Food With A Point

Perhaps it’s because I have the knack for selecting the line with the biggest holdup or the most confused patron/clerk, but I’ve accumulated a few observations in my years as a shopper that have lead me to believe that the supermarket is truly the Mecca for people-watching. National Geographic, eat your heart out – the grocery store is where the real “never-before-seen but critically important observations” regarding the human race and its evolution can be made.

The supermarket is full of contradictions. It is an exercise in duality. It’s not just that it attempts to mimic the market with its freshly misted produce that has been sitting in warehouses filled with preservative gas for weeks, or the plastic “parsley” that lines the trays of take-out options. It is about how it highlights so well the true and secret selves of the consumers. While we may not speak to people other than the cashier at the checkout, our actions speak volumes, often more than we think. Here are my top three supermarket genenra.

She peruses the aisles in work out clothes, a scowl on her face, disgusted by the preservatives, MSG, and obvious lack of freshness. Every label is scrutinized and other than the products that say organic and antibiotic-free, her basket is minimally filled – she adheres to the school of shopping a few times a week in order to eat seasonally and with diversity. At the cash, a brief overview of your basket generally results in a look of sadness post a full examination of your bleak skin and evident lack of health, a consequence of your poor dietary choices. “When will people learn” is probably what’s going through her mind as she munches on a hemp-flavoured multigrain Brazilian rainforest fruit raw bar. Once her purchases are bleeped through and her total announced, she looks up from her bag and casually asks the cashier for a pack of cigarettes…

Every Sunday, when the new bag of flyers gets delivered, he makes it a point to sit down and carefully read the store specials, clip the coupons and take note of the new arrivals. Filling the wallet compartment specifically reserved for those much desired 50 cent rebates and buy-one-get-one offers, he ensures that no bargain is ever disregarded and all discounts are capitalized on. Once at the cash, he watches the tally on the screen like a hawk, verifying that all manufacturer and store fiscal promises are respected and has no problem arguing the discrepancies when they occur. He likes to take his time because he is entitled to do so, especially when it means savings are due. However, he always pays with $100 bills, never has any change and only shops at 6pm on Monday evenings during the big pre-dinner rush…

My personal favourite is the cashier who is in full conversation with the other cashier, three aisles down. Hollering to each other, they discuss the minutia of their everyday. “Do you have change of a $50 bill? Are you working next Sunday? Can you believe that customer?” After the last question, that’s when the real conversation starts – a complete dissection of all the poor manners they encounter on a daily basis. They speak of customers that never look them in the eye, who rudely ask for lottery tickets, who forget to ask for car orders, who bitch about prices being high while they swipe their gold card in order to pay for their purchases, etc, etc. “Honestly” they ask each other in exasperated tones, “what’s wrong with the world today? People just have so little awareness of the impact of their behaviour and how this influences the quality of life of those around them”. I am particularly fond of being a sound barrier to this dialogue while watching the outraged cashier hurl my groceries across the scanner, throw my thin-skinned fruit down to the packer and chuck my canned goods on top of my lettuce greens inside the plastic bag that she ripped while grabbing it to stuff my purchases inside. That’s after she forgot to account for my coupon and didn’t let me ask for a withdrawal. Thanks Monique…

The supermarket is the truest expression of the urban jungle. Pay careful attention and you’re likely to spot the vast variety of behaviours that add spice to food shopping. It would just be too easy if all the cashiers were always free… And truthfully, if it wasn’t for the fickle fauna common to this environment who extend our time in line, when would we ever have a chance to read those tabloids we all deny enjoying?

Solanum tuberosum or the potato is the chameleon of produce. Not in terms of color, although it does come in a variety of hues, but more in terms of how it manages to lend itself to numerous preparations and treatments. Unassuming, this tuber can be anything it wants and always has a place on the plate.

