Mario Batali's El Dorado, With Big Brown Baby Seal Eyes For Headlights

While the main course in the twitterverse these past days has most certainly been a sous vide serving of smoked cheddar and municipal gravy at the home of Toronto's Mayor Ford, simmering below was a heated course of seal carpacio and frozen fish. Not to be lost in a sea of crack pipes, senate scandals and a blue screen of death on Obamacare websites, the most influential chefs in America took to the social media to rattle them sabres over those adorable little shark baits, the seals.

The saga began with a collection of well intentioned but short sighted chefs, lending their names to a Chefs For Seals campaign aimed at the Seal Hunt in Canada. Picture Kony 2012, but with shaved truffle. Problem was, instead of attacking the Seal Hunt, Chefs For Seals was taking aim at the Canadian Fishing industry. Eerily reminiscent of imprecise stat sheet of the American Drone attacks in Yemen. This little self righteous soap box also seemed not at all concerned with separating the commercial seal hunt from the Inuit and the way they survive and feed themselves living in the frozen desert they call home. Finally, the campaign also chose that most cowardly and ineffective of attacks, the boycott. Who needs DOING SOMETHING for a cause, when we can pat ourselves on the back for doing nothing? Action is so difficult when you are busy launching your new cookbook. The opposite though...what a great way to callously take food from the tables of complete strangers whilst giving a happy ending to your own special feeling of moral authority.



Anthony Bourdain was quick to apply his brand of common sense to all the seal pup hyperbole. He went to great length to point out that the seal hunt was a more complex issue than the simplistic campaign would have you believe. The Inuit literally depend on this hunt for their lives. Hard to sell the plight of those who live in the Tundra without knowing the comfort of a Canada Goose jacket against the optics of baby seals being clubbed to death by a commercial hunt. Canadian Chefs such as Michael Smith, Todd Perrin and others joined the response by pointing out that taking food off the tables of Canadian FISHERMEN has very little to do with the indiscretions of sealers. This wouldn't be so different from boycotting USDA Beef in response to the murder of innocent Muslims in American drone attacks.



A few chefs even managed to listen, asking to be removed from the Chefs For Seals campaign on the grounds that the issue was more complex than they first thought. Others, though drew their lines in the sand of the cowardly and misinformed. Cathal Armstrong, from that hub of progressive thinking, Virginia, insisted that their cause was just, and that until every baby seal has received reparations for the centuries of abuse, there was certainly no Canadian Cod to be served in his cotton-picking restaurant.



And so here we are, the line it is drawn, the curse it is cast. #SupportCanadianSeafood is now trending. But rather than fanning the flamewar by calling for the boycott of the restaurants of these misinformed and self-righteous Chefs For Seals, I'd rather see a response more fitting of the activist, rather than the coward. Don't boycott Mario Batali. Go to his restaurants, bring 6 friends, and DEMAND Canadian seafood. When they deny you this, simply shrug it off, order some tap water and a small french fries for the table, and spend 90 minutes in their valuable real estate spending no more than $10. Boycotts are for cowards. How did all them Olympic boycotts fare back in the day? I promise you more was changed by Jesse Owens embracing Hitler's finest than anything that was achieved during Cold War boycotts (medal landslides notwithstanding). Bars on Church Street not serving Stoli wont make a lick of difference next to gays and straight folk alike going to Sochi and getting all rainbows and hand-holding in the face of Senor Putin. Maybe I'm just a punk rock romantic, but for my money, action takes the cake over inaction, any day. Lets show the Chefs For Seals that it kind of sucks when you cant feed your family because someone you have never met has decided to wage an ideological war. Take their tables and spend NO MONEY. DO SOMETHING. SUPPORT CANADIAN SEAFOOD. OCCUPY THE SELF RIGHTEOUS!

Taste Napa Valley - Toronto 2013

As we creep past the borders of the Mayan Calendar, into the interstellar space of the most ancient of timekeepers, there is little doubt that the Napa Valley commands attention like no other in the world of wine. In a single generation from some hicks from the sticks turning the world of wine on its head, today's Napa is the monolith that dominates the sky. The undisputed heavy weight champion of the single varietal Cabernet Sauvignon. They have defined the standard of the California Chardonnay. Once home to a struggling class of farmers, the Silverado Trail is now more like Main Street USA in the Magic Kingdom, than anything that resembles rural America.



The meteoric rise of this regional empire leaves very little in the way of room for Chapter Two. Its very position atop Mt Olympus predicates a need to stay on program. You know what you are getting in every bottle. Very little room for those in search of a surprise. These wines remain the most popular amongst my guests in my role as a sommelier, so despite not quite scratching my anarchist tendencies, they remain amongst the most important wines I taste each year.



Taste Napa Valley Toronto 2013, this week at the Royal Ontario Museum might have passed as such, just a perfunctory necessity of my career. If not however for a few twists in Chapter 2.



In my travels and tastings with Napa producers over the past few years, nearly without exception, growers, winemakers and producers have expressed nothing but angst towards the 2010, 2011 and 2012 vintages. Cool weather, poorly timed rains, and wildfires culminated each year, prompting no doubt an increase in Rogaine prescriptions throughout the Valley. Of course this was all just chatter. The official branding machines of the Valley were hard at work to assure the buying public that everything was sunshine and rainbows. In fact days before the Napa tasting at the ROM, Wine Spectator had declared 2010 a classic vintage. That same publication however was claiming that Caymus had produced the top wine of all of California, so with all due respect, my faith in WS had taken a dent that with that issue.



For the first time I would be tasting all 3 of these vintages at once. My curiosity was stoked. There was a mystery to be solved in the Napa Valley.



LOS CARNEROS

Somewhere along the way, a nasty myth began to circulate in the wine circles. Despite some of the most prized and uniquely expressive vineyards in all of California, the rumor began that Carneros District just couldn't make great wine. It is flabbergasting to me that this could even be up for debate. There are Chardonnay, Cabernet Franc and Pinot Noir vineyards in Carneros that are amongst the best in the planet. I suppose that the titanic valuations on Cabernet Sauvignon made the search for the next To Kalon, the inevitable harbinger of doom for a land graced with wines for the more elegant minded palate.



For this kid at least, Carneros has never once lost its lustre. Thus it should have come as no surprise that the wines that made the biggest splash came from the land down under (The Mayacamus Mountains). And I wasn't alone.



Ceja Vineyards have never seen the Ontario market. They will soon. The room was ablaze in chatter about this producer. The family operation was represented by Amelia, a Chef by trade, who took great pride in producing wines that played nice with food. Both the Carneros Pinot Noir and Chardonnay were the perfect expression of the regional terroir. While the fruit was most glorious, the bottom end was thundering in its expression. It was love at first taste. And Second. And third. I had a hard time moving along to the next booth. I was prepared for a drop off in the Napa Cabernet (assuming wrongfully that this might just be the deft hand of a Burghound in a cradle of New World Burgundia) but was floored by the commanding allure of the Cab.



Ceja was not alone in representing the blessings of the Carneros District. Cuvaison, Frank Family, and of course legendary Shafer, were all pouring exceptional wines from Carneros. In the words of Al Nolan, "Viva Los Downbelows!"



ENOUGH WITH THE CATPISS

For the uninitiated, I'm merely taking the piss on the old adage that says classic Sauvignon Blanc tastes of gooseberry and cat pee. But for good reason. I have ALWAYS been at a loss as to why Napa producers have en masse for decades hung a hat on the Sauvignon Blanc grape. I get the pressure (especially in a land where real estate commands such a stratospheric price) to produce wines that sell, and no doubt Sauvignon Blanc is one of the worlds most popular white grapes. But they just don't grow well here. The theory is sound. Napa does Bordeaux grapes to the next level, and Sauvignon Blanc is after all THE white wine of the Bordelaise. However THOSE wines are blended with Semillon and there is precious little of that in Napa.



It just makes no sense that here in a showcase of the best wines from one of the world's most revered regions, nearly a quarter of the offerings were flabby, over-ripe swill, that do more to embarrass world class producers than to showcase them.



I DID notice one thing that I offer as a tip to those unwilling to uproot the SB in their vineyards in search of Napa's next big thing. There were a few producers who poured SB's with just enough acidity to balance the ripe tropical notes in their wines, to results that were solid if nearly spectacular. Twomey, Somerston, St Supery Estate, and Quintessa were all demonstrative of that rare excellence in Napa Sauvignon Blanc. And while their peers were pouring 2011, and 2010, these gems were all 2012. The lesson is that if you ARE going to drink Napa SB, you want it YOUNG. It is the only way to maintain a balancing acidity. After 2 years from harvest, even the most iconic producers in show couldn't possibly demonstrate a worthy wine.



