Life in Cowtown

As I type this, it’s 12 C outside.

Yep, 12 in July.

While Toronto, Montreal and many other tracts of the country are literally cooking, we in our marvelous Calgary are enjoying a fall weather revival.

My friend just emailed me to say ‘Bet you’re glad you didn’t plant that garden now, hey?’  and in fact I am. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but two awful summers were enough for me to see which way the light in shining, (or not as is often the case in Calgary), and now I can sit back and enjoy every cold, windy, rainy day.

But cold or not, unpredictable or not, our summers are what we get, and what we make of them, so it was with great excitement that I took myself down to a fairly new BBQ shack off the beaten track.

Located in the industrial area, and housed in a revamped garage, Holy Smoke BBQ and Smokepit first opened to little fanfare with limited  hours, and immediately began to pick up local buzz. As their popularity grew they stayed open later and more, and shortly after their weekend hours came into effect I was there waving my napkin.

For some reason BBQ like Mexican food immediately craps out when it reaches the prairies. We have had any number of Mexican restaurants and BBQ joints try and fail in Calgary, and at best both could have been called ‘meh’. Some sort of invisible border stretches over the land this far north reducing greatly the taste and spirit of the food. Perhaps those fiery foods draw heavily on their landscape and terrain and become watered down when traveling to the land of snow and winds instead of the hotter, slower climates they originated in.

But Holy Smoke appears to be bucking the trend. You can smell the amazing, mouthwatering smoke as you approach the low building, and the few communal tables were full inside. They have a limited but good menu, and we sort of ordered one of each items, all the sides they hadn’t sold out of yet, and 25 BBQ ribs at a buck a piece. Ahem.

Hauling our bounty home, we proceeded to chow with abandon, pausing only to establish if a certain sauce goes better with a certain meat.

Here’s some photos from best to worst, worst being very very relative:

The pulled pork and the beef brisket – side by side – heavenly combo. Both of the sandwiches were fantastic. Soft, smoky meat, tender, flavorful and only enhanced by the solidly good dipping sauces. The buns held up to the meats well, and like a mother pretending she doesn’t have a favorite child, I’d be hard pressed to choose between them. Which is why you should always grab a friend and share.

The sides – we tried one of each that was available and the cornbread broke, so no photo. All the sides were nicely inoffensive. The macaroni salad and baked beans were pretty good – better than supermarket but not in the homemade category. The coleslaw avoided the uber-sweet mayonnaise dripping calorie-fest and was pretty decent but still too sweet for my tastes. My favorite was the broken cornbread – more of a sweet corn muffin than cornbread it was a lovely foil for the smoky meat. I wish I’d gotten another one.

Oddly enough the ribs were not as good as they looked. They were a bit shy of easy to pull off the bone, requiring some mastication skillz and membrane pulling, but worst of all they committed a cardinal meat sin – no salt. I’m sure they had SOME salt on them, but none that we could detect, so you had the odd combination of smoke, spices, and no salt.  Salt is some imperative to seasoning meat that there are reams of books on the subject, and every bite was an odd disappointment until we seasoned them ourselves, stuck ‘em in the oven to warm up, and enjoyed them for the next three days.  But it was not what stellar ribs should be like.

So overall  – I am thrilled Holy Smoke is here. They are head and shoulders above previous BBQ offerings Calgary’s had. Their sandwiches are works of art, their sides and sauces a fair addition to the meatfest, their ribs can use some work, and on their site Brunswick Stew has just appeared, which is on my food bucket list.

4.2/5

Holy Smoke BBQ and Smokepit

4640 Manhattan Rd SE

(403) 605-9365

Mon-Fri: 10-8

Sat: 11-4

I’ve quite a bit of stuff to blog about, but I could not find my camera to PC cord for a few weeks, and so had zero photos to show for the last while of activity. Just as I was about to order a new cord online, James found it somewhere in the basement where it found itself after a fit of zealous de-cluttering. And all was well in the world.

