Out and About: Another #TieDayFriday, Fall Colours Edition

Although, strictly speaking, it is not Friday. Still, I felt I wanted to get this one out there, late or no. I was busy on Friday, with a new contract, and then the weekend, and finally, poetry on Canadian Thanksgiving. So, here then is the new #TieDayFriday:

I tried to smile in this one, I swear.

My colleague remarked that this is a hard colour to pull off. He thought I did it well. It was nice of him to say that. It can be tough, and truth be told, this is about as late as you can pull it off. Any later, and you risk looking a tad Hallowe'en-y. 

A closer, more focused look.

Out and About: The Return of #tiedayfriday

Yesterday—Friday—I woke up too early and went to sleep too late. Thus, I am a day late with this post, ostensibly about Friday.
But what a post! What had been an idle promise on facebook has now become real, Gentle Reader.
Some years ago, once again influenced by the wonder of the menswear internet, pressured by over thrifting of a few too many very nice ties, and suffering from the graduate student's general lack of occasions to wear said ties, I decided to take action.
Attempting to institute Tie Day Friday was a moderate success. My recent return to the selfie has inspired me to reinstitute the hallowed tradition starting here and now.
Therefore, I give you #tiedayfriday:

Still no smiles. I'm smiling in one after the jump, inside the Hall. I swear.

Out and About, Monday Edition

I have for the large part followed the advice of many, many menswear blogs out there and simplified my wardrobe, buying for quality or wearability. Therefore, I often take a selfie and realize it looks exactly like all my other selfies. Like this one, this one, or this one.

I just love that damn leather jacket. It was my uncle's, and is older than I am.

So the other day, feeling good and wearing clothes I have since purchased so as not to look repetitive, I re-claimed the selfie:

I still don't smile much, I guess.

WIAT - Saint Valentine's Day Extravaganza

Ah, St. Valentine's Day. An interesting holiday, if ever there was one. People love to hate it, although I for one am inclined to agree with this Slate writer, who suggests that it is not all bad. A formal holiday with religious undertones to tell someone you love how much you love them? Why not. It works for Christmas.

Of course, the story of St. Valentine is not classically romantic, with all the torture and beheadings, although if you study saints, all the martyrs have a certain je ne sais quoi about them. Nevertheless, February 14 stands as a feast of love, rescued from the pagans, and here we are.

Reflecting on my online presence, I realized that "Killing and Grilling" is my most popular post here on Turriff Hall. Given that A. and I chose to spend St. Valentine's day in, rather than out, I though it a good opportunity to re-enact the courtship that was "Killing and Grilling", with less killing, and with the weather, less grilling.

First up, Cherry Tomato Bruschetta with Chevre. I've been leaning on crostini-like foods a lot lately. This could be Tamar Adler's fault.

The Components

The Result

More of the meal inside.

WIAT: Dic Ann's Food Truck Edition, or: The Adventure of the Flat Burger

In the spirit of what Turriff Hall was originally about, I wrote a piece about a burger I ate. In a sense, I suppose this is a WIAT post, even though it is strictly speaking, not about today.

This post originally published by Burger Weekly at www.burgerweekly.com.

The Experience: Dic Ann’s has been a Montreal-area institution since 1954, but I’d never had the chance to get my hands on one of their burgers. But when they started operating a food truck (after the city of Montreal recently relaxed it by-laws) my combined fondness of burgers and mobile food proved hard to resist. So, on a beautiful sunny day in September, I wandered into Montreal’s historic Old Port, and ordered their cheeseburger. All dressed, of course.
The food truck’s menu is simple, featuring a hamburger, a cheeseburger, a double patty version of each, and the Quatrro, which adds a second slice of cheese to the double cheeseburger. The food truck experience is one I enjoy. The service was quick, and the staff was friendly. A word of warning, though; the Dic Ann’s burger is a messy one, so you may want to sit down in the near-by park to enjoy.

Burgers Ordered: The Cheeseburger all dressed and the Hamburger all dressed.
 

The Taste: Dic Ann’s burgers are pressed flat, incredibly flat, and the their signature feature is a ladleful of their spicy sauce on each burger. The sauce is based around ground meat, and quite hot, reminiscent of chili without the beans. It’s wet, and like I said, it’s messy. I enjoyed the flavour and texture, but my girlfriend said she disliked the sogginess of the whole affair. Dic Ann’s patties are also incredibly thin, and therefore very well done. The sauce adds a fair amount of beef, and helps makes up for the slim patty. I’d probably go for a double next time, all the same. All dressed for Dic Ann’s is mustard, relish, onions and the aforementioned spicy meat sauce.

