Carnivore Carnival

The ancient ritual of offering burnt sacrifices to the gods is happening nightly in New York City.

My colleague “Rocky” has a deep and abiding affection for red meat – mostly rare – which inspires him to host a team event at Churrascaria Plataforma Rodizio, a practically unpronounceable pantheon of protein at 316 West 49th Street in Manhattan.

Churrasco is the Brazilian form of barbecue where enormous cuts of beef and other meats are seasoned with garlic and sea salt, skewered and roasted on an open wood fire. The tradition can be traced back to the early 1800s in Brazil where local ranchers called gauchos cooked over an open flame and perfected the art of rapidly cutting razor-thin slices onto each other’s dinner plates. It’s a little slice of life for devoted carnivores.

I have some experience with this tradition – the eating, not the slicing. Years ago, my colleague Splint McCullough and I were on assignment in Sao Palo, Brazil, and we spent the evening at a churrasco. Splint consumed thrice his weight in steer.

As often seems to be the case these days, I am late for this engagement. I should not have taken that last phone call. A well-dressed and stone-faced maitre d’ opens the door and I enter a cavernous hall filled with raucous meat mavens. The patrons all look remarkably fit and trim. I assume they must be Atkins Diet devotees. Some have assumed an aggressive posture near the centrally-located salad bar, a titular nod to the health-conscious among us. The level of “salad loading” seems unusually high, given the specialty of the house, but I suppose the lettuce and chick peas are available to help assuage any guilt that might crop up during the evening.

Make no bones about it. This is a pure, unadulterated flesh-fest not for the faint of heart or stomach. I am led to our table of 20 and as expected, I am one of the last to arrive. I take my seat at one end of the table and immediately take note of waiters parading past me on each side, carrying alarmingly sharp Samurai swords that skewer large steaming chunks of glossy meat. The waiters carry a second knife in hand to rapidly whip off those juicy slices.

There is a process one must quickly learn if one is to manage his continuous meat intake. A laminated cardboard disk the size of a coaster sits by my place setting. There is a circular red strip on one side and a circular green strip on the other. Green means “Bring on the meat,” and the minute I flip to green, waiters are crowding the table with shish kabob meant for a giant. The red strip means, “My cholesterol levels need a time-out.”

Steel blades are flashing and I wish I’d brought a styptic pencil for quick treatment of nicked ears. A second stomach might not hurt either. My fear of injury is unfounded however. These guys are craftsmen. Their knives glide through the perfectly-grilled meat with surgical precision, layering succulent slices onto my plate in a brisk clip.

The carnivorous cavalcade streams past the table – prime rib, lamb, sausage, chicken, short ribs, flank steak, and some varieties I don’t even recognize. Only once does a spatter of juice hit the pristine white tablecloth. Each mouthful is smoky, briny and savory. I’ve rarely had meat infused with such flavor. It’s so intense, it almost hurts. An inky-red malbec wine is poured as an accompaniment.

I wonder out loud who is tending the prolific barbecue pit, surely the sweatiest job in Manhattan. I establish my own technique for avoiding a bovine pile-up. The minute I can no longer see the plate, I turn the disk to red. Once I see white porcelain again, I turn the disk to green. Pacing is everything at churrasco. I quickly develop a fondness for the sausage, but it’s not offered as frequently. The table sets up a vigilant “sausage watch” and the minute someone spots a sword on the other side of the room I flip my disc to green. Instantly I receive hot sausage, all I can eat.

I barely have time to catch my breath when a three-tier dessert cart screeches to a halt near my left shoulder. The coconut flan looks appealing, but sounds a bit fattening. I don’t want to over-indulge (if that’s even possible at this point) so I select a demure serving of caramel flan, instead. The sheer volume of food does not deter several colleagues from selecting the jumbo-sized tiramisu. I am in awe of their endurance. We speculate about flipping our disks to green to see if the desserts will keep coming.

I am experiencing complete protein overload when I stumble towards the E-train sometime after 9 p.m.

