In my hand, I’m holding chit #78. I’m at the back of a mosh-pit of shoppers, and the air of a large butcher shop is bellowing like an atonal accordion. The number displayed flashes #38, then #39. I am frozen in the moment. Number 40 is called, and the crowd shifts. Thirty-eight decisions before mine. My heart quickens. I have no idea what I’m here to buy. All I did know is I wanted to cook a beauty for my Betty.
The shop is European Quality Meats and Sausages in Toronto’s Kensington market; the year is 1990 and I am twenty years old. I am unaware of the seedling germinating in me as I look over the room. I did not know I would eventually work in some of Canada’s best kitchens. That one day I would have my own restaurant, create tasting menus, win over the critics, expand—and witness it all collapse into a financial black hole. Nor did I know, I would climb out of my despair and find true culinary happiness in my second establishment, a small restaurant de quartier in Montreal called GUS, where I have been for the last ten years.
No, in 1990, I have only a patchwork of food knowledge. My culinary education consists of an old edition of The Joy of Cooking (a red herring of a book, leading North Americans away from good food for generations), copies of Gourmet and Bon Appetit magazines browsed during visits to my aunt and uncle, and as a part-time busboy in a fine dining restaurant. From which I was repeatedly ousted by chefs, barking obscenities in French and English, for asking too many questions about their craft. There is little in my playbook to help me as I am jostled from behind by an impatient shopper (perhaps holding chit #82). So, I begin to slither forward through the crowd, apologizing for every elbow I receive to my ribs.
“Number Fifty-Two, Numero Cinquenta e Dois. Pięćdziesiąt Dwa.” I witness the half-verbal exchanges rapidly and repeatedly unfold at the front. Single nouns—beef, chicken, pork—are hurled over the refrigerated display case, accompanied by the pointing of an arm at a piece of meat. Quick fingers are raised, by both butcher and shopper, to confirm the amount of the desired meat. The butcher dives into the fridge and resurfaces with the order. Both sides of the transaction nod their head as the weight and price is confirmed, and only then does packaging proceed. Kensington Market is an oasis in Toronto’s concrete and glass downtown. It has been lovingly lacquered with layers of culture by the immigrants who found it as their first home. The new Canadians created a mishmash of storefronts in old Victorian row housing selling vegetables, cheese, oils, spices, incense, and clothing, from diverse places. A sensory grout fills every corner with smells, tastes, sounds, and chaotic images. It’s nothing like the aseptic suburban malls I grew up with, and I love it. In the butcher shop, the chaotic efficiency of it all makes my pulse leap and my neck begin to sweat. I worry that I will fail where others seemed so well rehearsed. And I still have no idea what noun I should be yelling- beef, chicken, pork?
#70 arrives, and my panic releases an untapped culinary resource from my childhood: Canadian daytime cooking shows. First up is Bruno Gerussi. I can see him sprinting onto the studio set of Celebrity Cooks (1975-1987). His tan blazer and an enormous Chelsea collared shirt are open to the sternum, revealing gold and silver chains nestled in his shaggy chest. When I was young, Gerussi’s thick permed hair and bushy moustache were famous across Canada as he also appeared for 19 seasons in comedy-drama series called The Beachcombers. A show about, believe it or not, a ‘lumber salvager’ in British Columbia.
I quickly review one of his shows in my head. Gerussi is working his routine: a quick interview of a B-Class actor or a short set by an irrelevant stand-up comic at centre stage, then Gerussi and his guest would head to the kitchen, knock back wine, and banter their way through a recipe. All mishaps in the kitchen were embraced with laughter. I see a sirloin steak placed into a square electric skillet. Before the meat is properly seared, handfuls of sliced onions and button mushrooms are added to the pan, and doused in red wine. After a commercial break, the two bon vivants finish the bottle of wine as they laugh, eat their creation, and love life.
The steak seems easy enough, I think to myself, as I stand in the middle of a long, intimidating display counter with twenty-to-thirty butchers scurrying behind. I grasp my chit, #78, with a sweaty palm. The air is heavy with the dull smell of fresh meat and late-in-the-day perfume. “Number Seventy-Five! Seventy-five,” the butcher calls, and I fall into doubt. ‘Maybe we should have chicken?’ I say to myself. Perhaps the sweet-and-sour chicken from Wok with Yan (1980-1995).
Stephan Yan’s recipes were simple and quick. He delivered them in a thick Cantonese accent, infused with one-liners that spawned from his every act in the kitchen. In each episode, before he would begin to cook, Yan would unfold his apron in a ceremonial manner, before putting it over his head. On the apron, in a ubiquitous Cooper Black font from the early eighties, was printed a new pun on the word ‘Wok,’ such as ‘Wok the Heck,’ ‘Don’t Wok the Boat,’ ‘Wok Me Amadeus,’ or the infamous ‘Wok on The Wild Side.” On cue, the studio audience would break into great laughter and applause.
Though Yan distracted himself with his own jokes, and appeared lost at times, his cooking always remained solid. He would demonstrate how to bathe garlic, ginger, and chilies in hot oil, before removing them and proceeding with the remaining ingredients, leaving a ghostly flavour in the dish. It’s a technique I still use today. Yan was loved by his studio audience that consisted primarily of Caucasian women, who often drew the attention of the studio camera as they laughed at Yan’s jokes. Today, the show could be the cornerstone of a thesis on Canadian culture and Orientalism.
“Number 76!” I’m now dangerously close to the counter. If The Urban Peasant (1992-2001) had been on air in 1990, I would have had James Barber’s words to soothe me in my butcher shop drama. Later in life, on lazy afternoons in university, I began to watch Barber and listen carefully to his teachings, leaving Kant and Hegel aside. I was hypnotized by his slow speech and hampered movements; he was like an old uncle, who took delight in teaching me cookery. Reassuring all the way through, he would say, “as long as it is made with salt, flavour, and love. Do not worry, that is what is important.” I often imagine him saying to me, “Do not worry if you have no tarragon, David, use sage. It will be just fine.” But as I stood in the butcher shop, I had not yet heard those calming words.
Number 77 comes in a Portuguese accent from one butcher, immediately followed by #78 in a Polish accent from another. Blood rushing to my ears, I hear myself squeak out ‘sirloin steak please.’ Then repeating the words more forcefully; arms wave, fingers are raised. The transaction goes by with blinding speed yet feels as slow as a car accident. Before three moments have passed, I am outside the shop, breathing fresh cold air, searching for the button mushrooms and onions as I walk from one outdoor stall to another. The sun has just gone down, and a light snow begins to fall gently onto the shop signs and awnings as I head home to cook.
Today at GUS, I am often asked where the ideas for my menus come from. “What’s your inspiration?” customers want to know. I always stumble in my answer. Cooking is like a set of Lego, with each oddly shaped block of knowledge, regardless of where it is found, being essential to building a castle or a dish. I create my dishes from a synthesis of experience, wonder, and curiosity. I loved those trips to the market and those old cooking shows. I am still learning from them today.
In the end, Gerussi’s recipe did not turn out well. I can still see the grey scum that formed on the wine, and the meat twisting as it began to boil. Maybe I didn’t remember the recipe well enough from my childhood. However, my Betty and I did drink the wine, just as Gerussi did, and laughed as we discussed my traumatic experience at the market and all my mishaps in the kitchen. And, as Barber would say, ‘everything was fine.’