The Verdict: An enjoyable, messy burger. On the thin side, though, so you’ll want more than one if you’re hungry. The spicy meat sauce is an interesting addition, and Dic Ann’s history, combined with the food truck ambiance, make this a very enjoyable burger experience.

Dic Ann’s Food Truck is located at the Old Port of Montreal. It closes in mid-October so get out there soon. Dic Ann’s proper can be found at these locations.

Thanks to BurgerWeekly, and please let me know if there are any burgers you think I ought to eat.

"Once handsome and tall as you"

This post is cross posted from The Winter House.

My grandfather died when I was 14 or so, in the early summer, or late spring. I don't recall when, exactly, and it doesn't bear much on the narrative here. My grandmother had passed away almost exactly a year earlier, so the whole affair felt familiar, and yet horribly strange. In both cases, my mother had to leave me home alone to be with them in their final days. They lived in my mother's hometown Gaspé, while we summered in my father's hometown, Métis, some 350 kms away. My eldest sister, 11 years older and living away in the big city, came through to attend the funeral, intending to take me with her to Gaspé. That night, between her arrival and our departure the next morning, she went out with our cousins, and feeling bad for me, lent me her book to read, as I was too young to join them in the bars.

My sister's reading has always had a profound effect on my own. I learned to read from books she had left behind, Hardy Boys mysteries, and Nancy Drew. And it was her copies of Neuromancer and Heinlein that cemented in me a life long love of science fiction. Our tastes have since diverged somewhat, but we still talk books, and she occasionally still appears holding one, thinking I should read it.

On the eve of my grandfather's wake, hoping to ease the sting of not joining in the evening's festivities, my eldest sister handed me her copy of Consider Phlebas, the first of Iain Banks' Culture novels.

It remains, to this day, some 20 years later, one of my favorite books. I have read and re-read it, returning after absences long and short. It remains my favorite of all Banks' science fiction, although there is still one I have yet to read. I very much doubt it will displace Consider Phlebas, however.

It could be that it was the first SF novel of such scope. At least, the first I could fully grasp. Banks write openly, accessibly. Herbert may very well be a genius, but at that age I was hopelessly lost in the first few pages of Heretics of Dune. Not so with Banks. His vast and sweeping constructs remain grounded in individual characters, and his wit lightens the load considerably. Banks' genius is approachable.

I suspect it was the surreality, or perhaps better, the hyperreality, which surrounds both adolescence and death, that allowed Banks' novel to make such a lasting and profound impact. It is a strange thing to watch others you love grieve, and to grieve oneself. Consider Phlebas itself is a rumination on death, and grief, and memory, albeit on a scale much larger that that of a grandson mourning his grandfather.

I have owned no less than five copies of Consider Phlebas, four of which I've given to people I hoped might enjoy it as much as I, who might be changed by it as much as I. I never checked to see if they were, but I like to think so.

Recently, I visited Scotland, where Banks is from, and happened to see the Forth Bridge, spanning the Firth of Forth. It features prominently in another of Banks' works, aptly titled The Bridge. As I stared out the train window at the massive structure, it dawned on me that it was indeed that bridge, the bridge. I'd not read The Bridge in years, and hadn't realized I would be seeing the Forth Bridge during my travels. Unprepared, I felt a nearly physical connection to one of my favourite authors. Of course, I knew that Banks was terminally ill at the time, and the feeling of connection was undergirded by a deep sadness.

Iain Banks died on the 9th of June, 2013.

When a young man's thoughts...

My mother is mad for portraits. She has always wanted one of me, one time (just one, gentle reader, just one) I actually visited a portrait studio, to look into the state of affairs that is portrait photography.
Long story short: my mother did not get a portrait.
However, I'll always remember something the photographer told me. He said, "Son, back in the day, men would have a portrait taken anytime they felt good about themselves. Buy a new hat, get a portrait. Haircut? Portrait". Something to that effect, in any case. To sum up: Feel good? Portrait.
I'll go out on a limb here, and suggest that maybe digital photography has changed this axiom somewhat. It's spring, here. I read somewhere that Canadians own more summer clothes than winter clothes, despite winter being the harsher, longer season. Something about denial, if I remember correctly. Could be, gentle reader. Could be. It's spring here though, and I don't care about the particulars.
And spring makes me feel good. So, armed with a digital camera, I took some self-portraits. I sure as sugar didn't do much of that during the winter.

Sunny day. Not Friday, though

 More pics inside.

WIAT - Casse Croute Edition

My uncle's long awaited casse croute (a frites-stand, in local English; a snack bar in standard English, according to Google) opened in the land of my ancestors (where, you may have guessed, some people, but not all, speak French, after a fashion). It's actually a cantine, which I would also translate as snack bar, although I've heard the English in those parts call it a canteen, which barring the military origin, makes some sense.