GO TELL IT ON THE MOUNTAIN

My first dance with Spring Mountain Vineyard will be one I won't soon forget. Their representative Scotty Barbour made for great show poking fun at his Valley Floor neighbor Vivien Gay from Silver Oak/Twomey, but his point was well played in demonstrating the impact of elevation on the wines of Napa. While not exactly news (I have long cherished wines from the peaks of Diamond and Howell Mountains) I had yet to enjoy the fruits of Spring Mountain.



We began with the Sauvignon Blanc. While my previous rant betrays my lack of excitement (made even more potent by the fact they were pouring a 2010), the nose was absolutely electric, even if the wine that followed failed to impress. We moved on to the Bordeaux Blend "Elivette" from 2009, a combination of all the classic Bordeaux varietals. Despite a pronounced elegance, there was some mighty tannins giving way to a cascade of texture from front to end. We followed this with the 2009 Cabernet Sauvignon, which was the best wine I tasted all day. A massive and expressive nose gave way to a brooding giant laying waste to the little villagers below. Velvety fruit, pronounced tannins, and that distinctive texture bomb culminated in an epic masterpiece. There is not the Rossini overture to do this justice. More like Metallica being whispered Chan Marshall. Am I supposed to drink anything else now?



EXODUS



It is the inevitable end game of these types of events, having spent hours at the mercy of high alcohol monsters, us tradefolk end up lost in reverie and lost friendship. Lubed up on the Blood Of Christ, our very small industry seems so much smaller. The lights flash off to indicate the end of the event. We cluster in groups exchanging hugs and stories of our new jobs. Each comrades success feels like our own, and we spill into the streets in a Euphoria that seems to have devoured the very purpose for our days work. Its not until the next day, pouring through our notes that it comes into focus why we were there in the first place.



As to my questions about Napa Vintages 2010-2012...I can't really say. I didn't taste anything close to some of the iconic 2005 and 2007's...but alot of my favourite Cali producers were not in house (Darioush, Ramey, Tom Eddy...nowhere to be seen). And I did taste some truly exceptional gear. In addition to what I have highlighted already, wines from Silver Oak, Signorello and Stag's Leap were exceptional, and less than 3 of the chadonnays I tasted would score below 90 points.



The mystery remains. Guess I'll just have to keep drinking.

The Simcoe Stopover (or There Ain't No Folk Like Norfolk)

"We've played lots and lots of festivals and I must say that the degree of care and human thoughtfulness that has gone into this festival is really quite unique. We are all very, very fortunate."

Dan Mangan certainly channelled the hearts and minds of nearly 40,000 travellers who had descended upon the little town of Simcoe this past weekend to celebrate together during The Simcoe Stopover. Mumford and Sons travelling roadshow was from the onset bound to be something like my hometown had never seen. A struggling hamlet in the tobacco belt, Simcoe has been for most of my life a place most of us tried to get away from. Fierce pride had slowly eroded over the decades of industrial decline and untapped tourism potential. For alot of us, Simcoe ceased to be a place to be and instead a great place to be from. 

As luck would have it, one of the worlds most successful touring bands saw something that we always knew we had. The way they saw it, the land that cultivated The Band's Rick Danko must be fruitful indeed. And from that random seed, the world's most unlikely music festival came to life before our very eyes. 

For one weekend, all of us who left, would shine up our prodigal son shoes and along with 40,000 new friends light up a revival the likes this town has never known. 

Pulled Into Nazareth, Was Feeling About a Half Passed Dead

I came back to town Thursday night, 24 hours before the festival began. There was a financial boon to be had. Estimates have suggested that The Simcoe Stopover would bring $10 million to the local economy, and nobody was going to miss a beat. Every sign on every business was welcoming the Gentlemen of The Road. For those who stayed behind to keep that Norfolk lighthouse shining, this was the kind of irrigation to mitigate that seemingly endless of droughts. 

My parents had already put themselves a dinner together, which afforded me the chance to check out a new restaurant in town that I had stumbled upon oddly enough through facebook back in Toronto. Its a Shakespearean tragedy, that sitting upon the worlds largest freshwater fishing fleet on Lake Erie, and being an agricultural hub in the province of Ontario, Norfolk County has always kind of lacked on the culinary side. Worst of all, the County Seat of Simcoe was a veritable Siberia for good eats. You could drive North to Devlin's Country Bistro, pioneered in the middle of nowhere by Mark McEwan's cousin Chris Devlin. Oddly it was Chef Chuck Hughes of Montreal who put me on to The Belworth House in Waterford, whose Chef Owner Tracy Winkworth was putting together some pretty proper gear. Alternatively you could always drive South to Port Dover. David's has made a great name for itself in the Dover Coast community, and while fully stuck in 1983, The Erie Beach Hotel remains one of the great (if charmingly out of date) culinary experiences in Norfolk. You want their celery bread. Real talk. And while food snobs may disown me, the Perch and Pickerel platters at Knechtals are a thing of the most pure joy. There is crack in that batter. I am certain of it. Ignore the mural, the grease and the flies. Concentrate on the fish. And the pictures of Pierre Eliot Trudeau doing the very same thing. 

As for Simcoe, for over a decade, your best bet has been the Blue Elephant. Great people and they were doing the brewhouse thing before it was thing to do in Toronto. But ALOT of the food is frozen, and in what should be a locavores dream, Simcoe was a straight up kitchen nightmare. 

Cue the emergence of The Combine Norfolk. Chef Ryan's homecoming wasn't exactly planned, but a recent return inspired him to abandon his Chef's journey across the country in some of the most cutting edge food scenes to set up shop in his birthplace. More importantly, he is doing something that hasn't been done here before. Good honest cooking, fresh locally sourced ingredients, and EVERYTHING made from scratch on site. Its the type of food experience we take for granted in Toronto, but its absolutely a lightening rod for Simcoe. Along for the journey is Jen, whose background at Toronto's trendsetting Drake Hotel adds the kind of savvy that will go along way along with their honest rustic approach to impress the locals. Its an experience that is new enough to amaze the locals without the pretension that could alienate them. So exciting is the project that its attracted another Simcoe expat, Heather Bruce, Wine Steward from the heyday of Marben Restaurant, to move home to join the team.

My arrival on Thursday night was only their 5th night in operation, but already things were seamless. Sitting in their charming and cozy bar area I was in the best of hands with Emily, an aspiring photographer whose always had a hand in Norfolk's dining scene. Its clearly a passion for her and just about all of the staff I meet. 

The cocktail list isn't exactly groundbreaking, but it is very solid. And its a very good introduction to cocktail culture to a community that is most certainly not quite ready for Moses McIntee or Sarah Parniak. My tequila watermelon agua fresca was a thirst quenching delight on a summer night. 

In an ideal world, with all the great starters, the wood fired pizza and locally sourced entrees, I'd have sat down with 3 friends and ordered the entire menu to share amongst ourselves. Alas I am but one asshole at the bar and settle upon the lobster poutine and the perch tacos. Emily assures me I have done good and she was not lying. The poutine isn't exactly breaking new ground, but that is hardly the point of good comfort food. Lobster. Gravy. Fries. Cheese Curds. These are the things of fatness heaven. They should never be over thought. Just simply plated together in all their glory like a glutinous 4x100 relay team destined for the podium of your pending food baby. The Perch Tacos on the other hand were the definition of finesse. Simply put, in spite of the wealth of tasty perch and the decades of hungry mouths that have devoured them, Norfolk has never seen a dish like this. Every component has its place in the choir. And the sound is magical. 

I Picked Up My Bag Went Looking For a Place To Hide, When I Saw Carmine and The Devil Walking Side By Side

Not alot of people can say they have done anything 1,000 times. Life is just too big to allow for that kind of focus. Those few things with which we are so connected, tend to resonate very deeply. I have teed up at Norfolk Golf and Country Club well over a thousand times and as such, the course that once molded me into a professional golfer holds a very special place in my heart. 

I returned Friday morning before the festival, joined by my old man, former Club Professional, and Tony Nagrani, another expat home for the Stopover. I was distressed upon my arrival at the new condos being built along the driveway, stretching toward the right of the opening hole. Standing on the first tee, with the most commanding view of the town, I was a little sad that the character of this landscape was now forever altered by the unseemly capitalistic devil of new home build, in all its cutcorner ignominy. It was not long before all that was lost in the nooks and crannies of one of the oldest golf sites in the continent. For well over a century, these hills have harvested a crop of collective consciousness that the seasoned golfer cant help but soak inside of. There is a subtle genius to the old golf course that the Thomas McBroom's can never seem to duplicate, no matter how large their budgets. Holes carved of necessity rather than human vision are much like anything else in life. We are so often victims of our own intelligence. Its the life carved from the world in front of us that elicits so much more satisfaction than the one set from a blueprint. In golf and in life its our struggle that defines us. Displacing a few trees to build some new homes does nothing to alter that. Instead, the sale and development of this land ensures that the club has the financial stability to reveal its secrets to the future generations. 