You ever do that? Clean so well that you never find something again? I swear three quarters of the battle in house cleaning is finding places to put stuff, and not just temporary out of sight solutions either, but proper homes for all the ‘stuff’ that finds its way into our homes. And I’m a pretty zealous thrower-outer - I regularly toss, recycle and donate all sorts of crap that we no longer need and aren’t sure where it came from in the first place.

Anyhow, the other day found me in the Mission area of Calgary, where I managed to hit up not only Cruffs, but Yann Haute Patisserie while waiting for my ride.  Cruffs was closer to my destination so I popped in there for a quick Cream Puff – because I love cream puffs. There is not much to the store -  the counter where magic happens and a row of bar stools facing the huge store window. 

The cream puffs come in two sizes – small and huge, and since I hardly eat sweets I got huge. You know, to compensate.  The shells are pre-baked and filled with cream filling to order – so you get a perfectly creamy treat with no sogginess.  I asked the genleman at the counter what his favorite flavor was, and went with the recommended hazelnut.

The puff was perfectly crispy and tasted pretty good - none of the fake shortening-like flavor you get with supermarket frozen cream puffs, but none of the elusive taste of fresh cream puffs baked with butter. The filling was perfectly balanced blend of creamy and hazelnut, and the whole thing disappeared alarmingly quickly. Then I got one to take home.  Verdict? Perfectly lovely but not craving inducing.

3.5/5

Cruffs

2312A – 4St SW 

Wandering just a bit further, you come to a lovely jolly yellow house off 4th street, and ascending up the steps you end up in a house-turned-bakery that quickly took Calgary by storm, quickly becoming known for their macarons and other baked goods.  And here I have a confession to make. As well as being a bit indifferent towards dessert, I am not the world’s biggest fan of macarons. I’ve tried them a few times, and they just don’t do anything for me. So I blew thirty bucks on other stuff, like the best baguette I’ve tried in Calgary:

And very tasty croissants:

And the piece de resistance – a chocolate/hazelnut beignet that could make you weep. It is so good they’ve been sold out every time I’ve been back. I wish they would hang a sign when they have them or triple the batches or something. On the other hand I’m sure my waistline thanks the rarity factor.

5/5

Yann Haute Patisserie

329 23AVE SW

I picked up this book on the recommendation of my friend and massage therapist who is an avid runner. I am as far removed from an avid runner as Starbucks is from good coffee, yet I love a good book on any subject and this one hit all the best seller lists.  And it’s a hell of a story. Any of the subplots could have been a book in their own right, and the overarching story pertains to the Tarahumara tribe from Mexico who live in the remotest depths of an unreachable canyon and who run ultramarathons for fun in homemade sandals, and the westerner who finds themselves on the fringes of their society.

As the author says the book arose out of pain. Specifically the pain of running. Barely qualified as a runner, he managed to amass an impressive array of injuries in a very short time, and conventional wisdom told him to get used to it – our bodies are not meant to run, and injuries are inevitable. Statistics bear this out – anywhere from 60-85% of runners incur some sort of injury each year, which seems statistically far more dangerous than riding a motorcycle without a helmet or pissing off a bear in the woods.

Yet there are people who engage in ultrarunning with stunning regularity, running distances that far outpace something as puny as a marathon over terrain so challenging that there shouldn’t be a way for the human body to survive, like the Leadville 100 or Badwater.  Something along the lines of running for 15-30 hours straight, fording rivers, climbing mountains, at alpine altitude or inside a furnace, for no money or glory other than the exhiliration of testing every limit of human endurance.

And of course, there is the linchpin to the story – the Tarahumara, or the Running People who run ultramarathons for fun, in sandals, en masse, fueled by beer, corn and occasionally chia seeds, as well as enjoying great health and serenity. Brought out of the jungle by an ambitious photographer to race in the Leadville 100, against a legendary female ultramarathoner Ann Trason, they wiped the competition with a smile on their face – once they figured out what the point was, and in the media hoopla that followed decided that this is too loud and crazy, never to return.