In any case, it did not take me long to try out his frites (french fries, for the terminally French impaired) and one of his hamburgers (No translation here, if you can't figure that one out, you are on your own).

More photo, and details (both juicy!), after the jump.

What do I have in my Pocket? Part II.

There are a lot of things I like in this life, and pocket squares are some of those things. Hand made goods are as well. Repurposed items also. Imagine my delight, Gentle Reader, when I was presented with four brand new pocket squares, hand made, from repurposed material, as a gift. Brilliant. Thank you, A. Wonderful.

Details and photos to follow...

Indeed...

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats."

-H. L. Mencken

Killing and Grilling - A special edition of WIAT

Warning: Graphic photos ahead...

Ah, Summer. It's hot here on the island, no doubt about it. Not long ago, A. suggested we do something nice. I figured, "It's summer, lets grill something." It just so happens that I know she likes grilled corn, and an increasing awareness of lobster led me to choose it as an accompaniment to said corn.

Full disclosure: I am not the world's biggest fan of lobster. 

My family, on the other hand, loves it, and at least once a year, sometimes more, my uncle will arrive with a cooler full of 2-3 pound monsters.  When I was a young boy, this feast would most often take place at my Grandparent's house in Gaspe, with newspaper spread on the table, and carpenter's hammers to break the shells, and the lobsters straight from the wharf. Lobster juice everywhere. Good times.

Lobster has been on the radar. On a recent trip to Metis, my fatherland, A. and I shared a lobster roll. It was good, and, it was my first. I've had shrimp rolls, but never lobster. I hear there are some good ones here in the Old Port, but I haven't found them yet.

Anyway. Lobster on the brain, and I decide to grill one up, something I have never done before.

Serious Eats did a piece on lobster rolls the other day, which included a philosophical foray into the morality of killing lobsters.

I was comforted/encouraged by this, and I knew that A. has some experience killing lobsters in a professional kitchen. At worst, I figured she could walk me through it/take over if I panicked. Emboldened, I purchased two very nice specimens. And I killed them. With a knife. Fun times.

I later described the experience to my mother (who hung up on me when I had told her my plans the day before; my uncle buys his lobster pre-cooked, clearly) as grim.

Tasty, but grim. I'll likely get over it. I'm with the Serious Eats fellow on this one.

More pics (all taken by A., who has some talent at these things) inside the Hall...

On Meat...

I read an article recently, at the prompting of a colleague I met recently, by Mark Bittman, food writer for the New York Times. It concerns meat, and how we, as the West, and now, increasingly, the developing world, eat meat. How much of it we eat, primarily.
This follows close on the heals of a post I read on of Serious Eats, which also concerned meat, more specifically the killing of it by those who intend to eat it, as opposed to the killing of it by professionals bent on profit. In truth, what I know about the meat packing industry might suggest that they are not all professionals, but I can't swear to it without more research. I think this idea originates with Fast Food Nation, now surely some years out of date.
Much of this is also related to Mark Zuckerberg's recent declaration that he kills his own meat.
In any case, I also happened to have a lovely lunch at a vegan restaurant this afternoon, The Green Panther, close on the heels of another pleasurable vegan meal, and some astounding 'milk'shakes, at Strongheart's, in Syracuse, NY. A meat-free lenten fast also helped clarify the vegetarian lifestyle, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
All told, it means I'm slowly beginning to think through the implications of my own diet choices, which, as I am often fond of saying, could be described as ideologically carnivorous. Another of my favorite food writers, Michael Pollan, in his Omnivore's Dilemma, argues convincingly for meat eating, at least in the case of food one has killed oneself. Recent debates with friends and colleagues suggest that meat itself is not an issue so much as the industrial production of meat in North America, which I understand can be  unsettling.
My own philosophy has not yet been successfully hammered out. I have, in the past, hunted, and likely will again in the future. I am unlikely to give up meat all together, but I have made attempts in the past few years to reduce my consumption. Days at the Rodeo are an exception, obviously.

Out and about... Granville Island style

I'm recently back from a leisurely trip to the west coast. Vancouver, to be exact. While there, I fell in love with the English Bay, a very nice little bay indeed. I may not compete, as far as overall fondness is concerned, with the bay on Le Fleuve, which my ancestral home overlooks. But English Bay, with its mist and it mountains, and the anchored container ships waiting like slumbering beasts, great hulking marine beasts, waiting for the run into the harbour, is surely well up on the list. Said the Whale has a really nice tune about it, as well.

My first day in Vancouver, my family (a sizable chunk of it, anyway) and I decided to check out the public market on Granville Island, reachable most easily via pedestrian ferry.

My lifelong love of boats and I were most impressed, and my new-found love of Sperry Topsiders was not to be disappointed, either, although I had left mine safe at home, preferring to risk my beater boat shoes to the perils of the road.