From there it was down to Burning Kiln, Norfolk's flagship winery, and another place very close to my heart. From a very young age I had known Front Road outside of Turkey Point as home to my uncle's cottage. A place to fish. A place for family. For a couple of years in college a place to grow Norfolk County's OTHER sweet leaf. Decades later, newly minted as a sommelier, I was blown away that literally 100 yards away from the cottage a vineyard had been planted. Stranger yet, my ultimate hero in Ontario Winemaking, Andrzej Lipinski was overseeing the production. My third visit to Burning Kiln showed off vines that are really beginning to come into their own. Personally speaking Burning Kiln began releasing wines at least 2 years before I would have. Vines need to age, to dig into the soil, before they are worthy of the bottle. But investment requires return, and in the hands of Andrzej's appassimento techniques, they have been able to get away with releasing wines of note despite their youth. Without exception, each new vintage reveals a new layer of expression for these wines. I am seeing a development in these wines which bode tremendously well for the years to come. They are no slouch's on the marketing side either, as I note that they have bottled a bunch of both their Harvest Party White and Red as commemorative Gentlemen of The Road botttlings. This is an exciting property. The best is most certainly yet to come. 

Do Me A Favour Son Won't You Stay And Keep Ana lee Company

Friday night arrived and nobody was ready for what was to come. The downtown core was blocked from traffic and an entire festival inside a festival was displayed. Three stages, beer tents, carnival rides replaced the slow living of downtown Simcoe. The host fairgrounds were opened up in a way we had never before seen. There was a feeling of "how is this going to fit here?" as you walked toward the grounds. Once through the gates however we found a land transformed. At no point for the next two nights were there logistical nightmares. Lots of space. Lots of food. Lots of portopotties. Lots of drinking holes. You needn't worry about a thing but the music. Norfolk County came ready. 

As dusk set in the crowds were treated to one of the most endearing and organic moments I have seen in all my time in the music industry. Dan Mangan was finishing his set with his charming hit, "Robots", and as the song came to its climax, he took to the crowd and surfed amongst the arms of the masses for several minutes, leaving the crowd to take over singing over and again, "Robots need love too, they want to be loved by you." It was a moment that epitomized the entire festival, both from the music and the masses. Something very special was happening here. 

Friday night was closed by the folk tent gospel revival stylings of Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros who unleashed a psychodelic romp that was entirely worthy of the experience at hand. Much like this festival was to Norfolk, this music is not like anything most of us have seen. As the festival poured into the Friday Night Lights, you couldn't shake the vibe if you tried. 

He Said That's OK Boy Won't You Feed Him When You Can

The most glaring lesson learned Friday night was that cell phones were useless in this glut of connected humanity. Most of us took to social media and good old fashioned conversations to decide on meeting places for Saturday. By the time we found our way back Saturday afternoon, it was a homecoming party, for just about everyone I grew up with. I had friends back from as far away as China for this weekend. And it was like none of us had missed a beat. I couldn't help but think of the Eddie Vedder lyric from Corduroy "Everything has changed, absolutely nothing's changed". We have all gone on to our lives beyond Simcoe. From the little shitheads tramping on ginseng fields and dodging cops at bush parties, we have emerged as mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, travellers, entrepreneurs and bums. Over the background of a music festival we all got realize that we are every bit the people we left behind, just in new evolutions. Getting to connect with people that meant the world to you fifteen years before, and realizing how much they all continue to mean to you, even when you are half a world away, that is the kind of thing that goes beyond whose playing Bonaroo next year. This was more than a music festival, but something a whole lot bigger. 

I have heard it suggested ad nauseum in the days since, that Simcoe should do this every year. That we have proven ourselves as ambassadors of the jam, and that with this kind of economic upside, we would be silly not to replicate this. 

I COULD NOT DISAGREE MORE.

First of all pragmatically speaking, booking the kind of lineup that attracts the masses in the busy summer festival season is an Everest at best. You need to look no further than the recent Grove Festival and Riot Fest in Toronto. These were seemingly solid lineups. But we are all busy people. We have cottages, weddings, fishing trips and football games that cramp up that calender. The aforementioned festivals were literally giving away tickets and they still appeared as ghost towns, and certainly at the expense of organizers. What made The Simcoe Stopover so successful was its inherent specialness. You try to replicate those kind of intangibles and you most certainly will fail. Beyond every special moment that we forged over the past few nights, we must be anchored in the reality that is real life. We can yearn all we want but in the words of Dogen, flowers, while loved will perish, and weeds while loathed will flourish. Let us celebrate everything that was special about this weekend by keeping it special, not turning it into a franchise. Maybe in 5 years, or 10, or 20. Remember how long Woodstock waited until we came back. The alternative is to be the junkie, forever chasing the dragon. 

Take A Load Off Annie Take A Load For Free

There was no better ending to this weekend than Mumford and Sons swan song. They concluded their encore by bringing to the stage the majority of the artists who participated in the 2 day festival. As a final testament to Simcoe, and to Rick Danko, the reason we were all here in the first place, the ensemble performed the Band's most prolific gift to the world of music, "The Weight". For 8 minutes 11 bands and 40,000 people were as one, singing and dancing to every note. Anyone who doubts that there is magic in this world is a fool. Trying to capture that magic is just as fleeting. Trick is to keep them eyes open for those big moments in time, and jump right in. 

The Making of a Red Devil

After 8 years at the helm of Everton, David Moyes had accumulated critical acclaim but exactly ZERO silverware of any kind. In his first match as manager of Manchester United Football Club he took home the Community Shield and his very first trophy. This is what it means to be the manager of the world's greatest football club. Its an illustration of what it means to be a Red Devil. Its a club whose very fabric is the resultant legacy of a history drenched in greatness and achievement. A club unhindered by the devastation of the Munich Disaster, which took the lives of half of the team. A club whose grounds were not to be victim of Hitler's bombing runs, instead to be reborn into the Theatre of Dreams. A club whose modern era has been molded by the most decorated manager in the history of the sport over the past 27 years. Its in the personification of the history of greatness that breathes life into each new day for this most glorious of clubs.



You are your path.



I feel that this same truth applies to each and every one of us. We are a product of each and every day that has lead us to here and now. And I don't just mean our lives, but those that came before we ever drew breathe. At least that's my experience in the making of this particular Red Devil.



People often seem quite taken with the oddball road that has lead me to my twisted place in the world of fine wine and spirits. I sprung from the gate as a Public Policy graduate who never quite found his way into relevant fieldwork in the bureaucracies of this great nation. Instead, halfway through my undergrad I turned to the family business and achieved entry into the Canadian Professional Golfers Association. From there, in spite of 15 years in the business, 5 as a professional developing quite a progressive teaching program (if I do say so myself), I 180'd my way into the punk rock concert business. Always a tad restless, I had been moonlighting my years in the golf game in the bar trade since the age of 18. I had been playing disc jockey in a Guelph nightclub whose owners had just opened a dive bar which they wanted to feature live music. They needed a manager and I loved punk rock. Turns out Channel 62 Productions seemed alot more interesting than chasing little white balls and 300 plus concerts and 5 years later, I had arrived as kind of a big deal in the small time game of DIY punk rock. Yet having done everything I was gonna do in that trade, I said goodbye to Guelph in the hope of finally getting to some policy work in Toronto. Turns out though degrees are not much more than $50,000 rolls of toilet paper and I found myself bar backing at Bymark in the financial district. Strangely here, as I was trying to get OUT of the booze game, I discovered the most incredible passion (and justification for my suspiciously rampant thirst for alcohol), fine wine. Over the next few years I dove into wine and spirits, getting my face on a bottle of Maker's Mark in 2010, and gaining certification as a sommelier in 2011.



Pretty cool I guess. It goes a long way as to explaining why I am nowhere near the sommelier you are expecting to greet you in Yorkville.



But to me, my path was cleared through a long time before I was ever walking that shit.



