instructions were simple enough: place the can in boiling water for 27 minutes; let it rest for five; open and serve over toasted bread and the celery root purée.

This is how it's done in the restaurant. Simple, non?

However, when it came time to serve, we discovered that our nice ergonomic can-opener just didn't have the chops. We hacked at the can. We tried from the top and the side. We considered knives.

Eventually, we broke through in a few places — just enough for the scent of warm buttered cabbage and balsamic sauce to sneak out and taunt us.

Ten minutes later, the can was misshapen, ragged, and open. But the contents had cooled — or perhaps hadn't heated through enough — so for safety's sake, we gave everything a more intense heat-through in a pan. (I know, I know: c'est un sacrilège.)

And then we poured everything over the toast and purée.



It was perfect: rich and dark, with a slight vinegary kick. The duck breast was tender; the foie was creamy; the cabbage was less a vegetable and more a transport mechanism for butter. Completely decadent.



So ... anyone else want restaurant recommendations?

Au Pied de Cochon: bonjour, canard en conserve!

Last weekend we took an almost-spontaneous (i.e. with only two weeks' notice) trip to Montreal. The drive up was a little rough — a six-hour trip after a full day's work — but we pushed onward, motivated by a constant drumming rhythm:

Duck-in-a-can, duck-in-a-can, duck-in-a-can ...

I wrote about our previous trip to Montreal, the highlight of which was dinner at Au Pied de Cochon, where The Boy realized his lifelong dream of eating poutine with foie gras and I discovered that my lifelong dream would be eating canard en conserve.

Now we were returning to fulfill that dream.

The only available table was at 9:00, which is later than we usually eat. So we prepared accordingly: we spent the day shopping on Rue Saint-Denis and took an afternoon nap. Oh, and we had an early lunch at Bières et Compagnie, a Belgian-style brasserie with 100 beers on tap and a lovely ostrich/duck/pheasant sausage plate:



(That was The Boy's lunch. I just had a simple salad.)



(Okay, it was loaded with Toulouse sausage. But salad nonetheless!)

Anyway, back to the main event.

Au Pied de Cochon was, as always, loud and busy. People at a long table in the window taking turns standing and making exuberant toasts. A group of six hip young guys, devouring plates of meat and passing around a plate of salad. An older guy with a graying ponytail and matching beard, looking like a world-weary corsair, steadily making his way through a plate of blood pudding.

We knew, of course, what our main objective was; but what else to order? Even with the best of intentions to be restrained, the menu at PDC almost dares you to try everything.

Come on, you haven't had the duck carpaccio before! What about the boudin and foie gras tart? Or the guinea fowl liver mousse? Or the Quebecois version of chicharrón, oreilles de crisse?

But we were good, and ordered salad.

Among other things.

Most notably, the cromesquis de foie gras:



They look innocent enough, don't they? But here's the deal: They're cubes of foie gras, breaded and deep-fried. The breading becomes an impermeable shell and the inside turns to liquid.

To eat, you put the whole thing in your mouth, close your lips, and bite. And suddenly it's as though the entire inside of your head is bathed in warm, soft, rich, deep, soothing liquid.

It actually, literally, seriously brought tears to my eyes.

As another snackeroo to begin, we ordered the plate of cochonailles. In fairness, we expected a small sampling of tasty pork bites. Earlier in the week, we were at Craigie on Main's Whole Hog dinner (see review from the people sitting behind us), where the tiny, delicate cochonailles looked like this:



So naturally we were surprised to find that at Au Pied de Cochon, the cochonailles looked like this:



Head-cheese terrine, two types of pâté (one of which is hidden beneath the bread), sausage, half a deviled egg, a lovely onion jam, something dolloped with mustard that I don't even remember, and that dark brown square, which is essentially salty beef-stock Jell-O.

But it's okay, because we also had salad.



Layers of fresh beets and goat cheese I could easily have eaten for dessert, had there been room for such a thing.

And then it came.



When they say "duck in a can," they mean it: the waiter brings a can, and a can-opener, and pours the contents out onto toast topped with celeriac puree.

My photographic skills are not sufficient, so I advise you check out Claudine's Flickr photo to see it in all its glory.

The magret: perfectly cooked, moist, meaty, delicious.
The foie gras: soft and tender and all the better for sitting in balsamic meat broth.

The cabbage: well, when the description essentially translates to "embuttered," what else needs to be said?