The aftermath? Right now, I’m thumbing through my vegetarian cookbooks. I really need to work a little more celery into my diet.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Sunshine Orange Cake

Here’s an idea for those of us looking to get a little more fruit into their diets. Sunshine Orange Cake looks freshly picked from a Florida orange grove. It even slices into sections, sort of like the real thing.

According to the website of the Sunkist Growers association, oranges contain numerous health benefits. A single navel orange provides 130 percent of your daily value of Vitamin C, and contains powerful antioxidants. Oranges are fat free and are a good source of potassium and phytochemicals. Oranges even contain pectin, which may lower blood cholesterol levels.

In the spirit of full disclosure, Sunshine Orange Cake offers none of these benefits. It does, however, contain a healthy dose of butter cream frosting, which includes a touch of Vitamin A and absolutely no carbohydrates! The white cake takes care of that. I won’t get into the cholesterol discussion. No need to cast a rain cloud over all this sunshine.

If truth be told, since the famous Watermelon Cake, I’ve been a little obsessed with the idea of making confections look like real food. I’ve brainstormed a “Hard Boiled Egg Cake,” a “Pink Grapefruit Cake” a “Granny Smith Apple Cake” and even an “Okra Cake.” It is likely an expert therapist could link this all back to an early childhood penchant for playing with my food. I prefer to believe that I have an inner-artist who must express himself through the medium of cake.

I’m currently giving some serious thought to a “Broccoli Cake” – for those of us health-minded individuals who want to have our cake and eat it.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Breakfast and the Morning Headlines

Many generations of the Barritt clan have decended on America's heartland for a family wedding. I've driven a rented Chevy Impala past mile after mile of glistening corn stalks accompanied by my brothers and a car radio that insists on switching to a hip-hop station, no matter how often I try to program classical.

With the journey finally completed, we are able to settle in and enjoy reconnecting with relatives of every age. After a sound night's sleep, assisted by what was perhaps the largest strawberry marguerita ever prepared in history, I awake to explore the area and find a spot for breakfast.

I've recently abandoned my paper version of the "New York Times" in favor of the Times Reader online edition. It feels "green" and I have fewer old newspapers to dispose of. So I am intriqued by the Courier Cafe at 111 N. Race Street in Urbana, Illinois. A popular weekend breakfast spot, the building was once the home of Urbana's first daily newspaper.

Well before Urbana ever considered what news was fit to print, the location was actually the site of a 2 room log cabin, built by William Tompkin in 1837. But fifty years later, the study brick building now on the site was the center of the news business of the day, and "The Champaign County Herald" was first published in 1877. Like many news organizations, The Courier eventually fell on hard times and shut its doors on March 31, 1979.

In the 21st century, the headline is all about food, and the Courier Cafe, which opened in November, 1980 does a thriving business, serving breakfast, lunch and dinner. We are seated in a charming wood paneled booth, and are fascinated by the decor, which includes many of the original characteristics of the building, and transports us to a bygone era.

Faded yellow editons of "The Courier" are preserved in a glass case.

The "Courier Clock" is a "master clock" built in 1925 and considered the most accurate timepiece of its day.

The Palace Chandelier was saved from the Palace Opera House in Eirie, Pennsyvania before it was demolished and casts a golden glow over the room.

A "Fan-O-Plane" from the 1930s blows cool breezes over the morning diners.

BREAKING NEWS: The Banana Walnut Pancakes are fluffy and golden with fresh slices of fruit and a nutty crunch. I drizzle the warm plate with syrup, take bite, and I am ready to spread the news!

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Pineapple Upside-down Cake for the Office Luau

It doesn’t take much to provoke my inner culinary comedian. This time, it’s a young colleague we’ll call “Ms. Zany,” who hails from western Pennsylvania. She’s been ruminating over how best to use that bottle of rum she brought back from a recent holiday in Saint Martin. The inspiration hits her like a balmy Pacific breeze.

“Let’s celebrate “Hawaiian Shirt Day,” Zany suggests.

Now, I know you’re all excited, but don’t check your calendar or call up Hallmark. There’s no such thing as Hawaiian Shirt Day. Zany made it up. Although some of our colleagues are a tad skeptical, we proceed to plan the event with unfettered enthusiasm.