The story gets all sorts of badass back towards the start of the 20th Century. My great grandma Anna Kuzyk was a bit of a warrior. I knew her as a mother of 16 kids who lived well past her 100th birthday (I was the little 9 year old making her sing Ukrainian folk songs whilst I attempted enthusiastic dance moves at her big birthday party). What I came to learn is that she was ahead by a century in my desire to get people shitfaced. Turns out that feeding 16 little Ukranians in the Prairies is no picnic, and while her husband Metro earned his blue collar keep, Anna helped finance their survival by making moonshine out of a hidden still. Alas, the Fork River General Store that retailed her secret homebrew was busted and they didn't blink at ratting her out to the authorities. Problem was property laws being what they were, her husband Metro was hauled off to jail for the illegal moonshine and her still was destroyed. With no husband to bring home a paycheque, and no still to make her contraband, she had ran out of any means to feed 16 hungry kids. Her solution to this problem was a thing of beauty. She marched 11 of the kids (those up for a bit of a hike) to the Dauphin Manitoba jail where her husband was locked up. She arrived explaining that without Metro, she had no way to feed her kids, and that until he was freed, they'd have to take on 12 new mouths to feed. Less than a week of 11 rambunctious Ukie kids crawling around the grounds was all it took for the jail to free Metro in full pardon. Dont play chicken with a Ukranian. Real Talk.

Dad's side of the fam is a bit more traditional in nature, But no less Old World. My grand dad was a bit of a jack of all trades, who had a penchant for mastering all kinds of random hobbies. Naturally winemaking was one of them. I tend to remember his immaculate wood working shop, where he was one of the last living craftsmen who were certified to refinish persimmon golf clubs, But when I look back, I couldn't miss the cold cellar devoted to a giant oak barrel in which he continually made homemade wine for decades. My dad followed suit, dropping the oak barrel for plastic bottles which in which he bottled an admittedly questionably tasting home beer.



It turns out though, that my Michael Corleone like connection to tending bar (I keep trying to get out, but they keep pulling me back in) comes pretty naturally as well. While I long knew my mumsy gave up her nursing career to join my dad in the merchant side of the golf business, I learned only recently that Deb was a barmaid. And not just any barmaid, but in fact, Hamilton Ontario's first ever female bartender. For all my rebellious posturing, my mom is the real deal. A true life renegade who broke a gender barrier in the very field I would one day call home. I think there might have been a time she wanted better for me. I think she has come to see that I was always coming here. And what is better than that?

And I haven't even touched on my Uncle Bud...but that is probably for the best.



You are your path. Your path just starts a little farther back than you think.



My hope for David Moyes, and his new charge at the helm of Manchester United, is he trusts that his path has been long paved. The making of a Red Devil is centuries in the making.

Up In Smoke (Or Don't You Dare Call It Ardberg)

I will always have a lifelong bromance associated with cigars. My old man doesn't smoke cigarettes and my mumsy won't let him smoke the reefer (which leads to the occasional stealth mission of idiotic hilarity), so our sole bonding smoke experience has centered around the cigar. The years are littered with the ghosts of Old Balls and myself sharing Cuban cigars and whatever occasion we were celebrating. Life, death, weddings, football games, successes and failures. I'll never forget our trip to Cayo Coco and our daily siesta which would begin with a glass of rum, a pair of Partagas Series 4 and my dad's introduction to hip hop.



But as natural as rum and cigar's from the home of their pinnacle performance in the land of their birth may seem, I'm certainly not spending the rest of my life in Cuba. Something gets lost in translation as the cigar travels north. Not in the tobacco, not in the bonding, but in everything else. The cooler air, the industrial smog and the daily grind alter the experience at a fundamental level. Suddenly the rum seems a little sweet in the tooth for a stogie in the Big Smoke.



This has always been where Scotch has come to the rescue. And not just any scotch. But something in the grimey peaty flex of an Islay scotch makes babies with the finest Cubans that I have smoked here at home. While i keep discount minded Bowmore around for my Partagas shorts, I have always saved Ardbeg for my Romeo & Juliet Churchills and other such luxury cigars.

Islay is a land that is very much befitting its rugged style of whiskey. A peat covered rock standing in defiance of the North Atlantic that beats its coast in eternity. Its people survive almost entirely on the backs of Deadliest Catch style fishing and making whiskey.



Ardbeg tells a story that is uniquely Islay both in its history and in the glass. Earlier this summer I shared a lunch with Brand Ambassador Ruaraidh MacIntyre at my home turf, One Restaurant. Our host Kate More of Charton Hobbs suggested some Ardbeg ceasars, which were a smokey delight. I've long been a fan of the whiskey ceasar but the peaty streak of Ardbeg made magic. Lobster spoons and smoked trout had the Turkish Bath treatment inside of that cocktail masterstroke. While Ruaraidh seemed to be blown away by the spread ("I never knew you could do foie gras on a pancake" he laughed as the huckleberry compote covered slab of goose-liver portion of lunch came to the table), I was simply mesmerized by his tales of his homeland.



While I'll leave his tales of Islay for the moment rather than for the reader, I will touch on the history of the distillery. Decimated by the oversaturation of whiskey in the 1980's, the ancient distillery was shuttered for decades, only to eventually go all Jesus after a couple of days in a cave. Strangely enough, this one time victim of over supply is amongst the best positioned to deal with the present day whiskey shortage. While many of their peers have long hung their hat on the oldest possible age designations, Ardbeg's style has always been one to reward a shorter period of aging. While many scotch whiskeys are their best in the 18-25 bracket, Ardbeg's style rewards the freshness of 10 years or less in some cases. Their finest whiskeys in fact, bear no age designation whatsoever and did so long before Macallan decided to do away with their 10, 12, 15 and 18 year olds.



But at the heart of Ardbeg, and really ANY Islay scotch, is the peat. Its what defines the island and it's whiskey. And it what makes it the ultimate cigar companion. Thus I was not about to miss out last month when Ardbeg hosted a scotch and cigar tasting at Bymark.

Once again Ruaraidh held court, no easy task in a crowd of Bay Street Alphas getting all fired up on whiskey. Things got started with some Glenmorangie. Out of place perhaps stylistically, the parent that bought the spunky child out of insolvency was at the very least a means to get our whiskey palates tickled. The scots are a frugal bunch by their nature, yet also social types. Where the Toronto club set get together at Musik Saturdays over bottles of Grey Goose, the working class Scots are famous for getting together at their local pub, pitching on a bottle of The Original and drinking theirselves into a state of stupor.



Phase 2 of the tasting took us to Ardbeg 10 Year. A few years back this wasn't general list here in Ontario, and its magical predication to cigars made it my special occasion partner for my biggest cigars. My first trip to Old Trafford, THIS was the whiskey I filled my duty capacity on. The nose explodes with peat and zesty citrus notes that would be clobbered to death with another decade in barrel. Ruaraidh also brought attention to a subtle briney note he attributes to the distillery's proximity to the sea crashing on the shore, spraying a constant terroir unto the whiskey. On the tongue, its a veritable forest of mushroom, cinnamon, black pepper marshmallows and coffee. The best part, is that it just don't stop.

We moved next to the Corryvreckan. Named after the famous whirlpool that lies north of Islay, its name comes honestly as it is certainly a whirling dirvish of flavour. Free of the limitations of age designation, this is a whiskey that is crafted entirely toward a vision. All that familiar Ardbeg elements fuze with chocolate blueberry vanilla, cherry and menthol. Its likely the least cigar friendly Ardbeg, but wino's will simply marvel at the complexity in this maelstrom.



We finish the tasting with what is now, bar none, my ultimate Cuban cigar pairing, the Uigeadial. The highest scoring whiskey of all time may bring the fanboys, but I am not the type to hang my hat on scores. This is the peaty magic of Ardbeg 10 on steroids. There is a depth and sincerity to this whiskey that I have genuinely never tasted anywhere else in wine and spirits. Its equal parts Christmas, championship football, and the day you lost your virginity. I wanted nothing more than the finest cigar money could buy to high five this little glass of heaven.



I didn't get that exactly...but instead the most pleasant of surprises.



I have to admit, while I am wide open to new experiences in wine and spirits, my mind is kind of closed when it comes to cigars. I have tasted alot. And while there are many good cigars from the Dominican Republic to the United States, there is only one place that makes GREAT cigars, and that is that little exiled home to Che Guevaraism, Cuba. There is something magical in the farming, the focus, the attention to detail, and even the civic pride that elevates the Cuban cigar beyond what a little boycot driven, supply and demand could generate.

But then, I had never had Mombacho from Nicaragua. Don't get it twisted, these won't compete with the finest $30+ a stogie brand of cigars that reign as best in show. But at $10-$15 each, these are absolutely on par with their Cuban counterparts. After talking shop with their owner, he says all the right things in regards to production methods (right down to field rotation, something that's coming to haunt even the most esteemed Cuban producers). Add to this the willingness of Nicaragua to arrive as something other than a arms centre and a path on the cocaine highway, and the recipe is there for Mombacho and Nicaraguan tobacco to arrive on the world stage.



