Pacific Palate Contest - Your Most Memorable Meal

November 13, 2006  UPDATE:  Contest entries are now closed.  Thanks to all of you for sending in some wonderful entries.  Winners will be announced and notified on November 14th. After ten years, Pacific Palate on CBC Radio's The Early Edition is coming to an end. There's a reason behind my departure, and I'll reveal all the why's and where's on November the 14th.

In the meantime, to reward my loyal listeners, we are running a fantastic contest you can win by telling me about your most memorable meal...all you have to do is scroll down to the comments section of this page, and write no more than TWO PARAGRAPHS about your most memorable meal ever.  We'll read some of the entries on the air, and on November 14th we'll announce the grand prize winner.  The deadline is noon, Monday, November 13th.

The grand prize so far includes dinners for two at three of the best new restaurants in Vancouver:

Nu

Rare

and Senova.  For an updated list of prizes, (yes, there's more!) click here.

For me, my most memorable meal of recent times came this spring in Italy, with my wife Ramona at a tiny little bistro in Rome.  It was the perfect lunch, joking with the waiter, being able to point at a dish of large, tenderly braised artichokes in the kitchen and having them delivered seconds later to our table, toothsome pastas, and an amazing appetizer of fresh cantaloupe, arugula and prosciutto.

I look forward to hearing your stories about your most memorable meal!  ...and good luck in the contest.

Comments

[Josephine Hammond]

Most memorable meal.
Only 23 years old in the mid 1960s, and with an innocent palate, I was invited with my fiance to a meal in one of the ten best restaurants in England. In an old stone farmhouse in the moors outside Manchester, it was owned by a French couple who had placed a red gingham-covered table in each of three small, whitewashed-wall rooms. It was in this simple environment that I experienced my first boeuf Bourguinon.
In the 40 years that followed, I have had many others, but this was the best. From the first taste, I could tell how much love and care had gone into the dish. In spite of my lack of experience, I was able to appreciate the delicate balance of herbs, vegetables and meat, and the perfect amount of cooking time and temperature used to bring out the best of every ingredient. This meal has been my life-long yardstick for cooking.

[Pat Grubb]

Way back in 1987 my wife Louise and I had left our jobs in New York and embarked on a year and a half trip around the world. In September we found ourselves in Edinburgh where we met up with my wife's parents, Helen and John, at the Caledonian on Princes Street where they were staying.
My father-in-law is of Armenian background and, as was his habit in an unfamiliar place, picked up the telephone directory to see whether the city had much in the way of people of Armenian background. While doing so, he came across a listing for an Armenian restaurant called Armenian Aghtamar Lake Van Monastery In Exile.
The problem of where to go for dinner was now solved. We called up and asked for a reservation for six p.m. No was the reply. How about 6:30? No was again the reply. Seven was the only time we could come, we were told. But our parents have just got off the plane from Boston and we would really prefer to eat earlier, we pressed. The gruff voice on the other end relented and said, alright, you can come at 6:30.
We didn't make it by then as we had the devil of a time finding it. Back and forth on the street we went until finally I walked into a car repair shop and asked one of the workers if they knew where the Armenian Aghtamar Lake Van Monastery In Exile happened to be. Aye, he replied.
Oh, great, said I. Where is it?
Are you planning to be eating there, he asked.
I am.
He's quite a character, you know, the man said. Who is he, I asked.
The owner, he said, fixing me with a strange look in his eye. Well, it takes all types, he concluded and pointed across the street at what we had presumed was an abandoned church. Good luck to ye, were his final words.
Well, across the street we go and politely knocked on the unmarked door. Waiting a few minutes we got up our nerve and really walloped the heck out the ancient door. Finally, the door slowly opened to the sight of a dark entrance filled with footstuffs and a man with a distinct resemblance to Rasputin.
Follow me, he said. Tripping our way past bags of flour and old bicycles, he led us into a large room lit only with candles and sat us at a table. We were alone with no other guests. The man returned with some olives and wine and then disappeared once more. My mother-in-law and my wife decided to visit the ladies room but darted back to grab a candle. There's not even a light in the bathroom, they said.
By the time they returned, Helen was totally freaked. I want to leave, she said. Who knows what kind of madman we've run into, she declared. Now, Helen, let's just have a glass of wine and we'll talk about it, said John. And so we did.
The next thing we know, a flood of diners starts coming into the room and by the crack of seven, not a seat was empty. Rasputin now turns into a whirling dervish and is everywhere at once, bringing drinks here, bringing appetizers there. We asked our neighbors, what do they know about this restaurant. The first thing we know, said they, don't be late for the seven o'clock sitting. He's been known to throw people out who arrive late. Here he hadn't even bothered to tell us that there was a sitting.
To make a long story less long, the evening was the most memorable in a lifetime of travel and restaurant-going. Babakanoosh (eggplant), Harpeut keufta (stuffed meatballs) savoury leg of lamb. The dishes kept on coming and coming. Finally, after dessert of paklava, we were done. Or so we supposed. Get up, he cried and all of us were required to get up and stand in a circle. It's time to dance, he said and into the circle he went and began to dance. One by one, he picked off a partner and brought them into the circle to dance. Even the shyest of the shy had to dance. Thus concluded the evening.