For me, it’s the perfect opportunity to conjure up that classic Pineapple Upside-down Cake that The Old Foodie suggested I bake a while back. The origin of the cake is a bit topsy-turvy in its own way. While I always assumed that Pineapple Upside-down Cake was an invention of the 1950s, the book “Fashionable Food” by Sylvia Lovegren reveals that Upside-down Cake made with fruit was actually an innovation of the 1920s. It was sometimes cooked in a skillet, and depending on the sophistication and upward mobility of the baker, might even go by the name “Caramel Pineapple Cake” or the very stylish “Pineapple Glacé.”

At the time of the Roaring Twenties, pineapple was considered an exotic fruit. If the recipe called for pineapple, it was often dubbed “Hawaiian,” whether the dish had any relation to the island paradise or not. It was quite the fad to serve tropical-themed “Hawaiian” menus and it allowed suburban chefs to travel the world vicariously without ever leaving the dining room. Indeed, some food marketer was well aware that such a cake could sell more canned pineapple slices, but the classic recipe from the Dole Pineapple Company calls for a box cake mix. Hoping to stay true to my culinary training, I select the “from-scratch” recipe found in the Joy of Cooking, which calls for a homemade batter made from eggs, vanilla and buttermilk.

There is something peculiarly intriguing about canned pineapple slices. Each slice is uniformly cut and identical in size. I’m not sure anything like this really exists on Earth. But, I can’t take my eyes off them, nor can I shake the thought that decades ago, an ingenious and mathematically-blessed test kitchen chef determined that exactly seven slices would fit perfectly into a nine-inch cake pan.

The maraschino cherries sit snuggly in each pineapple hole like little crimson jewels. I increase the butter and brown sugar, so the topping is especially gooey. It’s just the right-sized baking project for a weeknight. The cake is done, and I’ve got the dishes washed and my feet up by 10:30 p.m.

Hawaiian Shirt Day dawns and the New York City weather is as steamy as the South Pacific. Enthusiasm is starting to build among our associates. Even my road warrior colleague, “Splint McCullough” arrives in town for the event, ready for a little Island action. He’s purchased his Hawaiian shirt for $5.00 dollars off a clearance rack. We suspect the fabric is completely unnatural. “I’ve never been to a luau,” Splint says, “but I do like the idea of a one-ton pig roasting on a spit.” He then thinks about it for a moment. “Why do they put the apple in the pig’s mouth?” he wonders out loud. “What’s the pig gonna say?”

As pictured below, Splint has a reputation for taking the cake.

I invite a few special guests, including “Rocky” from the other end of the building. In terms of sheer mileage, our offices are about as far away as you can possibly get, so we really have to make plans to see each other. He’s been craving my watermelon cake, and while this is not exactly in that league, it’s an appropriate introduction to my retro cake addiction.

The Boss makes a perfectly-timed arrival just as the Magnum PI theme is blasting from the speakers. You kind of get the feeling he’d rather be on a beach south of New York surrounded by women. He’s sporting a classic Hawaiian shirt with multi-colored parrots that his wife has been trying to destroy for years. Splint’s advice is, “Don’t walk too close to pet shop windows.”

Our intrepid associate, “Babs Gordon” is pushing the fashion envelope. She is indeed wearing a Hawaiian shirt …that is pinned to her pullover. Babs will do anything for cake.

Zany pours some killer rum punch cocktails, we thrill to the beat of Hawaii Five-O, and I slice up the Pineapple Upside-down Cake. It is gone in about thirty seconds. In a short time, we have managed to consume a week’s worth of sugar, cheese, crackers and alcohol, as well as violating the corporate dress code and a few rules of good taste.

It is Splint, ever the culinary philosopher, who manages to sum up the occasion. “What I’ve learned from today is that when you live near active volcanoes, healthy food is an afterthought.”

Zany, meanwhile, is hard at work on a September theme event. Fortunately, she’s already rejected Splint’s first choice – “Heavy Metal Day.”

Aloha!