I'll say this. It takes some kind of experience for a born rebel to sit in the capitalist cottage, surrounded by the Titans of Bay Street, and having the time of his life. This is supposed to be where me and my old man bitch about the man and how we won't be undone by the New World Order. Instead I'm Zach De La Rocha insisting Che Guevara should be our mascot. Killing in The Name Of. Sellout whiskey. Shit is real.

Andrzej Lipinski and The Next Level

Tawse Winery, armed with consecutive Canadian Winery of the Year awards, a state of the art facility, the mysterious allure of biodynamic farming and sales that might even make a Gallo blush (see what I did there?), has been dramatically serving notice of the arrival of Niagara into the world of fine wine. No less brash, and every bit as tasty, the Charles Baker's and Norman Hardie's have also been turning heads and palates. Yet without all those bells, whistles and loudspeakers (although shining off his own Ontario Winemaker of the Year Award) Andrzej Lipinski has quietly been making his own mark in the booming Niagara wine trade.

Having cut his teeth in such venerable estates as Vineland, DeSousa, Organized Crime and Foreign Affair, Andrzej presently calls Colaneri home, whilst moonlighting in Norfolk County in upstart Burning Kiln. He's revolutionized Ontario wine with his application of appassimento style (the use of dried grapes ala Amarone) in both red AND white varietals. Most respectable, he's positioned himself as somewhat of a winemaker of the people, having left the ultra premium price point of Foreign Affair to make the same quality of wine at a price more in line with the every man.



Today, he came by the lounge at ONE to showcase his new evolution. Not content to rest on the laurels of his present success, he now brings forth Big Head Wines. Not just winemaker, or consultant, Big Head is Andrzej as top of the food chain. His wines, his way. His pride in the product is unmistakable. He takes great joy in celebrating every last ounce of quality he pours into the bottle, right down to the corks.



"See these corks?" he absolutely beams while showing sommelier Curtis Elson and myself the enclosures that too many producers are merely an afterthought.



The wines deliver on his excitement.



We begin with the 2012 Chardonnay. The ripe fruit explodes from the glass, buoyed by significant oak and mallo that positions this blockbuster alongside the storied Chardonnays of California. Yet that tell-tale Niagara acid is not to be overshadowed, creating an elevation seldom seen in Chardonnay ANYWHERE. This is a true cellar candidate, as I can't wait to see how this one dances as the fruit begins to hit its Carlsberg years.



Next up is the Chenin Blanc, both from 2012 and 2011. While the 2012 vintage was for all intents and purposes the first for Big Head (and not a bad way to start, as most I have spoken with have called 2012 Niagara's best vintage EVER), one of his other enterprises backed out on the production of Chenin in 2011, leaving his farmer on the hook for a chunk of grapes. Instead of backing out on a trusted grower, he purchased the grapes for an initial vintage of Big Head. And while the 2012 has received higher accolades (a Platinum medal amongst them), its actually the 2011 that exudes a sensuality and texture that places it amongst the best Chenin Blancs I have ever tasted.



Next up is the Pinot Noir from 2012. I have never got the impression, in my 4 years of obsessing over Lipinksi wines, that Andrzej is as passionate about pinot as he is some of his other wines. Which is remarkable given the magic he has made with this grape. His Organized Crime pinots were absolutely game changing, and he has always imparted a decisive individuality on the "heartbreak grape". This one is no different. This might be his highest achievement to date with Pinot Noir. Absolutely swimming in the familiar sour cherry and root vegetable flavours pinot lovers bathe inside of, there is a striking acidity to the wine that carries everything to new heights. This is that elusive magic that grand cru Burgandies strive toward. We are not worthy.



Our tasting moves along to Syrah. I have never been convinced this is an ideal grape for Niagara, but the 2012 Big Head has me re-assessing my position. A powerful nose draws you in and the palate follows through. Perhaps all that is missing is that wildchild side of the grape that I so love (though for most tasters in the new world, this might be viewed as a plus).



We move along to a Cab Franc, Petit Verdot and Merlot blend he dubs Bigger Red. Its an uncommon blend that demonstrates a master of his craft. Chalky tannins, lush fruit and a subtle vegetal side come together to make a wine that is both gripping and approachable. Its the El Dorado of the red wine world. Character and friendliness in one seemingly effortless swoop. Bordeaux blends are a funny thing in Ontario. There are not alot of great ones. And those that are tend to be priced toward the Bay Street stratosphere. Yet here is something that under $50 a bottle would command twice that anywhere else in the province.



I have learned over the years that while making world class dry wines may be Andrzej's calling, he takes great pride in his sweet wines as well. The first, a Cabernet Franc Ice Wine, is typical of Niagara Icewine. Sweet and tasty, but one noted and flabby. I have never understood why Niagara spends so much time in the sticky mess of Icewine. But then we move on to his Vidal Icewine. This little magician just screams texture, layer upon layer of escalating flavour, which Andrzej insists is the result of the extremely tricky endeavour of using natural fermentation in icewine. Whatever the method, the delivery is unlike any I have had outside of Vin Santo and Sauternes.



The man has done it again. Big Head Wines is not merely a man cashing in on his rising star, rather a staggering elevation of his craft to a next level. I have been telling anyone who would listen for years that Niagara wines have arrived. Andrzej Lipinski has put a bold exclamation point to my notice.

Biff Tannen Says "Make Like a Tree and Get Lost"

One of my greatest pet peeves in wine service relates to the discussion of tannins. Described by Wine Bible author Karen MacNeil as "the most intellectually intruiging" aspect of wine, tannins are more simply put the most confounding concept for the untrained palate. While they are often mistaken for acid in a wine, they are another portion of the flavour profile altogether. The best analogy for strong tannins, is over-steeped tea, and they are most notable in producing that same puckering sensation on your gums. They are an important aspect of the tasting experience, as strong tannins can dominate a wine, soft ones can underscore a beautiful tasting experience, and they have a direct say in why most red wines make seafood taste metallic. In spite of the seemingly abstract nature of tannins to the new wine drinker, for the professional, they are of critical importance to understanding balance in wine.



I cannot count the amount of times that sommeliers, when summoned to a table, make a point to describe the tannins of a wine being inquired about. I cringe, each time, in equal measure to every attempt Biff Tannen makes at a clever quip in the Back To The Future trilogy.



While I am certain that describing such high minded concepts to a table pads these "stewards" ego to no end, the fact remains that the large majority of people they describe them to have no idea what they are talking about. New wine drinkers describe intimidation as the biggest obstacle in their pursuit of learning more about wine. The reality is that most people who request a sommelier, do so because they are amongst this intimidated majority. Those who feel that they are masters of the tannin universe are alot less likely to lean on the advice of others, preferring to go full on peacock mode in front of their dates, associates and friends by simply choosing the wine for the table. That leaves those poor insecure newbies at the mercy of wine snobs who feel expressing their own awesomeness is somehow more important to the dining experience than the comfort of the guests.



And you thought Biff Tannen was a bully...



Sommeliers train very hard to provide a service to the guests. I just wish more of my peers remembered that service and alienation pair worse than Barolo and Mahi Mahi.

Leaders and Followers (or how Macallan changed the game)

Growing up in Ontario's agriculture belt, I grew up to fascinating display of supply and demand in the most grassroots fashion. There is without a doubt, 2 types of farmers in the influx world of agriculture. Leaders and followers. While I was too-smart-for-his-own-good slacker teen drinking up the lyrical insight of Bad Religion's anthem of the same title, a game of leaders and followers was afoot in the field many of my friends were busy toiling in, to the ends of saving up tuition for their upcoming journey's into higher learning. Tobacco was king in Norfolk County for as long as I could remember. Delhi was home to the Tobacco Museum. Working harvest was a right of passage for high school kids looking to sock away some cash for the years to come. You weren't a kid from the County if you didn't know what a boat driver was (note: had NOTHING to do with ANYTHING associated with the water of nearby Lake Erie).



Yet nearly a decade before the political tides were to win the war against Big Tobacco, complete with indoor smoking bans, full censorship of tobacco advertising and mandatory grotesque labelling mandates from the feds, a small group of Norfolk farmers were onto something much bigger. Ginseng.



