I ate this. And so much more.
This is part two of my series on a recent trip to the Cabane à Sucre Au Pied de Cochon. Part one is here. Part three is here. This is where it gets really real.
After taking our drink orders—most people opted for a gigantic beer or cider, but I knew the liters of carbonated liquid would be my worst enemy on this gastronomic assault—we were presented with small bowls of split pea soup, about as traditional an “opener” as we could expect.
What a fine little soup this was. For one, in lieu of salt pork or ham hock, four small cubes of foie gras—reminiscent of the classic APDC opener, the crosmesquis (a deep-fried cube of F.G.)—bobbed in the yellow broth. They weren’t the most impressive part of this soup, which was also laced with tasty (olive?) oil. No, it was the consistency of the peas itself. Pea soup is often pure mush, but the peas were whole, discrete, you might even say independent, while at the same time remaining soft and fully-cooked. A nice beginning, and in a surprisingly small bowl, too, which was a hint to how well-balanced the meal would be, despite its ludicrous excess.
Next: chicken feet and gravlax. Yeah! Chicken feet may sound like the least appealing part of bird, but with a spicy maple glaze, they were so much tempting than I would have ever imagined, and they had a cartilaginous crunch that reminded us of wings. I mean, physically, they’re not all that different, right? The home-smoked gravlax I enjoyed on a small buckwheat pancake, with a little dollop of maple syrup (the condiment of choice, and good on anything there.)
Served alongside: a thing of cretons (spiced, sweet pork spread), and a… a… a salad.
How to describe this parody, this mockery, this magnificent grotesque of a salad? It was the best joke of the evening. Four or five tall pieces of romaine, placed vertically, stood sentry-like around the rim of the bowl, which was overflowing with oreilles de crisse (Christ’s ears—what a great name), which are basically pork rinds. These light, crispy, melt-in-your-mouthable things acted as the croutons in this preposterous salad, which also featured a nice mix of greens, chunks of cheddar cheese and lardons, and some really tasty candied pecans. It was a “be careful what you wish for” thing. Like, if you really want or need a salad—this is what you’re going to get.
It was now time to tourtière. Weirdly, it’s optional, an extra (and not unreasonable) $20. But it was really the centerpiece of the meal for me, the best thing I ate out of so many wonderful things. If you’re not familiar with it, tourtière is a spiced meat pie, very traditional, very homey, very filling. This was made with three kinds of pork and a magnificent mixture of spices, which filled a flaky, buttery crust. It was so great—I had a Proust-style childhood flashback biting into it, no specific memory (I had never eaten it as a kid), but a general sense of memory of holidays, warmth, joy, magic, awesomeness. I loved this tourtière so much that I brought home a frozen one, which I will eat when I next need a little re-up of those feelings.
The tourtière was served at the same time as this fluffy, sea-themed soufflé, served in a cast-iron skillet, where home-smoked sturgeon and fried clams floated in eggy clouds. Really nice, and the seafood element was really appreciated—it’s not all pig and goose.
The meal was divided into three courses, though such distinctions were a bit silly, considering the number of plates that were delivered to our table. Still, it allowed for intermittent, much needed pauses. 15 minutes or so to collect ourselves, marshall our forces, renew our will. What came next kicked our asses pretty hard.
To be continued… here.