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Summertime and The Cooking is Easy

It’s August, the thermometer’s been sweating it out in the 90s in New York City, and my culinary muse is taking things slow. While I’m usually an “over-achiever” in the kitchen, right now I’m quite content to wander the Farmers Market in Rockefeller Center, admire the succulent summer produce, and concoct some simple menus that allow for plenty of time to prop up my feet and enjoy a glass or two of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, lush with notes of herbs and citrus.

The Everyday Food “Great Food Fast” cookbook is a fantastic resource for the summertime chef who is looking for more time to dip his toes in a cool mountain stream, literally or figuratively. Broccoli, Chickpea and Cherry Tomato Salad assembles in minutes. The broccoli can even be steamed in the microwave, and the colors are as bright and inviting as a farm stand on a country road.

Roasted Salmon with Lemon Relish from Everyday Food pairs glossy pink salmon with intensely-sweet raisins, tart lemon zest and crunchy pine nuts. Aromas of lemon and fruity olive oil tickle the nose.

A colleague shares tomatoes, garlic and leafy basil from his garden. The tomatoes are full of savory juices and the basil tempts me with smells of licorice. I turn it all into summer pasta garnished with the raw chopped vegetables, herbs and a splash of olive oil.

The baskets of peaches at the greenmarket catch my eye immediately. The pinkish-amber fruit would make a scrumptious pie, but that just feels too strenuous. Instead, visions of peach ice cream dance through my lazy head. The peaches are soaked with sweet nectar and the recipe is simple, requiring no stove-top cooking. Just cold, crisp, sweet peaches and cream.

Summer produce is sublime and just one embellishment can be miraculous. Such is the case with the sensual combination of strawberries and balsamic vinegar. I use the exquisite Balsamic Vinegar “A La Fig” from O&CO Mediterranean Food Merchant in New York’s Grand Central Terminal. The drops of balsamic splash onto the fruit and are thick, like mahogany syrup. The liquid coats the strawberries with a dark glossy sheen until they are almost an iridescent claret color. The dessert is tangy and almost hot, with notes of smoke and black pepper and sunny-sweet floral strawberries.

Although I’ve managed to cut my kitchen time considerably, my often demanding “to-do list” is effortless – listen to classic music at the botanical gardens, feel the summer breezes, watch the clouds dance across the evening sky and admire the sunset. Ambition can wait for a while. It’s summer.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Locally-Grown Canadian Feast in Ottawa

I’m standing in Jill’s kitchen in Ottawa staring at a mountain of fava bean pods.

“What do you think I’m supposed to do with them?” I ask no one in particular. Jill is actually in the dining room deciding which dishes will be used for the multi-course feast.

I was the one who thought fava beans would make a nice appetizer, but at the time I hadn’t really focused on the fact that I had to shuck three pounds of pods. The simple and elegant fava bean spread on crostini proves somewhat labor intensive. First, you must free the beans from the pods, and then par boil and shock the beans in ice water. The final step involves removing the outer skin of each individual bean before pureeing. I do hope the guests appreciate this …

A note about Canadian agriculture, since we are immersed in it now and I still have that quiz to prepare for. Farming is significant to the country’s heritage. Today, agribusiness is one of Canada’s top five industries. Wheat is a staple crop, but fruit orchards, poultry, livestock and viticulture are common throughout the provinces.

It is always a little worrisome to engage in a significant cooking project in someone else’s kitchen. Individual chefs develop their own routines. But, since we cooked together at La Varenne we manage to adopt a certain rhythm. Interestingly, Jill stores many items in her kitchen in the same location that I store them in mine. The difference is that Jill is noticeably tidier.

I work on the fava bean puree and Jill tackles the chopping, sautéing and pureeing needed to prepare chilled pea soup. I slice green beans and Jill roasts them along with beets, wrapped in aluminum foil. Jill mixes batter for a Blueberry White Chocolate Clafoutis, while I start rendering the fat from the duck breasts.

The searing of the Mariposa duck breasts proves time intensive. I borrow an apron and soon, duck fat is sizzling in the frying pan and smoke permeates the kitchen. I feel as if I have been slathered in tanning lotion. I complete the job on the duck breast and then move onto the reduction sauce. I start to improvise with the recipe a bit, and it requires straining, but we’re pleased with the results.