Long before tobacco was a dirty word, and before anyone knew what Gingko Biloba was, a handful of families uprooted their entire tobacco fields and planted Ginseng in every acre they could find. Almost overnight, tobacco fields were replaced with a rotating set of ginseng enclosures that were more like trampolines than farmers fields. In truth, "tramping" was more a rural Ontario reality than "cow-tipping" ever was. My dorm roommate, Brent Mels, was amongst these families who got in on Ginseng's ground floor. He once mused that at its height, Ginseng would earn up to 1000% more per acre than the tobacco plants they had uprooted.



By the time the rest of the world caught on, the followers were hurrying to plant ginseng. Meanwhile, the glut of new supply was catching up with the demand, burying the price of this suddenly sacred calf, and the leaders simply stood back and bought out farm after farm that failed once ginseng had bottomed out.



These days similar battles are played out, as Norfolk's agricultural set chase the new leaders, ahead of the curve planting Vitus Vinafera grapes or cultivating the palates of hippie friendly organic fanatics.



A similar game is afoot in the world of whiskey, as I discovered this past week at Spirit Confidential, a sprawling display of the finest brands in the Beam Global portfolio at the Evergreen Brickworks. Macallan, THE icon of scotch whiskey had unveiled their new 1824 line. While new lines of product are an every day kind of thing, this was no mere debut of some small batch offerings, but in the words of Scotch Ambassador Marc Laverdiere, "a complete paradigm shift." Macallan's new whiskeys will not compliment the familiar faces of 12, 18 and the lot, rather will be replacing them altogether. Taking a page from their American counterparts in bourbon country, Macallan will no longer be age designating their scotch.



Its the boldest of moves from such an iconic brand, already in the pole position in their market. Macallan 12 and 18 particular, have been amongst the most cherished brands in all of the world of whiskey. Tossing aside such established brand loyalty and guaranteed market share is wholly unheard of. Imagine Grey Goose abandoning their flagship vodka to dedicate themselves entirely to new , flavored styles.

Officially this shift is Macallan's response to the surging worldwide whiskey demand. Demand is rapidly outpacing many distiller's abilities to properly age their whiskeys. As age designation requires the listing of the youngest whiskey in the blend, its a much more tactful way to deal with this problem than the initial response of Maker's Mark, who were on the verge of lowering the proof of their own iconic brand (that is until public outcry instigated an almost overnight reversal of the new policy, with Maker's drafting an open letter to their fans, promising to maintain their original recipe in the face of eventual shortages over the years to come until their new distillery comes into full production). BY dispensing with the age designation, they are free to blend some younger whiskey into the mix, stretching their capacity without, in theory straying too far from the expected final product.



Having talked to a few whiskey insiders however, there seems to be more to this than mere optics in dealing with supply shortages.

First age designation itself is a bit of an outdated concept for whiskey purists. One has only to look as far as the explosion of Bourbon and Irish whiskies in the glasses of the new generation of discerning whiskey drinkers. Many of the most coveted and well crafted of worldwide whiskey thrives without the shackles of age designation. While the old school buyers continue to shell top dollar for the oldest of whiskey, the future of the market seems more concerned with the quality in the spirit rather than its age.



Second age designation leads to alot of confusion about what are the best whiskies available to the market. A recent conversation with Ruaraidh MacIntyre, brand ambassador for Islay giants Ardbeg revealed that next to people mispronunciating the brand ("its NOT ARBERG"), his biggest challenge in educating consumers about his brand was that older does not equate to better. Ardbeg in particular has a style that expresses itself best between the ages of 10-12 years old. Yet so deeply rooted is the concept of age superiority, that it has been problematic to explain to the public, their best whiskies are not their oldest.



Finally, while there is undoubtedly a worldwide surge in demand for whiskey, as pretty much all segments outside of vodka are enjoying a little game of Pacman against vodka's untouchable marketshare, SCOTCH sales specifically have not seen that same surge. Sales are higher, but nowhere near as astronomical the ascendancy of their peers in whiskey. IT takes an astute assessment of a marketplace to realize that in the face of success, there are cracks in the foundation. For the leader in scotch whiskey, there may be no better time to change the game in the most fundamental of ways.

It was only a short time ago when Courvoissier CHASED that age designation success story with their "21" label. A fantastic cognac, yet the followers seemed unable to capture the imagination of the marketplace in the way a leader could. Like some sharp forward thinking tobacco farmers in a couple of decades back, Macallan might just have the recipe to flourish for the next generation.



As to the whiskies themselves, my tasting leads me to believe that the product will not disappoint The Gold, Amber and Sienna labels all come in pricepoint at the Macallan 10 and 12 range, and offer 3 unique expressions. Indeed there is a good opportunity for fans of Macallan 12 to discover a preferred product, at a better price than they were used to paying. For the fans of Macallan 18, Ruby comes in to that pricepoint and is an absolutely astounding tasting experience. It requires almost immediately a fireplace, a Captain's chair furnished from the hide of some exotic animal on the brink of extinction, and glassware costing in the neighborhood of what most of us spend on a motor vehicle. And the $1000 a bottle set can rest at ease, as Macallan will continue to issue the familiar friends of 25 and 30 to those clinging to the world which they conquered.

My feeling is that this is brilliant. Its a turning point orchestrated by the greatest minds and palates in whiskey. It may not come without a bump in the road, but Scotch is now speaking the language of the next generation of whiskey lover. Farmers in Norfolk once spoke the language of kilns and leaves, and now the distillery rats in Scotland are talking Snow Phoenix and Ruby. Leaders and Followers. Greg Graffin speaks the truth.

Thank You Sir Alex

Perhaps the greatest suckerpunch in our curious little existence, is the singular truth that all things, no matter how great in scope, will come to an end. The finest Bordeaux will lose its fruit as it approaches its century. Empires established bold in blood will one day crumble. All of our great loves and their every embrace will one day be lost and forgotten to time. Entropy is the ultimate motherfucker.



For my part I am sure that the definitive force that propels life forward in the face of entropy is one of the most fascinating and inspiring traits of our kind. Inevitability has got nothing on our drive to make our mark. To leave our legacy. Goddamnit  WE WERE HERE.



For nearly 27 years, my entire life spent in football, Manchester United has known only one man as boss. While ends came crashing in on the hearts and minds of supporters of other clubs for all this time, Sir Alex Ferguson laid his claim on the very thrown of the sport. His record astonishing beyond words, his achievements without peer in the history of sport. Perhaps we were too busy celebrating to consider that this too would come to its end. Easy enough in the gold standard of glory forged by the Great Scot. "Manchester is my Heaven" reads the banner along the Stretford end of Old Trafford, and perhaps there was the fallacy that we were amongst immortals. The Theatre of Dreams is an ideal place to lose oneself.



At 71, having achieved beyond the scope of imagination, Sir Alex Ferguson announced his retirement from football.



This shouldn't surprise any of us. He leaves the game Champions of England. He leaves behind a club, not just a team, that seemingly stands on the shoulders of giants. Which it truly does. What has been built in these decades at Old Trafford is not a singular achievement, but rather the collective culture of the likes of Eric Cantona, Ryan Giggs, Roy Keane, David Beckham, Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, Paul Ince, Cristiano Ronaldo, Paul Scholes and right on through to every flash in the Kiki Macheda pan that delivered not trophies, but a fundamental belief that every man wearing the crest of the Red Devil could not be stopped. Its a belief that was built not from nowhere but from the glorious legacy left by a club that decided losing nearly an entire team to the Munich Air Disaster would not keep them from returning to the top of the European stage. There is nothing this club cannot do. Never has been. Sir Alex's greatest achievement lies not in tactics, recruitment, or managing personalities, but instead on building upon the storied heart of Manchester United, and introducing decades of footballers and supporters alike to the relentless BELIEF in this great club.



For me the spark came in 1999. As a Canadian kid with no real roots in football I had no real allegiances (nor any great interest) in the game or this club. Fueled in parts by Beckham-mania and by the great Kung Fu Kick from Eric Cantona I had developed a passing interest in the Red side of Manchester. At best it was a novelty. Then came that most epic of occasions at the Camp Nou in Barcelona. Bayern Munich, those everlasting monsters of European football dominated the Red Devils to a 1-0 lead as 3 minutes of injury time were added to conclude the European Championship. Those final 3 minutes became enshrined in the souls of millions, and came to define the very spirit of the club. 2 corner kicks, 2 goals, the most improbable of comebacks complete with a celebration like no other. I remember that moment as clear as any first kiss. In every moment of darkness since, I remember that day. When I was 6 over par after 6 holes in my playing test to become a CPGA professional, I thought of 2 things. My grandad, hospitalized from a recent stroke, what it would mean to him if I could turn this thing around...and Sir Alex Ferguson and how he had taught me that I ABSOLUTELY COULD turn this thing around. BELIEVE.