Written in an exhuberant, whopping style, the book is full of hyperbole and bold language, underscoring each of author’s sweeping assertions. The description of the Leadville race is taut with tension and far more exciting than you’d think, a grand adventure full of suspence and sheer admiration for the incredible feats that occurred.  After this race, one needs a break and the book delivers, easing the pace with segments on anthropology, paleontology, and some larger than life characters in present time.

For there was a man, whom we briefly meet at the very beginning, who had a dream.  And his dream was to run a race with the Tarahumara that he adopted, and the kindred spirits he admired across the continent.  The man who acquired the nickname of Caballo Blanco (White Horse), once was a full fledged member of the rather unhealthy society we are all a part of, and chose to leave it all behind to build a stone hut deep in the jungle near the Tarahumara and run crazy distances exploring his new terrain.  He felt a desire to meet and race with the ultra legend Scott Jurek, whose incredible athletic accomplishments are only eclipsed by his kindness and grace as a human being.

Slowly and improbably, a motley crew of ultra runners amassed – people whose personalities are larger than life, at least as captured by the author.  A young couple, whose zest for life, legendary partying and recuperative skills I can only deeply envy, Barefoot Ted – the man who inspired the Vibram Five Fingers shoe craze,  Erik the running coach who rebuilt the author’s running form from the ground up in order to be able to participate, and Luis the photographer. Getting in one piece to the edge of the Copper Canyon on a hope and a prayer, they take over the small mountain town, joined by the Tarahumara runners wishing to pit themselves against Scott Jurek – The Deer as he’s christened.

And a joyful race, a celebration of running for its own sake happens. Over an inspired fifty miles of gorgeous but forbidding terrain, the runners have an epic race, the kind of thing that seems to have serendipity guiding it, and an ending full of hope. It’s an inspired book, and leads one to like and believe in people again, something that’s easy to forget in daily life sometimes.  And photos of which are posted on the author’s website to my deep delight. Looks like the race became an annual event with most runners returning for a celebratory rematch.

Of course no book is perfect, and this one opens up some tantalizing questions. You can tell that the science on running, and barefoot running is far from complete. And if everyone is born to run, then why is it that most people who do still injure themselves, despite great form, shoes or no shoes, and all sorts of terrain? Including many of the runners in the book and my massage therapist who recently tore his calf muscle.  Googling some of the larger than life characters is fascinating and mysterious as well, Ann Trason is done with ultra running due to injuries, and although still active in the sport will likely never run an ultra again. (Although her Leadville record from the books’ race is still unbeaten).

Most of the principals in the book have very little to say about it. You can find glimpses of quotes on the internet that Ann Trason has been angry at her portrayal in the book, and Jenn Shelton is said to have  pointed out that the book omits Tarahumara poverty while romanticising a way of life that is dissappearing like sand in an hourglass. (Her and partner donated their race winnings to the native racers). But few of them have published interviews online offering  a candid opinion about the story, and we all know how people can have a vastly different perception of the same event.

And of course there is the undercurrent that the way of life and isolation the Tarahumara have enjoyed for hundreds of years is disappearing, and there truly IS no place remote enough for an indigenous people to hide from the onslaught of our world. Nope the book does not focus on it, but reading between the lines and more Googling quickly leads to the same sad feeling you get while reading about the disappearing tigers or gorillas.  We as a species are no good at sharing the planet and frankly we have encroached enough on their traditional way of life that it’s probably too late. Now it’s becoming a vicious circle of education? poverty? get everyone a television? and that’s too big of a topic for a book review post. Although there is a non-profit run by Caballo now.

None of this takes away from the wonderfulness, epic-ness and joie de vivre of the book itself though, which has earned a spot on my bookshelf and got the author a sure buyer of his future books.  I won’t lie and say it inspired me to run, it didn’t, but the joy of moving your body is infectious, and my workouts have had a lightness and zest to them that only genuine inspiration can bring.