Jill does an expert job with the table setting, deploying a battalion of dishes, glasses cutlery and napkins. She even tucks petite colorful flowers from the garden into each napkin ring. While she finishes the table, I prepare sautéed apple slices with rosemary to accompany the foie gras.

Late in the afternoon, Jill mentions that perhaps the Escoffier menu originally considered might have been less complicated. That Escoffier was such a slacker.

It really doesn’t matter. Our results are impressive, and by 6:30 p.m. we are able to sit down for a few minutes and each partake of a glass of crème de peche with champagne, just like we did each evening at Chateau du Fey in Burgundy.

The guests arrive, many of whom attended the American Feast in Canada in March. “Medusa,” from our New York weekend last April is there, sporting a smart new hairstyle.

Due to the time spent at the stove, my feet are swollen and sweltering and I long to shed my sneakers and go barefoot. Two of the guests immediately relinquish their shoes upon entering the house, so I decide to join in what appears to be a local tradition. During dinner, I also learn that apparently, an inordinate number of people are struck by lightening in Ottawa. I wonder if this factoid will be on the quiz. Since the main dish is duck, I wax poetically about “The Big Duck of Long Island.” I’m not sure they actually believe such an oversized waterfowl exists …

The parade of courses, fresh and locally grown, begins garnished with multicolored edible flowers. The crisp fava bean crostini is a burst of pure chlorophyll with accents of garlic, thyme and lemon.

Jill pairs pan seared foie gras with apple and rosemary with a sweet sauterne. The recipe is from Restaurant Les Fougeres in Quebec. The foie gras is smooth and velvety and melts like rich gravy on the tongue.

The chilled pea soup with spinach and cream is a luminous sweet puree, the color of sea foam.

A salad of roasted beets and green beans with goat cheese and walnuts has deep, earthy flavors, contrasting with creamy cheese, delicate greens and pods that snap with the crispness of summertime.

The grilled Mariposa duck breast with fruit sauce reduction is smoky and tender. The aromatic sauce has burgundy hues, savory flavors and fruity highlights. Fresh raspberries and blueberries are scattered like jewels across the fanned slices of flavorful meat.

Jill’s Blueberry White Chocolate Clafoutis, is tall and golden, tender cake with tangy berries and chunks of white chocolate that evoke a sweet burst of sunshine.

Every dish is accompanies by an abundant selection of Canadian wines. There is no cognac, but plenty of gossip and lively conversation. The meal is a resounding success for the imaginative presentation, the taste and the companionship. Thanks, Jill!

Epilogue: I never did see a genuine Canadian Mountie during my visit, nor did I sample an authentic butter tart. My performance on the quiz of Canadian history challenged the boundaries of international diplomacy. While I correctly identified the proper height of Colonel By, I got tongue-tied during the test and confused about which prime minister was a famous orator, and which enjoyed indulging in a séance now and then. I couldn’t remember what year Parliament burned or what year the Peace Tower was built. This only means I’ll have to return for a refresher course. I hear there’s a local winter delicacy served in Ottawa after skating on the Rideau Canal called Beaver Tails, that is well worth sampling.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Ottawa Farmers Market

We are blessed with another luminous summer day, and Jill recommends that we get an early start to find the best available produce at the farmers market for our midsummer locally-grown Canadian Feast.

The Ottawa Farmers Market occurs each Sunday, May through October at Landsdowne, just near the site of the 1875 Provincial Exhibition. The centerpiece of the fairgrounds is a shimmering exhibition hall, in the style of the great crystal pavilions, known to residents as “The Cattle Castle.” A flying cow sits atop a weathervane, a testament to the area’s agricultural roots.

It is already sunny and hot, but numerous shoppers are traversing the rows of peaked tents and exploring the wares of local farmers. Jill suggests that we take an initial stroll through the entire market so we can get a sense of what’s available and so we don’t buy the first thing we see. I am clutching a scratch pad with notes on all the ingredients we will need. The menu has been designed to evoke a summer day – crisp and brilliantly-colorful with notes of sunshine, pure rain water, and earthy terrain.