Players have come and gone throughout his tenure. Legends allowed to move along, because Sir Alex always had some kids ready to fill the biggest of shoes. This club was never about individuals anyhow. Its whats always seperated us from the free spending Galacticos (or more recently the Billion dollar boondoggle from our noisy neighbours). Mercenarial mentality may win games, but clubs win championships.



A lifelong supporter of the Portugese national side (Simcoe Ontario represent), I was initially delighted by Ronaldo sucking Rooney into an ill-tempered red card in the 2006 World Cup quarter-final. It would set up my the most romantic football match in my life when my 2 all time favourites, Figo and Zidane would square off in their final World Cup campaign against each other in the semi's. But as the moment faded I began to worry. Would this row tear apart the fabric of United, having its 2 great stars locked in controversy? I should have known better. Under Sir Alex the boys would together hoist many more trophies for the adoring faithful of MUFC.



Indeed for every star that United has born under Sir Alex, the satellites have just as much to say about our triumphs. I was filming an incredibly terrible film project (youtube Head Dicks for a puzzling take on the Buddy/cop comedy) in April 2009. While the crew was setting up the set, I insisted upon having the Manchester United v Aston Villa match on the tube. It was a pivotal match down the stretch toward another title run and I simply could not miss it. My heart was heavy as it appeared the match (and perhaps the title) was slipping through our grasp. Cue 17 year old substitute Frederico Macheda and his game winning strike that delivered us a last second win from nowhere. As tears poured down my cheeks the cast and crew looked at me as though I bombed the cookoo's nest. "Trust me this is big" i said laughing and crying at the same time.



It was no different the day I made my first pilgrimage to Old Trafford. It was April 2011. Having arrived at the Seven Oaks in downtown Manchester as some Canadian fellow who travelled across an ocean to see his beloved Manchester United, I was instantly a made man at one of the city's best kept late night secrets. Many dirty pints and mad shenanigans later I still count my friends at the Oaks as family. Matchday arrived and I was taken in by a pair of Irish lads who had flown in that morning from Belfast. There were many many beverages at the steps of Old Trafford and fueled by beer we descended upon the Theatre of Dreams as if we were childhood mates. In many ways we were. We've shared all the same moments for decades. Sir Alex was a grandfather to us all. Everton would prove a prickly foe. David Moyes band of underdogs play heavyweights tough. It was 0-0 going into the final minutes and the tension was like a straightjacket upon 70,000 fans, fearing the title would fall upon this failure. This time it was just another super sub, Javier, Chicharito, Hernandez. The little pea and the biggest of moments. His head to ball into the netting sending to the heavens the loudest noise I have ever experienced. Once again, victory from defeat. Once again, an English title would be ours (the 19th...placing us forever ahead of Liverpool's 18).



As the praise for Sir Alex descends this day, as the Great Flood, I am sure my piece is to be lost in the tides. Lost forever in that endless entropic tide that tugs at us harder than any gravity ever could. But that doesn't stop me from writing it. THAT is Sir Alex Ferguson's great legacy. Futility is nothing next to our spirit. And this is why I do not fear an August without him at the helm of this great club. It has never ever been about one man. It may have taken one great man for us to see this...but the foundation is there, for the next man to lead a club, standing on the shoulders of giants. Moyes, Mourinho, Klopp, hell, ME. It doesn't matter. There is NOTHING we cannot do.



Manchester Is My Heaven.

Thank You Sir Alex.

Battle Kimchi (Or in the words of Eric Cartman, "Simple, Rustic, Yeah?")

Last weeks announcement from Claudio Aprile that he was shutting the doors at Colborne Lane might have one day carried the Siesmic force to unleash a tsunami on the Toronto culinary community. He is after all, one of the most celebrated chefs in the country, and Colborne was the very flagship of his soul. In its prime it was a DEFINITIVE it-spot here in Toronto, and confidently carried the banner of molecular gastronomy over the palates of the rich and hungry.



Instead of a tsunami, it was more of a ripple of displacement. Nothing more than a large man exiting a tub of tepid bathwater.



Its no insult to Chef Aprile, whose Origin franchise has far outshined its ambitious predecessor. More a reflection of an evolution that's happened upon us almost overnight. Molecular gastronomy has died a quiet death at the hands of the proletariat. Peasant food has slayed its elitist oppressor in a quiet revolution. What began with the rise of charcuterie and country pickling, and continued as rustic Italian came into the hearts and minds, came into its stride with Ramen sensation. Before we knew it, the food snobs of Toronto had turned in full embrace toward the peasant foods of the world.



Suddenly the city's hottest chefs came from food trucks. The Top 10 lists no longer were the realm of white linen table tops, relinquishing top spots to the Burger Priest and Porchetta and Co. (much to the chagrin of the traditionalists like Chef Challet at Ici Bistro). Nowadays even that heavy handed Bistro fare has been torn down to simper roots (read the Lobster Roll and Bisque shooter at 416 Snackbar). Lobster Tail has been relegated to a garnish to a Bloody Ceasar at Rock Lobster. Yorkville's elite grab their best burger with a side of BIg Mac sauce at Mark McEwan's ONE. Young executives and Stepford Wives stand side by each in 2 hour cues for tacos served with a side of hip hop. Canada's Best New Restaurant as awarded by MacLean's Magazine, featured the foods of that most maligned culinary attrocity, the British Pub (gasp!).



I am hearing Bob Dylan's "The Times They Are A Changin" in an entirely new light.

Kimchi demonstration by Seung Ah Kim

This past weekend I had the pleasure of being invited to Battle Kimchi, the brainchild of "Seoul Food" maverick Sang Kim, hosted at his new Baldwin Street spot, Yakitori Bar. Kimchi is perhaps the ultimate "peasant food". A Korean culinary tradition passed on almost entirely through oral traditions passed down from mothers to daughters, this is as close as food gets to speaking the very heart of a culture. Sang's event not only featured some of the tastiest food I've enjoyed in some time, but also went to great lengths to speak to the sacred nature this culinary tradition held for his culture.



When I first hatched the idea for The Red Devil Blog you have haphazardly stumbled upon, I sought to host a mother daughter kimchi battle with Scarpeta's Pastry Chef Chloe. Sadly this never materialized. Fortunately Sang came to my rescue a couple years later, transforming his Korean gastro pub into Kitchen Stadium. The Battle Kimchi. 6 Chefs, 2 plates and a title on the line (as well as a place on the next Yakitori Menu).

 

Judges Table

The raw kimchi plates were all simply outstanding. The most innovative coming from Vancouver courtesy of kathy Kim, who was bold in electing to forgo chili pepper, rendering the cabbage and radish fermentation almost unrecognizable. Until the first bite that is. Super cool. Really it was impossible to discern a winner here, save for the best selections being older variants than their competitors.



It was in the applied plates that a curious divide emerged, not unlike what is unfolding in the restaurants of the city. Three of the competitors decided upon plates that while inventive, were entirely reflective of their Korean roots. Korean Story-teller Seung Ah Kim's a traditionalists dream, harmonizing beautifully between, form, function, tradition and taste. It was a perfect dish and by far the highlight of the night. Belle Park, local Caterer featured a dish based around Soba noodles. Perhaps lacking in functionality, it was striking in flavor and entirely rooted in her culture. Host Sang's sushi fusion was in keeping with the Japanese influence on his Korean dishes at Yakitori.

Mr. Park sharing his wife's noodles

On the other side a series of plates, that while tasty, even irresistible, were clear attempts at pandering to North American culture. Rebekka Hutton of Alchemy Pickle wowed many with her Kim-Cheese, a fermented radish grilled cheese bite. Sun Mi Kim, mother and student, fell flat with her Kimchi Pancake. Sure, we like pancakes over here...but lost entirely was anything that makes kimchi such an alluring trip to flavor country.  Kathy Kim's Kimchi Poutine was the talk of the room, but despite its strengths, like each of the other "fusion" dishes, there was a concrete absence of soul.



The next phase of the event was a spoken word concert featuring traditional Korean strings, told by Seung Ah Kim, relating a charming tale of Kimchi's inception as the spirit of a dead mother attempted to reunite her estranged sons. This was followed by an equally captivating demonstration on how to make kimchi yourself. Our bellies overflowing in cabbage, the crowd stood in awe and appreciation, and left with a better understanding of exactly what the kimchi experience is.