And despite the richness of the dish, serving it on toast somehow made it seem like home-cooked comfort food; as though there was really little difference between opening a can of duck and a can of beans to throw over toast for a quick lunch.

It was a luxurious and decadent experience, and one I highly recommend.

Interestingly, though, when I asked The Boy whether he'd order the same thing next time, he said no.

Not because he didn't enjoy it, of course (he later admitted he was disappointed that he had to share the foie gras with me; thanks, honey).

But as he pointed out, there are so many other things left to try: the foie gras burger. The lamb confit. The fries made with duckfat. The foie gras-stuffed pig's foot ...

Mochica, Montreal: a call to llamas

Our other fab meal in Montreal was at Mochica, a Peruvian restaurant on Rue Saint-Denis. This meant we got to speak English, French and Spanish all in one meal.



We ate there on our previous trip; that was my first encounter with Peruvian culture, and were I less well-educated, I'd have come away with the impression that the Peruvian diet consisted largely of llama and pisco.

Oh, and, at least according to the (non-work-safe) statuary in the restroom, that Peruvian men are extraordinarily talented.

It turned out we were lucky to get a table on this occasion; they were expecting a party of 21, a graduation celebration, which would occupy half the restaurant. This is their table, but really it's just an excuse to show you the cool wall work:



The waitstaff were lovely all night, beginning with the point at which our waiter, referring to the imminent arrival of the large group, said, "You might want to order now, if you can; I'd hate for your order to get lost in the crush."

We started with the rellenos de papa de llama:



Rellenos de papa are a Puerto Rican favorite: fist-sized balls of mashed potato, stuffed with meat and deep-fried (here's a recipe; check out this vid of chef Wilo Benet's easy instructions for putting them together).

At Mochica, they're loaded with llama and olives; the potato is light and fluffy, with the lightest crunch on the outside.

Our other app, ceviche de pescado, is also popular in Puerto Rico. The difference at Mochica is that rather than serving the fish in bite-sized chunks, they slice it paper-thin—almost translucent—so it melts on the tongue with a bright bite of lime.



(By this point, the large party had arrived and spent an hour taking turns in giving speeches, from which I am forced to conclude that Peruvian dinnertime is traditionally a long and overly formal occasion.)

Then to our mains; sadly (as may be evident from the above images) the light in the restaurant wasn't quite bright enough for photos, so you'll just have to take my word for it that everything was lovely. The Boy's dad had llama a la parilla, a generous grilled llama steak with rosemary; The Boy went for goat stew, which came tender and warmly spicy and (for a nice change) had very few bones.

I had llama a la Cuzqueña, a spicy, complex llama stew. On the menu it noted that the llama was "from Compton," which I assume means this Compton, rather than this Compton.

Only The Boy's mom wasn't completely happy, in part because the food was spicier than she liked, and also because it wasn't quite what she expected. She'd been hoping for something closer to the simple, hearty, home-cooked meals of her childhood (which sounded fabulous) rather than this light, modern take. But otherwise, the evening was lovely.

And a final example of Mochica's customer service: The Boy's dad couldn't find his gold chain, and thought he might have lost it in the restaurant. I called Mochica the next morning and left a message, explaining we were leaving for Boston so needed a rapid response. The co-owner quickly got back to me to say they'd searched the place but couldn't find the chain, and he hoped that hadn't spoiled our experience, and wished us a safe trip home.

(We found the chain in the car later that day; it had fallen off and slipped down the passenger-side seat. D'oh!)

Montreal, like New York, is so generously stuffed with restaurants that it would be easy to eat at a different place every night. But along with Au Pied de Cochon, I think of Mochica as becoming one of our defaults: a restaurant we could easily visit on every trip and try something new and interesting.

(But more importantly: are all the guys like that??)

Au Pied de Cochon: pig-out, Montreal style

The Boy's birthday coincided with our trip to Montreal, so when I asked where he wanted to go for his celebratory meal, he had an immediate answer: Au Pied de Cochon.

Both our previous Montreal trips had included visits to this palace of porkiness; it's one of those restaurants that, when brought up in conversation, causes a Pavlovian reaction for us. And we were pretty sure The Boy's parents would approve. (They did. Oh, boy, they did.)

Au Pied de Cochon is a long, narrow, noisy room, with clusters of tables at both ends and a bar that runs the length of the intervening space. If you sit at the bar, you get to watch the chefs at work in the tiny kitchen.