Certain things remain on my “to-do list” for the visit. I have yet to spot a genuine Canadian Mountie and the search for an authentic butter tart continues. There are some pastries available in the market but no butter tarts. We cue up for bread, and Jill selects an enormous rustic loaf that we will use for crostini. Salt scatters as the baker slips the loaf into a white paper bag.

For a fleeting moment I wonder if Jill’s focus on vegetables is some kind of postscript to the menu of the Canadian Feast last March where there were very few home-grown vegetables to be had. Now, there is a bounty of seasonal produce to choose from.

We seek out bulging fava bean pods that we will use for a jade-green crostini spread.

We marvel at the palate of produce available. One vendor offers cauliflower in shades of intense purple and orange.

Crisp green beans will mingle with earthy scarlet beets and goat cheese for a roasted summer salad.

As we are about to depart, a new shipment of raspberries arrive, just picked from the field, glistening and still warm to the touch.

Laden down with summer fruits, vegetables, artisanal breads and even delicate edible flowers, we now have everything we need for preparing our locally grown Canadian feast and head for the kitchen.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Lunch in Quebec

The Ottawa River cuts a dramatic swath between the cities of Ottawa and Quebec. Jill and I cross the river and journey to the Quebec side and in short time we have left the city. It is a brilliantly sunny day. We are treated to rolling hills and greenery. These are the Gatineau Hills, part of an extensive national park area that is dotted with lakes, trails and summer cottages. Most people greet us first in French. The village of Chelsea is a quaint collection of eclectic shops and eateries.

Jill has chosen a picturesque lunch spot. Restaurant Les Fougeres is neatly trimmed in scrubbed white clapboard and the sign is framed by a cluster of wandering sunflowers. There is an expansive garden out back and a shop adjacent to the restaurant that offers cookware and specialty food. The interior of the restaurant evokes a country home in Provence. The walls are a sunny buttercup yellow, and there is rustic furniture, crisp white tablecloths, and colorful bouquets of wildflowers in small vases on each table.

The host greets us in French and whisks us to a nearby table. The menu is a charming minuet of fresh flavors and radiant colors. I order the appetizer Basil and Parmigiano Reggiano Mousse served with cherry tomatoes and toasted focaccia. The host describes it as “Summer on a Plate.” Indeed, the generous dollop of mousse tastes like a sun drenched herb garden and the tomatoes are lush, sweet and savory.

Jill selects Wild Mushroom and Brie Pie and I can’t resist the Caribou and Cranberry Tourtiere. Yes, a genuine Canadian Tourtiere, the traditional meat pie of the French Canadians! The caribou is rich, gamey and exotic with tart undertones of cranberry, cloaked in a golden flakey crust. The host pours us a lively dry rose wine from France.

Jill declines dessert, but I must try the creamy yellow Tarte au Citron. Every mouthful is bright, lemony and dazzling.

After lunch, we stroll in the garden, and enjoy the eye-catching array of summer flowers. In the afternoon, my immersion course in Canadian history continues with a visit to Kingsmere, the rambling country retreat of William Lyon MacKenzie King, the tenth Prime Minister of Canada who served for over 21 years. Intent on scoring well on my upcoming quiz on Canadian facts, I note that MacKenzie King was 5 foot 6, was a bachelor and his dog was named Pat.

In the evening, we attend a lovely dinner party with close friends of Jill. There is no cognac, but bubbly champagne flows freely as does the gossip.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Taste of Ottawa

My early morning flight from New York slides to a halt on the tarmac, on time, in the province of Ontario, Canada.

Jill, my friend from La Varenne, an accomplished food and wine aficionado and my collaborator on several shared several cooking projects (including the Tale of Two Puddings and the American Canadian Cooking Project) is there to meet me at the airport. Our agenda: food, entertaining, local history, Canadian cooking and more food.

I’ve never visited Ottawa and Jill has worked up a full list of suggestions. An e-mail informs me: “There will be no napping. I’ve got a full itinerary planned with a quiz on Ottawa history at the end!”

I know to take this direction seriously.