The Red Devil rubs shoulders with the Best in Show 

The heart of peasant food is not entirely rooted in taste. Rather in tradition, and more importantly what these traditions mean for the human condition. It is about the coming together of family. It is about living from what the ground gives us. Its funny that while the luddites fear the digital world has robbed us of our sense of community and personal interaction, they seem oblivious to this rise in culinary culture that is rekindling our raw humanity. The more things change, the more they stay the same. From this lens, I see it as an inescapable reaction to our own growth. All is never lost so long as the human spirit shines its light. We should learn to trust ourselves a little more.



Then again, all that food renders one a little light-headed. It might just be all that fermented vege speaking.

Beyond Good and Evil (Or Can we finally have a logical discourse on the Toronto Casino Project)

Toronto, I love you, but you're bringing me down.



I expect this sort of nonsense from the newspapers. Journo's have an obligation to their editors to pander to whatever demographic they feel gives them the best chance at selling adspace to whatever particular furniture store they feel will pony up the largest chunk of change. This, so that the scribes and the editors alike, can cash a paycheque, feed their kids, and allow for whatever indulgence makes their daily grind worth living.



I expect it from the politicians. Those who make their living based upon votes place little value on the rational, idolizing in its stead polling data ahead of vision. Pandering to the least common ballotory denominator. Rhetoric in the place of dialogue. Division in the place of unity.



But you the people...You who championed democracy and social justice, fought true bloody wars against true ruthless tyranny...well LOLZ you are just so mashed up between episodes of the zombie apocalypse and that sexy biker dude Jax and your 60 hour workweek that there just isnt much time to edumacate oneself. Instead we arm ourselves with the analytics of our CP24 Headline culture. We trust in a hollow blanket that a place we assigned ourselves in a political spectrum when we still thought Jagger bombs would find us our one true love. Apathy is one thing. But we lie to ourselves every time we open our mouths and betray the fundamental lack of analytical thinking that once put human beings on the moon. No instead we the people spend all this time telling you exactly what we think about something we spend next to no time thinking about at all.



Toronto at this very moment we sit upon one of the most defining moments our great city. And it sucks. Because the players in this great comedy are clowns at best. Our mayor, the crooked highschool football coach. Mammoliti, our very own blend of Sarah Pallin and Fox Mulder. Vaughan the false idol more interested in the golden calves than the rhetoric which forges their slander. Godfrey the court jester, bumbling about with all the grace of Woody Allen's portrayal of said character in "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex But Was Afraid to Ask". What a shady cast. Nonetheless...The Casino Toronto Debate is a play that will shape this city for the rest of our lives.



Which brings me to the first and most important point. This is not about a casino. It is about an integrated resort in which a casino takes up 5-10% of square footage. MGM has no interest in dumping a bunch of heartless slot machines in the heart of the city. That's what Woodbine is for. This entre debate got skewed from the start by calling it a Casino Debate. While "no" apologists cling to divided polling data about a casino, polling about the creation of an "integrated resort" has from the outset scored really well here in Toronto. Not that the Toronto Star would make that distinction for you. For convenience sake let me be clear that every reference in this piece is about the importance of this integrated resort. The term "casino" is employed solely for the sake of convenient reference to the topic de jour.



I have spent a great deal of time over this past year exploring this topic with the citizens I call neighbors. Being someone who believes with all my heart that the MGM/Cadillac Fairview Developement project is this city's best chance to reach the next level as a community, I was very interested in those who thought otherwise. I'm that rare asshole who feels that learning about that which you DON'T agree with empowers you to be better equipped to determine what you might actually THINK moving forward.



From the papers and the politicians it was the usual nonsense.



The Toronto Star has been betraying its stance since day one. The same newspaper that established itself as a champion of prohibition in its youth, remains stallwart in its opposition to supposed vice. Their definition of LIBERAL is only as deep as the swaying tide of the political spectrum. With your allegiance in tow, they have no qualms in spreading disinformation toward the same ends that defined their very empire.



Take their frequent attempts at portraying the "grassroots" nature of the "no" campaign. They take glee in depicting the "no" vote as a movement made from 3 Etobicoke housewives fighting the corporate interests, when in fact, the "no" campaign has been funded by Onex, a financial titan, who has vested interests in OLG's casino appearing in markets OUTSIDE of Toronto's downtown core. Onex has hired, in fact, some of the most expensive lobbyists in the business to discredit the downtown Toronto applications.



This is the same newspaper who devotes so much of its ink to pointing out (quite correctly) that this city's development is so skewed toward residential over manufacturing and retail that it is on the verge of becoming an unlivable space. Yet it is willing to wage war over a facility that would create THOUSANDS of permanent jobs because 10% (or less) of the proposed development includes a casino. It's madness.



Which brings us quite smoothly to our subpar politicians. Namely Adam Vaughan. I was once one who bought into Vaughan's hyperbole of maintaining the social conscience that defines this city. That was until he threw himself headlong behind the Mirvish Condo monstrosity proposed for the Theatre District of King Street. Long before he was jumping up and down like a Gorilla in the Mi(d)st of camera crews in rabies like opposition to the casino project, he was golden-handshaking before them same cameras, trying to convince us that what downtown Toronto needs is MORE RESIDENCES, without any infrastructure with which to serve them.



Tragically, it is not the hypocricy of the "no" side on the political front that is most challenging. Sadly, the "yes" side is advocated by a group of donkeys that has no business holding office, let alone be empowered to make such monumental decisions. That's our fault Toronto. The fact that Rob Ford, Mammoliti, and Paul Godfrey hold these pedestals from which they so often embarrass themselves is a reflection on us the voter, not their takes upon what is best for this city. Lets not victimize ourselves further by letting their inadequacies alone decide an issue, rather than the merits of the issue itself. I hate Rob Ford is not a reason to oppose this development. It is a reason to hate Rob Ford. I also hate Rob Ford. But I don't by default hate everything he loves. Otherwise you could 86 football games on Canadian soil from this day forward.



Still, some desperate, grasp at the straws of Dr. David McKeown's report on the Health impact of a casino in Toronto, as negative. It is a laugh where he highlights the pains of shiftwork and irregular hours of casino employment as the basis for his report. Given that 100% of the construction work, and 90% of the operational employment (90% of the MGM proposal is based upon retail, arts and the operation of a world class conference facility) is based upon standard employment conditions, the suggestion that a few dozen card dealers working overnights amounts to a health risk is tantamount to treason. And lets not forget that this is the same Dr. David McKeown who has fought against EVERY Ford administration proposal from inception. To pretend that this is not politcally motivated is to join the Ostrich with your head in the sand. In the words of my own dear uncle, a Toronto City Planner, "There is not a public servant in the city who wouldnt fight a Ford plan on principle alone." Remember Death of a Salesman? "Spite Willy, it is the word of your undoing."



Worse yet are these desperate attempts to portray the dismal state of affairs in towns like Atlantic City or Windsor as warning signs against the pending casino apocalypse. Apologies for those ignorant of history, but Atlantic City was a corrupt bosom for organized crime long before a casino was errected. And Windsor was an armpit of Detroit long before its desperate underemployed working class was fittering away mortgage payments at a craps table. Yet no one talks about Brantford, a decade removed from its status as the worst downtown in North America, before its downtown casino helped ressurect downtown Brantford lile a Phoenix from the ashes of Alexander Graham Bell. Casinos don't ruin towns. They may not ALWAYS save them. But they provide an opportunity. What a community does with that opportunity is entirely up to them.



What the MGM project means to Toronto is a chance to reclaim it's spot as a world class destination for conferences, employ its growing population, and MOST importantly, PAY for infastructure that is so badly needed. Aside from the obvious problems of building a transit system that we cannot afford, yet so desperately need, there is the growing unspoken elephant in the room of the coming Pan Am Games. The level of spending we need to host this event alone requires an investment MUCH greater than what we have. Never mind the downtown relief lines, we need a way to get the world from our airport to our city. We have a cheque to pay and we best hope our butts can cash it. With the provincial liberals fighting a losing war against the teachers, and in danger of making way for Hudak's common sense revolution v2.0 there is no chance this money is coming from anywhere outside ourselves.



So here we are Toronto. This is our chance. Our chance to in one fell swoop, pay our bills, solve our problems, and in the process create a better Toronto for decades to come. Discretion being the better part of valour, I cannot get into details, but suffice it to say I have been privy to the same development proposal that graced Toronto city council this week. What is on the table is a REVOLUTION of Toronto's waterfront. The opportunity to define us as one of the great destinations in the world. The cost is merely the square footage of a few high end condos opening up to table games (as if these same table games aren't going on under the watchful eye of organized crime *cough* markham). And perhaps the notion that ideology is a higher goal than the greater good. Put aside what you SHOULD think. Dig a little, and discover what you DO think.