More photos (and Topsiders!) inside the Hall...

"Did you ever take that test yourself?"

Polaroids of Sean Young. From BoingBoing.

I'm pretty certain I do not need to explain the awesomeness here.

Tie-Day Friday.

Inspired by several worthy gents on the internet, I decided I'd wear a tie on Fridays. I though, "hey, I'll call it Tie-day Friday, and it'll be fun". So I did. A few Fridays in a row. And I put it on facebook. SOme of my friends, they seemed to think it was a good idea, so I kept it up. Maybe they did too.

It's a bit of an attack on Casual Friday. I had started making sure I was less casual on Fridays quite some time ago, and when people asked why (if they noticed), I'd say, "'cuz it's casual Friday."

But the Tie-day thing, that's relatively new. I like it though, and I think it's here to stay. I'd be happy if it caught on, too, so if you happen to have a tie, wear it on a Friday, and let me know about it.

 

Once again... dear friends...

Two points here. On Monday, [you_have_broken_the_internet] posted a bit of a rant about the state of menswear blogs as it stands. En bref, they point was to produce original content, and not simply reblog everything that comes your way and call yourself a blogger. Actually, there were some really good points made, and while I have no real pretension to this particular site being any more than a idiosyncratic extension of my own ego, I took some of his words to heart.
Nevertheless, this site, Indexed, does produce it`s own content. And even if it usually doesn`t overlap much with The Hall`s main areas of interest, it did today, and, reblogging aside, I thought I`d share.
This debate rages constantly on the internet, and within my own discussions as well with friends, but I have rarely seen it so well summed up:

Out and about... Red Touque Edition

Radio silence from the Hall there for a while... Busy, busy, busy...

Nevertheless, as I was walking from the metro the other day, the weather forced me in to my red touque (watchcap to the rest of the world, but hey, nobody is perfect). It was cold. Sunny, but cold. In any case, I rolled it once more than was my custom, and to see how it looked, I snapped a few self pics. Happy with the results, I thought I'd share.

WIAT (Breakfast/Rant edition)

No pictures today, Gentle Reader. I've been remiss in my photo-documentation, and to be honest, I don't feel very badly about it at all.
But I see no reason that should stop me from writing a What I Ate Today post. While pictures are undoubtably worth a thousand words, words are also worth words, although the ratio falls closer to 1:1. For very good words, like "scintillating", it might hit 1:3, maybe 1:5, but still...
In any case, I don't suppose I'll need a thousand words. It's just breakfast, after all.
This morning, I had a cupcake for breakfast. Not only that, it was a cup cake made from a boxed mix, and iced in a prepared icing purchased from the same supermarket the mix came from. None of it, not a whit, made from scratch. Why? Because I wanted cupcakes last night, and I got lazy. There. I said it.
Not only that, but, because I was still hungry after my little cupcake adventure, I also had some pizza. A few month ago, I had chips for breakfast. Potato chips. And pie was breakfast for a while (admittedly, most of the pie was made from scratch).
Where, you might ask, am I going with this? Good question, one I asked myself, just now. Well, let me elaborate. Breakfast, they say, is the most important meal of the day. Good. Fine. Should have protein, and produce, and should be at least 400 calories, and maybe more. Great.
Bollocks. I have more than enough rules governing my life already. Deadlines, office politics. Academic writing. Propriety. White pants and Labour Day. And for years now, I've tried, quite successfully, to eat a healthy, balanced breakfast.
There is a lot of pressure out there to eat a certain way, and a lot of pressure as to what is and is not legitimate, or authentic, or good. And not all of that pressure is bad. I support quite a bit of it. But all things in moderation, even good advice, and local, fresh, organic or biodynamic produce.
But I can't do it every day any more. The routine is crushing. There are chips out there, my friends, and cupcakes. Just begging to be eaten for breakfast. It's time to have fun in the morning. I can (and often do) eat well at lunch, and dinner (or dinner and supper, if you prefer). But a man (hell, a woman too) needs to have fun, sometimes, no?
Look, I know I'm not the first person to eat pastry or pizza for breakfast. Far from it. But it's liberating, and, man, if we can't enjoy this little life of ours, then I ask you, what's the point?

Out and about...

This was quite some time ago, but I was happy with the look, so I thought I'd try to capture it. It's damn hard to keep my chin out of these shot, and apparently, just as difficult to smile.

Of note: Merino wool cardigan vest, cord blazer

Out and about... Spring

I couldn't resist somehow. Maybe it was the new brogued boots, or the spring cotton trench, or possibly the sunshine, on a perfect Saturday afternoon with someone special. For whatever reason, I snapped some shots and felt I might share.

It was probably that last reason more than anything else, come to think of it.