On past visits, we've sat at a table in front, squished between other diners and subject to waiter traffic. This time, we got a table at the back of the room, which felt a little calmer (though no less cacophonous).



We started with a plate of cochonailles (which, as we learned from the pig-fest at Craigie Street Bistrot, kind of translates to "little bits of porkular loveliness"). And then to the main event.

The Boy's mom went for the signature dish, a fabulous plate of pig's foot braised until fall-apart tender, with pommes purées and a crispy mushroom-cream-filled cake.



The Boy's dad had the lamb shank confit.



Do I even need to say how gloriously moist and juicy and fatty it was? (Wanna make it yourself? Here's a recipe. Stock up on duck fat.)

I had the PDC Melting Pot, a crock stuffed with pommes purées topped with garlic pork sausage, blood sausage, pork belly and bacon, as well as a couple of sweet roasted onions. Yes, it looks obscene. No, I couldn't eat the whole thing, though I gave it a damn good try.



And The Boy?

On our first visit, he'd considered getting the poutine with foie gras because it seemed so decadent. On our second--having actually tried poutine--he thought about it but passed for something else. And then we made our own version of posh poutine at home, and he came to fully grasp its potential.

When we started to talk about taking his parents to Montreal, he mentioned the poutine with foie gras. When we discussed going to Au Pied de Cochon, he observed that they had poutine with foie gras.

And so, finally, he got what he wanted. It may look like hell, but it tastes like heaven.



Au Pied de Cochon is a fun, lively place. (And loud. Did I mention it's loud?) The crowd is young and hip, the staff are cute in a tousled punk/pirate sort of way, and the restroom is awesome:



Yes, that's a full-on dishwashing sink with rinsing nozzle. And yes, the hand towels are in a steam table.

Oh, and they have a dish called canard en conserve--or, en anglais, the less-romantic-sounding duck in a can. The adorable chef/waiter couple from Toronto, sitting at the next table (close enough that we could follow their conversation, apparently) ordered it, and we got to watch as it was served. From the can. A can-opener is involved.

I wasn't able to take photos, so I direct you to Claudine's gorgeous frame-by-frame reveal on Flickr. And take a look at the rest of her PDC set; her camera skeelz are much better than mine!

Anyway, we have to go back. We still haven't tried the duck carpaccio, or the bison tongue, or the venison tongue, or the (gasp!) pied de cochon stuffed with (gasp!) foie gras, or ...

This ain't the Ritz

We ate at a lot of interesting places over the last week, and I'll get to the best in due course.

But first, a word about the Ritz Carlton Montreal.

I'd never stayed at a Ritz before (heck, I don't think I'd been inside one), but The Boy found rooms at insanely low rates, so it seemed crazy not to check in.

As it turned out, there was a reason for the good prices: the Ritz was closing at the end of the week. So we were able to experience a little of the Ritz's faded elegance as it was being taken apart around us.

The lobby:



The lighting:



Our room had more storage space than our apartment (and the closet light went out when you closed the door, like a fridge). I loved the bathroom, whose size was a luxurious novelty: enough space for a full-length streeeetch-out tub and a secondary make-up applying area. And why yes, that is a fabulously thick bathrobe hanging on the door.



There was a scale in the bathroom and an umbrella in the closet. At night, someone left chocolates on the bed.

Breakfast happened out in the garden, overlooking the duck pond:



But tomorrow the Ritz closes so that luxury condos can be added above the current structure. The ducks in the garden pond will return to the farm from which they came. The staff, including the doorman who has worked there for 35 years, have to fend for themselves.

Even as we stayed there, rooms were being emptied, dumpsters filled, "No Entry" signs posted. On our last night, we had a drink in the bar. The Boy ordered Patrón. "Ah, there's just enough left in the last bottle," said the waiter. "You get the final shot."



(Note how the room in the background is empty.)

When we went down to the lobby the next morning, the bar had been closed off.

I can't hold claim to anything about the Ritz from a nostalgic or romantic perspective; frankly, I was not aware of the existence of a Ritz-Carlton in Montreal until a couple of weeks ago. But there's still something poignant about a grande dame being stripped down and having her belongings auctioned off so that someone (not the maids or the front-desk staff or the bartenders) can make more money.

Here ends your social criticism for today.