But beware, not all spuds are created alike, particularly depending on how they are prepared or which sub-genus they belong to. Similarly, we can all belong to the same family, but can find ourselves stressing the distinctions between them (obnoxious brother-in-law) and us (civilized and charming). Surely waffle-cut or curly fries are a little inappropriate to serve next to a perfectly roasted deer sirloin with a red-wine reduction and forest mushrooms. Likewise, I don’t really know how a take-out burger would fare with a fine square of scalloped potatoes…

In fact, the divisions within a dynasty could find interesting metaphors using the common starch that constitutes the world’s largest tuber crop… Below I present some of the more obvious comparisons I could conceive or have had personal experience with. Hopefully you are not familiar with all of them…

Gratin dauphinois: The Harvard-educated cousin you rarely see and always makes you feel a little inadequate, even if you know that rising to his level is just a question of effort and not necessarily of talent.

Pommes parisienne: The great aunt, related somehow but you don’t know from which side of the family. Occasionally she appears at family functions but is always bland. It’s not because she wears her pearls that she brings anything particularly special to gatherings, much less discussions. And she always manages to ramble on about insipid “back in the day” type anecdotes.

Fries: The rebellious cousin that everyone knows is a bad influence, but engrosses everyone none the less. He always knows how to bring the party and people are always at ease with him. Even when he gets a bit out of hand or lacks a bit of class, people tend to gravitate, even if they regret it later

Roasted: The “nouveau riche” member of the family who doesn’t hesitate to tell you all about his new acquisitions, the designer who decorated his home and the pseudo-prestige of the people he surrounds himself with. You always feel the need to remind him that he is just like everyone else, regardless of the label on his suit… And his cologne tends to reek of rosemary…

Fingerling: The newest member to the family; he's interesting but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s given more credit than he deserves.

Mashed: The thing about this family member is that he epitomizes the “what you see is what you get” cliché. In fact, that’s why everyone enjoys his company and he is always welcome at family functions. There is honesty in mashed potatoes because he doesn’t take himself so seriously. He is just as good dressed up as he is casual. Introduce him to new acquaintances, he fits the bill – mingling with others while never overpowering them or undermining himself. He knows how to share the spotlight. He can be the glue that binds, the base sustaining more extravagant presentations and the cover for composite situations. He always gets an invite.

Potatoes, rooted in our daily lives in so many more ways than we think, or wish to admit, remain an essential part of our pantry and a staple in our kitchen. And this, whether we like it or not.

There is something about this time of the year that makes me wax nostalgic about family gatherings. As much as this is a time to be grateful, for many it’s also a time to be fearful. The oft dreaded reunions “en famille” can be draining and this sentiment is often felt even before one gets a chance to take off their boots at the entrance. Oddly, in my experience “le réveillon” always offers a lovely banquet of food and fights and yet it remains an event I look forward to. This traditional festive fiasco is intriguing to witness on so many levels and as is de rigueur on all the national television chains, I too would like to replay this classic for all to enjoy.

It always starts with an invitation. No, sorry, first there are exhausting discussions about who is hosting the event, with all proposing to help but never offering their space. The final destination is determined by  a convoluted formula that factors in previous participation, number of small children and pets in the house, spousal relations, accessibility and size of kitchen. The squabbles may brew here, but we’re talking fumes, never a full simmer. So the (un)official invitation is put out there and the process is underway.

In some particularly sadistic households, other than bringing gifts (we’ll get to that in a bit), games may be suggested. These can include such terrible ideas as secret gift exchanges, guess what is in the package scenarios and steal someone elses or keep the one you chose set-ups. This programme add-on is communicated at the time of the invitation and all participants, even those who think it’s a very stupid idea, are expected to participate AND love every second of it. Why? Parce que c’est noël…

All members are expected to bring some sort of food contribution. A proper French Canadian Christmas buffet includes at least the following items:

• A ragoût de pattes
• Tourtière (variations on the theme are acceptable if from the Saguenay /Lac St-Jean)
• A turkey, ideally made by a septuagenarian
• A three-compartment dish containing: sweet gherkins, pickled onions, green olives stuffed with red peppers
• Party sandwiches, especially those that nobody eats because they have a maraschino cherry and cream cheese filling as well as the all-pleasing egg salad variety
• A potato salad, made by a Mon’oncle
• Mashed potatoes
• A medley of vegetables (if any) that has been steamed to oblivion and must include wax beans
• Ketchup – for the tourtière

It is when Grand-maman brings out her turkey and places it on table that there is a brief sense of cohesion and a true sense of family.  Even if it is just a fleeting moment, everyone knows why they are present and why everyone one else is supposed to be there. It is important to take care to notice this moment – it generally dissipate quickly, especially as the gift-opening session nears.