After several days of travel, and precious little sleep, I am in desperate need of caffeine, so our first stop is Second Cup, the authentic Canadian coffee house which competes with that other well-known place that begins with an “S.” I’m anxious to sample a genuine Canadian Butter Tart, since I had done some in-depth research on the famous pastry for the Canadian Feast. However, it appears that Butter Tarts are currently out of season at Second Cup. I settle for a Maple Latte, which certainly evokes the flavors of Canada.

Jill had already provided some advanced reading on Ottawa so that I might prepare, including a May article from the Toronto Globe and Mail titled “Portrait of A Capital,” by John Ibbitson. My favorite Ibbitson quote: “A truly great evening in Ottawa begins and ends in your friends' living room, where people have gathered for dinner, and where the evening winds down over gossip and cognac.” My expectations are understandably high.

We do a quick automobile tour of the capital city, and I’m charmed by the majestic Parliament Building resplendent with copper green peaked roofs and honey colored stone. The Peace Tower – reminiscent of that clock tower across the pond that goes by the name Ben – reaches high above the city. A Canadian Flag, with the distinctive red maple leaf against a white background, tops the tower.

Our first stop is the Byward Market, in search of ingredients for a planned feast several days from now comprised of local Canadian meats and produce. Established by Colonel John By in 1826, Byward Market is one of Canada’s most historic public markets. Remember the name Colonel By. He will come up frequently in this story.

Jill and I have debated the possibility of cooking an Escoffier inspired menu, but eventually decided the sauces and garnishes were perhaps a bit too ambitious. Instead, we’ve opted for an uncomplicated summer meal comprised of the freshest Canadia fare. The Byward Market is lined with specialty food shops, restaurants and boutiques. We visit Aubrey’s on York Street, a meat merchant located in Ottawa since 1908. The shop is framed by smart green awnings and the bright white walls are decorated with black and white photos and illuminate beautifully displayed local meats and poultry. There is even a letter from Dwight D. Eisenhower thanking Aubrey's for a delivery of meat during a visit to Canada. We stock up on plump Mariposa Duck breast and Foie Gras. The Mariposa Farm is renowned within Ontario for its tender, free range products. Brian, the proprietor of Aubrey’s chats with us and offers a primer on the care and feeding of ducks.

Here are a few facts about Ottawa, in case you too are studying for an important exam on the topic. The city is impeccably clean and well-manicured. Residents are gracious and flower blossoms are everywhere. The Rideau Canal Waterway cuts through the city. The Rideau Canal is 125 miles long and is a Canadian National Historic Site celebrating its 175th anniversary. In the winter, the canal freezes over and residents take long skating excursions. It was built between 1826 and 1831 by Colonel John By of the Royal Engineers. Are you starting to get the picture? Colonel By figured so prominently in the development of this region that Ottawa, was actually once known as "Bytown." One more fun fact: as we travel the city soaking up the history, we learn that Colonel By stood 5 feet 9 inches tall – presumably without his military hat.

The designation of Ottawa as the capital of Canada in 1857 is often debated. Some say Britain's Queen Victoria stuck a hat pin in a map halfway between Toronto and Montreal. Others say the city was chosen because it was better protected from invaders. Feeling well-prepped for my quiz, we take in the Renoir landscape exhibit at the National Gallery of Canada.

In the evening, we dine at Restaurant 18 in the Byward Market. Proving that Ottawa is indeed a small town at heart, Jill meets Lucy at the door who is a hostess at 18. They took a sommelier class together. I am optimistic about the wine selections.

Restaurant 18, promises “Canadian free-style cuisine” and the meal delivers. Jill selects briny lobster bisque with shrimp, sweetened with coconut milk and lamb flank with whipped potatoes and curry sauce. I enjoy honey ginger lacquered black cod with sweet carrot puree and sugar snap peas. Dessert is not a butter tart, but a creamy smooth peanut butter cheese cake with raspberry gelato.

The dinner is seasoned with a touch of gossip but at the conclusion, instead of cognac, we are treated to a fine port that compliments the nutty essence of the cheesecake.

Later in the evening as we walk past Parliament Hill around 11:00 p.m., we are treated to a sound and light show where colorful images of Canada shoot across the façade of the capital building like fireworks.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved