Ottawa Citizen, June 30, 2001
ZEN AND THE ART OF CULINARY MAINTENANCE
by Monique Polak
"Quail? No way! I'm not making anything I can't buy in my local grocery store!" So read one message in a protracted e-mail correspondence that began in January. Two friends and I -they from Toronto, me from Montréal - were heading to Chez Soleil, a cooking school / bed&breakfast in Stratford. We're all working women, two of whom cook all too regularly for our offspring, and so we nixed the quail - too much trouble even to eat, with all those small bones. We settled instead for sea bass for our main dish.
Half the fun, we soon agreed, was planning our getaway. Picture this: you come home one February night, and you read your latest e-mail: Let's insist on doing something chocolately for dessert."
Turns out we were wrong about the planning being half the fun. The décor at Chez Soleil told us right away that its inhabitants had a playful side. In the dining room, a clothesline is used as a curtain rod; in a a small office, we spot a shelf full of clocks - none of them working.
But it was the next morning, after a night at the theatre, that things really got cooking. It's 10:30 and we're in the cosy country-style kitchen. Our instructor is Liz Mountain. Her partner, Janet Sinclair, acts as sous-chef.
We've been joined by two other guests - Bill and Dorothy, a husband - wife team from Burlington, Ont.
The theme is Tuscan. I'm measuring flour for our homemade bread, Bill and Dorothy trim the pointy ends off artichokes, one of my pals slices garlic, and the other uses a mortar and pestle to grind almonds.
Liz and Janet are really into mortars and pestles. They don't believe in food processors - or bread machines and dishwashers. Liz says it's because cooking is her chief form of exercise. Why lift weights when you can spend fifteen minutes pounding nuts. For Janet, it's a Zen thing - and because it's just plain fun.
The cooking lessons happen all day and they're liberally sprinkled with the women's life philosophy. "It's all about taking your time. I think I started to understand God when I started to understand cooking," says Liz.
Liz and Janet describe themselves as "foodies" For them, food isn't only about sustenance and pleasure, it's also political. They try to use as many organic ingredients as possible, purchasing them from local producers.
Because both women have worked in restaurant kitchens, they know first-hand how important it is to be well organized. Liz encourages us to plan backwards. First, she has us decide what time we'd like to eat - 7:30. So we begin with the bread dough, and get the chocolate torte in the oven.
We three friends try not to smirk when we learn that Dorothy and Bill are here to learn to make quail. Our own sea bass will be grilled, so it can wait till the last minute.
We learn other stuff, too. Like how to carry a knife - point to the floor, blade behind you - and how it's better to beat egg whites in a copper bowl because you get more volume. You've got to knead bread dough until it's soft as a baby's bottom and if you leave the avocado pit in the guacamole, it won't go brown.
The smells are driving me wild. Garlic is sizzling in a pan and the chocolate torte is cooling on a wire rack. Janet and Liz teamed up in 1996 to offer classes at the B&B. The Three bedrooms can accommodate up to six people. Business has been so brisk that this year they've decided to provide accommodations to cooking school clients only.
We don't spend all day in the kitchen. After lunch, we're told to take a break. "But be back by 5:30 sharp if you want to learn to debone quail," Liz calls after us as we depart for a bit of shopping.
We seem to be turning into foodies ourselves and so we decide to give the quail lessons a chance.
"It's a Zen thing, You've got to listen to the bones," Janet tells us as she recalls once having to debone 120 quails in a night. We each spend close to half an hour deboning one small bird, but Liz assures us we'll be quicker the nest time. "Next time?" we friends say, nudging each other.
By now, it's nearly 6:30. If I were home, I tell the others, I'd be in a panic. Only an hour until the guests show up "The guests are already here!" one of my friends replies. There's another happy turn of events when Bill reveals himself to be something of an oenophile. It's B.Y.O.B. at Chez Soleil and he's brought along three bottles of wine - including one red, a Tuscan Amarone, he's had in his cellar for over a decade.
I notice on one of the clocks that does work that it's 8:30 when we sit down to eat - but never mind, Dinner is divine. The sea bass- served over an almond and walnut romesco- melts in the mouth and the quail is gamey, moist and worth the trouble, we concede.
There's something particularly delicious about sitting down to a gourmet meal you've cooked yourself - with a little help from your friends.
After a leisurely Sunday brunch, we dawdle, reluctant to leave this magical place. When we finally drive off, we resolve to at least attempt to raise our cooking standards. But I know the vacation is over when, on the train home to Montréal, I cave in and order a turkey sandwich. It comes on white bread that has been smeared with a thick layer of butter. The next day, in withdrawal, I e-mail the women at Chez Soleil.
"Gotta go," I write at the end of my message, "I'm about to marinate some chicken legs in Kraft salad dressing." So far, they haven't written back.
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