For dessert, it is essential that there be Christmas cake in the form of a decorated log. While the outside may seem nice and shiny from the creative use of chocolate and vanilla icing, the inside is usually a disappointing mix of vanilla cake mixed with overly sweet cherry or raspberry filling and whipped cream. Best to attack the cookies platter or the tarte au sucre for those who like to ride the waves of the insulin overdrive. Not to worry if the desserts run out, there is always the obscure Ma’tante you only see once a year at this party who made her famous “turtles” that you can snack on while the remainder of the evening unfolds in front of you. Don’t forget to keep your glass filled with your choice of red, white or rosé wine from any one of the boxes with the telltale owl on the packaging. Nevermind, your obnoxious cousin who always talks too loud won’t tolerate you seeing the bottom of your glass “parce que c’est noël!”

The climax of the story is when Papi sits in front of the tree under which there are gifts of all shapes and sizes. The kids go ballistic and most are already crying because they are tired or because they just realized that not all of those are for them exclusively. The tension at this point is palatable. The adults are all sporting uptight but cheery smiles and the anticipation of watching who gets shafted this year is eating away at them. Before any purchases were made, the broken telephone should have properly communicated who wanted what, but… it’s called broken telephone for a reason and someone is always disappointed. It’s not the 3-speed mixer they wanted, it’s the 5-speed… And how many times did they say it? But “parce que c’est noël”, much is left unsaid.

When the last gift has been opened, the general mood can only be alleviated by something sweet, strong and seasonal. Coffee starts to brew, brandy and other liqueurs get poured and sometimes whipped cream makes an appearance. Just a little something to warm up cold sentiments and remind us all that “parce c’est noël”, it’s really not the end of the world. Anyway, the bill is included in the box, nobody needs to know, and we only need to endure each others quirks and character flaws once a year.

To be honest, as much as no one really looks forward to this seasonal tradition, we sort of do. We have a twisted affinity for the predictability of the event, the way the table is set and mostly how everyone just knows which character they play. The setting is typical, the players are seasoned actors, the audience may change but it remains that it is well versed in the premise of the story and there are never any major changes to the props. And that’s often what the holiday season is about, the comfort of knowing that some things never change…

Back in the day, when having the best costume secured your popularity for the school year, there were few breaks for those kids whose parents through that the $9.99 prisoner costume from Jean Coutu was “just fine”. One of the only ways to redeem ones status in the social hierarchy we called grade 3 was by the quality of the loot one brought home on October 31^st. Being able to empty that ratty pillow case and unveil a vast variety of mini chocolate bars and a limited amount of rotten peanuts was a golden ticket to temporary popularity.

When we talk about parents and children not communicating or relating, I have to point out that there are few such exceptional examples of this lacuna than what is exemplified during Hallowe'en. Parents want healthy, kids want raw sugar. Mom thinks peanut-free, organic cardboard granola snacks are cool, Johnny wishes those balls at the Ikea playpen were really giant Nerdz. With this divergence in thought ever so present, it is only the truly crafty and resourceful kids who manage to get the best out of this pagan holiday.

You know you are in the presence of a clever rascal who has mastered the art of trick or treating, when his mother lode reveals the following:

• Less than ten plain lollipops. You know, the ones with the cheapy wrapping that always comes off and the candy itself ends up crumbling so you end up with multicoloured lollipop shards at the bottom of your bag? 

• Innumerable amounts of prized mini-chocolate bars. We're talking the complex confections such as Mars and Snickers or the hard to find like Twix and Rolo. There may be a few Aeros and KitKats but these kids are smart enough to know to distribute these. Prime recipient: the pesky little sister who doesn’t know any better but thinks they're are good enough to stop complaining about her own pathetic stash. 

• Packets of fuzzy peaches and sour cherries – these are the expensive candies. Swedish berries come in a close second. 

• None of those lame Ste-Catherine molasses toffees, in that heinous brown and orange wax wrapping that ends up sticking to the revolting log of grossness inside. Nobody likes those and nobody likes the people who give them out either.

