Choking in the Big Game
Where are the artichokes in this town? You show me a produce store in downtown Montreal and I’ll show you a place that sells heartless, gutless artichokes. All choke and leaves and no heart. These ‘chokes are losers. Sort of a sports metaphor. I’m the Vince Lombardi of artichokitude. Montreal’s artichokes will lose every sporting event they’re expected to win when the chips are down. They won’t give 110% percent, or even a clean hundred.
When wandering the front section of Mourelato’s grocery store I nearly passed right by the artichokes. It was late on Saturday afternoon, and I was shopping aimlessly. Earlier in the day, I’d bought a tiny hip flask, a mixing bowl, and a set of funnels. But the artichokes seemed like a good idea. I’d never prepared them and I rarely eat them, and I have fond memories of family friends, people my parents care about, preparing them for me. They were musky and buttery and delicious. I picked up a palm-sized artichoke and the leaves squeaked when I firmed my grip.
Later, I sawed them in half and noted their inner purple sheath. I feathered out the soft, spindly choke. It’s called the “choke” because if you eat it, the feeling is like that of choking, even though you are not. But here’s where I hit a snag. The recipe for the sauteed artichoke quarters said “pull off all the leaves”. I looked at the artichoke pieces I’d just quartered. What was to remain after I pulled off the leaves? The leaves were the entirety of the vegetable. A leafless Montreal artichoke would be a mere nub of earthy fabric and a chewy stem. If I were to keep plucking, my dinner would disintegrate. This was a problem. There was no heart, no moral centre, no constitution to these feeble florets.
All other variables held constant, the ‘chokes had the makings of a winner. They discoloured when I cut them. Their scent, as they braised in stock and tarragon, took up blissful residence in my soul. The few morsels of edible flesh were tender and succulent. But oh, those leaves, they were everywhere and everything, and the whole sorry edifice crumbled to bits.
They say if you’re going to do something, do it well and with purpose. Treat the task like the universe depends on your doing it. Success is success, it is its own reward, it amplifies experience by compounding itself over the course of your life. A good and earnest man leaves a trail of finished business in his wake. Always, before you start on any act, large or small, say to yourself: “Until it is done, and done well; no sooner, and no worse.” To Montreal’s artichoke purveyors, your task is unfinished. Please try harder. When the artichoke truck shows up in your loading dock, why not inspect the merchandise? Why not look at your wholesaler with a stern gaze and say “I will not accept these cowardly little plants, and why don’t you take these pitiful ‘chokes back to where you found them, re-bury them, and hope they grow a pair this time”? I don’t care if they’re 3 for 99 cents when they’re not worth a dime. I’ll never cheer for these losers as long as I live.
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(12 comments)
artichokes are gross.
Good grief, man, have you never heard of a market? Get thee to Jean Talon post haste!
Jason….you’re so wrong, my man.
Vila: Jean Talon? Way too far for this downtown-dweller. Atwater, however…
nick, atwater is for rich westmount soccer moms and snobby condo-dwellers.
jean talon (despite a recent reno to make it more appealing to the insidious “high-end” shoppers) is still where you want to go.
worth a trip at least once a month, and will get you further east which is always good for the soul.
PWNED by the Montreal Cuisine!
Hugh, you are once again the guiding hand of west-end reason. I haven’t ventured up to the Atwater Market yet, and it sounds like a place worth avoiding. I used to go to a grocery store in Toronto that had a damn jazz band, and let’s just say nobody was mistaking them for the Oscar Peterson Quartet. Point me at the market where all the dropouts and reprobates go.
Enz, WTF.
Succa, check your gmail if you haven’t already. And RSVP.
Dear Ted,
Big-Fat-Artichokes like the ones I gets out here, are a gift from God. Canadian artichokes don’t have all that rich, hormone, filled goodness, genetically modified and such to be the size of footballs. None the less, look to my site this weekend and I will post a *cough* Top-Secret *cough* Artichoke Recipe that you won’t find anywhere else and mainly involves sucking on the succulint juices of the tea leaves themselves.
I call them “Top-Quality Stuffed Artichokes Which Require You To Waste An Afternoon Cooking Them.” Key Ingredient: “Don’t Fucking Touch Anything!”
- Ted
When’s Succa cooking _me_ dinner?
Teddy Ted, do share the secret of the ‘chokes….
Jess…I can’t cook you dinner when you never come to Montreal!
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