Amazingly, despite everything we’d eaten so far… everything we’d seen and done and practically killed ourselves with, the “main course” was still to come. In the next 20 minutes or so, we would eat lobster, foie gras, chicken, beef tongue and cotton candy.
This is part three of my series on a recent trip to the Cabane à Sucre Au Pied de Cochon. You can find part one here and part two here.
If this meal had one mindblower—and by that I mean one standout among many, one particular what the hell were they thinking with that and how did they do that and I want to eat that dish—it would have to be this. This thing. What is this thing? Does it have a name? I mean, you could technically call it a cabbage roll, but that would be like calling Versailles a youth hostel. What we’re looking at here is a cabbage leaf, wrapped around pork, lobster and chunks of foie gras (and more cabbage leaves). The (empty—we all checked right away) lobster tail was placed alongside as a garnish, and the whole thing rested on a bed of creamy polenta.
It was a coordinated flavour attack on my person. Did I like it? Yeah, I did. I bore it like I would an intense rainstorm or roller-coaster ride. It thrilled and exhausted me.
As if that weren’t enough, the cabbage… thing… was one of three main courses served. There was also very tender, very flavourful braised cow tongue, served in little coin-like slices. And a roast chicken, with its skin glazed with maple syrup. So sweet, so savoury, so special. Adding a little extra maple syrup just gave it that extra kick. It was such great chicken.
All of this food was stirring such strange, not unwelcome feelings of nostalgia in me. Now I am not even remotely Quebecois de souche, but so much of this food had strange parallels with my Jewish upbringing (except for all the pork.) The cabbage rolls… the texture of the tongue (beef tongue being a big favourite among old Jewish ladies)… that mystical taste and feeling of the tourtière. Maybe if I’d had a different, also non-Quebecois upbringing I would have had the same feeling; there was something elemental going on here at the table.
At this point, we took advantage of the break between courses to have a drop of bourbon, the most complementary of liquors for this sweet maple-filled feast. They even brought us a little glass of crushed, tire d’erable style ice; call it tire de bourbon.
So all that was left was dessert. And by “all,” I mean, a lot. There was a lot of dessert. So much dessert. Of course, there was the tire d’erable, which is the most traditional cabane à sucre sweet—thick tire (pronounced tear), which is sap boiled until it gets really thick, thicker than syrup, poured on snow and rolled up in a popsicle stick.
What would turn out to be my favourite dessert landed right in front of me: a serving of glistening pancakes fried in duck fat. Sort of half-pancake, half-donut, they were made with “maple syrup and a lot of love,” according the server, when we asked. They sure were. Wading in a couple millimeters of syrup, they were sweet, crispy, light, fatty… everything. They were everything I’d want a dessert to be, except for maybe ice-creamy. But that was just a few feet over on the table.
This spectacular mountain peak is a banana split. That cloud sitting atop its summit is a puff of homemade cotton candy (or barbe à papa—daddy’s beard). Maple cotton candy. Shhh. Don’t say anything. Beneath: sliced bananas, maple ice cream, chocolate syrup, chunks of pineapple, maple shortbread (I think). Maple marshmallows, too.
And finally, this ballsy, resplendent mille-feuille, overflowing with cream, nearly impossible to cut into without sending centaines des feuilles sliding everywhere.
Then… a coma? Food shock? A general feeling of bloatation and grossness?
Surprisingly, not really. I felt full, yes. So full. This morning, even, I was full. But altogether the meal didn’t wreak the havoc on my digestive system I was afraid it was. It was really a very clever meal, in fact. Of everything we ate, very little of it—besides the sugar, of course—were major carbohydrates. No potatoes, no bread. If they’d been there, we’d have dug in, and I don’t think any of us would have finished the meal. In some weird, brilliant way, this meal of lobster and foie gras and maple ice cream and… and… was lean. These guys know what they’re doing (they should, they’re practically embedded at the cabane, sleeping on cots in the kitchen.)
It was kind of brilliant.
Though I write about food for a living, at least partially, I wasn’t here on assignment or for work in any specific way. But I kept thinking about how much fun it’d be to write about our experience. I don’t usually use this blog to talk about food, but I couldn’t resist. I had to share this experience.
Was it the best meal I’ve ever eaten? It’s definitely a contender. It was definitely the best meal I’ve ever written about—such a pleasure to do both.
Until next year…