• About 5-8 bags of chip. For some reason, these are special and extremely rare. You know you're with a truly talented kid when you all went and knocked on the same doors together, but he's got some and you've got none… 

• Very little loose change. Back in the day, we all had Unicef boxes around our necks and sometimes some of that loose change would get dumped in the pillowcases. But we all know that copper and nickel weighs us down, slows us down and thus potentially limits the number of doorbells we have access to. The good tricksters “lose their boxes” and know when to close off the bag when the heavy inedibles are likely to be introduced yet have it wide open for the specialty swag.

These are the rewards of a tradition that few have mastered, and this especially before they reach the age where it just isn’t appropriate to beg for candy anymore. We always admired these fellow revelers for their skills, while secretly envying them for there candy wealth.

On a final note, it didn’t matter how good or bad you were or are at trick or treating, there is one candy that is a welcome constant. I don’t even think they've changed the packing in the past 20 years. The name alone will send you into an inevitable and ever so satisfying sugar surge: Rockets. Aspirin-sized and contained in tubular cellophane packages, they are pure, coloured, chalky sugar with a twang of sourness. Eat too many, and after you recover from the overdose of glucose, you’ll notice how raw your tongue is from ingesting these addictive little dust compacts by the dozen. Mmm the simple the pleasures of Hallowe’en…

While we spend a lot of time perusing numerous grocery stores, gourmet shops and specialty stores seeking out products to make our lives more enjoyable, we should also acknowledge the importance of another very important commercial establishment - the neighbourhood dépanneur.

The dépanneur, or the convenience store for those who don’t live in Quebec, is an icon of youth (mr. freeze and 25 cent Styrofoam airplanes that never flew), a essential place for when cash flow is restricted and anything with an alcohol percentage will do (La caisse de Wildcat, seulement $18.99!) and a hub where most problems can be solved.

The American Heritage dictionary defines the convenience store as: “A small retail store that is open long hours and that typically sells staple groceries, snacks, and sometimes gasoline”. But it is so much more. It is a grocery store, a pharmacy, a home improvement store, a magazine stand, an office supplies purveyor and sometimes restaurant wrapped into one. It’s like a Dagwood sandwich: there’s nothing that isn’t in it. In light of these additional features, I have taken it upon myself to compile a more accurate definition of the dépanneur.

Dépanneur, of the root word dépanner. Dépanner means in colloquial terms, relief from the condition of being in IT deep. If you are in a position to say “on est dans marde” the dépanneur, like a super hero, is the only one who can help, and this, at all hours of the night or morning. Here are just some examples of situations that may require dépannage:

• Running out of beer at 10:59pm
• Not having enough charcoal for your illegal 2^nd floor balcony barbecue
• Realizing you haven’t read the latest edition of Allo Police
• Forgetting it’s your anniversary and it’s 10pm on a Monday night (can you say Baby Duck and red carnations?)
• Running out instant ramen noodles
• Replacing your dried-up glue stick 
• A cut finger that absolutely needs a Band-Aid that won't stay on for more than 10 minutes

There are two types of dépanneurs: the independently-owned or commercial chain. The independently-owned dépanneur has a certain charm that results from its poorly organized floor plan, cultural flavour imparted by the owners, and its ugly, hard to make out, often sponsored by a soft drink or chocolate bar, brand sign. The owners of these types of establishments customize their commercial locations to suit their local clientele and this is particularly reflected by the types of canned goods offered.

The commercial chain (Couche-Tard, for example) is like a supermarket. Every item is set up to ensure maximum exposure and facilitate consumption. At these types of locations, you do not have to climb over things to get to the beer fridge. And at these types of locations, there’s only beer in the beer fridge…

Today, I patronize Lee’s on Sherbrooke Street. She (I’m assuming Mrs. Lee) knows my beer preference, my favourite gum flavour and my lucky numbers. And before this, there was Perette’s on boulevard St-Rome in Brossard where my largest consumption of gummy bears took place, multiple Bazooka Joe’s were unwrapped in the quest for an original cartoon, and every flavour of Slush Puppy was sampled.

The dépanneur is like the ultimate silent partner – comfortable not being in the spotlight and always there to help you out. Imagine life without it? I’d rather not.