[Linda Nowlan]

On a warm spring day in 1983 my boyfriend and I wheeled into the town of Piacenza in the Po river valley, Italy, starving, sweaty and in need of some serious sustenance. We were on the fifth week of our grand European camping bike trip and covering an increasing number of kilomteres a day. As our distances grew , so did our appetites! We were looking for a restaurant, any restaurant, for a quick bite, but none seemed to be open that Sunday. Finally we spotted a sign on a dusty door and entered in our bike shorts, Tshirts and associated messy gear, straight into a white linen tablecloth formal restaurant filled with the guests of a large wedding.

The proprietors didn't blink or recoil in horror at our attire but seated us at once far at the back of the place. We each ordered a plate of pasta and waited hungrily but patiently for the tortellini and fettucini to arrive. Yet that instant, plates started to appear, magically ... stuffed artichokes, prosciutto e melone, roasted eggplant and red pepper strips wrapped around luscious cheeses and herbs. The plates kept coming! One round of antipasti after the other, then the pastas, then some roasted meats and fish of every variety. When a slice of wedding cake arrived at each of our plates, a sponge cake filled with zabaglione and berries, we realized that the generous wedding party had decided to include us in their celebration. We raised our glasses to the party in front and exchanged toasts, first with our vin ordinaire, and then with the champagne that they poured for us in reply. What a feast. We were satiated and mellow and not eager to get back on our bikes, but started to move. The proprietor waved us back down into our seats and the piece de resistance appeared- a scoop of lemon gelato sitting inside a scooped out lemon, adorned with a lemon blossom. The sweet tart ice was just what we needed to get us moving again, and with smiles all around, we hit the road again. The name of the restaurant is long gone, but my boyfriend , who is now my husband - we've been married for 21 years) and I both say that this was the most memorable meal we've had... at least up to now.

[Mike Dobbin]

My most memorable meal happened 13 years ago. I had the good luck of joining a Polish expedition to climb Choy Oyu, a peak on the Tibetan border with Nepal. Typical for this part of the world, most of our food was packed in bags and carried to base camp by yaks. Upon the arrival of the yak train in base camp it was noticed that one of the shaggy beasts was lagging far behind. After a brief negotiation between our leader Krystoff and the yak driver it was decided the straggler would join our expedition….. as food. As the scene that followed would turn most people to tofu, I shall omit it. Our Tibetan cook, Gumbu dressed the animal and dried the meat on the rocks surrounding our tents. Except it’s head which he left in the shade behind the cook tent. After two weeks of storms and exhaustion on the flanks of the mountain we had thankfully consumed all of Gumbu’s Yak creations, or so we thought.

We spent week three high on the mountain, fighting deep snow and loose rock only to be pushed back by one last monsoon storm. We returned to base camp hungry and utterly spent, but we were resolved to try one last time. The problem was that we were almost out of food. When Krystoff explained this to Gumbu, he proudly stated that he had a solution. Supper would soon be served! When the supper bell finally rang something smelled amiss. Gumbu entered the tent with a large pot of foul smelling liquid. “Soup!” he announced. I stared down at my bowl. Balls of flour competed for space with globs of fat, yak hair, and bits of cartilage. As tomorrow would be our last summit attempt, the need for calories usurped my turning stomach. One of my compatriots mumbled something in Polish and Krystoff leaned over with the translation “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. I closed my eyes and lifted my spoon to my lips. Try as I might I could not eat the concoction. Nausea finally over took hunger pain, and I excused myself. As I left the tent I looked into Gumbu’s kitchen. There staring vengefully from his largest pot was the yak head.