The Hungry Cyclist: Pedalling The Americas In Search Of The Perfect Meal. Tom Davies Kevill
Читать онлайн книгу.
The reflection that looked back at me may not have been wearing a pink Ralph Lauren shirt, chinos and a preppy blazer, but as I brushed my hair and eyed myself up in the large mirror I decided I was as close as I was ever going to get to ‘resort casual’. Stuffing my dirty clothes in the small cupboard under the sink, I made my way to the dining room, leaving a trail of stubble and my own distinctive fragrance in my wake.
Like another of life’s simple pleasures, eating is much more fun with other people. I gave my name to the maître d’ and felt a momentary pang of sadness as I was shown to a single table, laid for one, in the middle of the large dining room, which was filled with families, groups of friends and the lively sounds of animated conversation. Eating alone is one of the downsides to solo travel, but determined not to dwell on my solitude I began to plan my brunch and activate my gastric juices.
‘Do help yourself to the buffet, sir.’
Just hearing the word ‘buffet’ conjured up apparitions of metal trays filled with multicoloured gloop in cheap Chinese restaurants. It reminded me of cheapskate corporate functions with tables littered with cold cocktail sausages, plastic ham sandwiches, damp quiche, greying Scotch eggs and soggy sausage rolls. But as I stared at the galaxy of food laid out before me here, it was clear that they treat buffet very differently Stateside. This was buffet, but not as we know it.
Heaps of crushed ice were covered with pink lobsters, meaty crabs, fat shrimps and coral-coloured langoustines; there were sides of smoked salmon, trout and gravadlax; pepper-crusted pastrami, haunches of prosciutto, shiny maple-cured hams studded with cloves, salted hunks of beef, rolled pancetta, looped Spanish chorizo, slender salamis, chunky saucissons…
Busy men in tall chef’s hats and white jackets whisked eggs and made omelettes to order. Balls of pizza dough were thrown around like juggler’s balls, stretched like chest expanders before being sprinkled with savoury ingredients. Headband-wearing sushi chefs patiently constructed flawless nigiri and sashimi while others tossed ingredients into hissing woks. Sous chefs with knives that could remove a man’s arm at a single stroke dissected tender ribs with all the skill of a surgeon and racks of lamb and huge hams glazed with sticky honey were deftly sliced. Golden chickens rotated slowly on spits. There were salads of every colour and description. Baskets spilling over with fresh fruit and wild berries were next to towers of decadent pastries and puddings cemented with whipped cream and bejewelled with fresh fruit. It looked like the delirious fantasy feast of a starving man. After four months of living on the road, it was almost too much to take in. I wanted it all and yet seemed to be overcome with a strange sensual panic.
There is an art to eating a buffet of this calibre. I needed to be calm, disciplined. I needed a strategy. How many times you revisit a buffet on this scale is a private matter between you, the capacity of your stomach and your conscience, but the first rule of buffet is knowing where your enemy lies.
‘Would like some bread, sir?’
Don’t even think about it.
To gently ease my system into the impending feast, I began with a bowl of fresh Rocky mountain berries and natural yogurt, and sticking with the breakfast theme I then decided on eggs Benedict, an old favourite. I declined the offer of having it served on an English muffin and opted instead for a couple of rashers of grilled Canadian back bacon and a little wilted spinach.
My next stop was the sushi bar where a patient Itamae was practising his art. I briefly questioned whether I should be eating raw fish in the Rocky mountains, but the objection was overruled, and I returned to my table with a plate laden with beautiful nori, wrapped futomaki, uramaki made with Pacific salmon, nigiri zushi with shrimp and eel, and plenty of tender cuts of sashimi, all enjoyed with a little wasabi and pink ginger that rebooted my system perfectly for the next step.
Spoilt with cold sides of smoked Pacific salmon, sparkling gravadlax and fat prawns the size of giant’s fingers, I loaded up yet another fishy plate with poached Bow river trout with a dill and caper sauce, and enjoyed it with some fresh asparagus dripping with butter. Fish is filling and, teetering on the edge of consciousness, I was grateful that I had had the foresight to bring a good book with me. After a visit to Middlemarch I was soon raring to go again.
Ahhhhhhh!
Roast loin of pork with morels, the sculptural mushrooms I had noticed growing on damp tree stumps and logs in the woods, served with a couple of boiled Yukon Gold potatoes coated in a little butter and fresh mint, and a couple of grilled peppers on the side. My mission was almost complete.
Unfortunately the Hungry Cyclist was on a tight budget, and this luxurious food had to be washed down with jugs of iced water and the complimentary fruit juices on offer. With each new plateful the black-dressed sommelier would approach to proffer his extensive wine list; each time he would retreat with merely a twitch to the corner of his mouth to show his disappointment.
He had much more luck with neighbouring tables, whose occupants changed two or three times during the course of my long-drawn-out brunch. By now I had been eating for over two hours. My brain was signalling frantically to my stomach and waves of dizziness washed over me. I began to feel increasingly light-headed and in a state of semi-delirium I mopped up the last of the meat juices with a lonesome potato. I needed to go back to Middlemarch.
After another chapter, I enjoyed some sharp Canadian cheddar and a healthy slice of Saskatoon strudel that had been flirting with me throughout the afternoon. I had reached my elastic limit and, sipping at a small espresso, I checked my time. Three hours and twenty-two minutes. I screwed up my napkin and triumphantly threw in the towel. Staggering out of the dining room I waddled through the labyrinth of the hotel like a sedated minotaur. The beast had been tamed. Stumbling across a cosy room with an open fire and a sofa the size of a family car, I slipped off my shoes, plumped up the cushions, let out a reassuring fart and collapsed.
Waking from a series of deep, cheese-induced dreams, I reluctantly made plans to return to the washroom to get back into my cycling clothes. In the lobby, excited fresh-faced guests were returning from the mountains and checking in for the night. How I wished I could have joined them. Instead I pulled on my woolly hat and walked outside into the cold. Reluctantly, like Cinderella returning from the ball, I gave the doorman my valet token and soon a young porter was struggling to push my bike to the front door. I shook his hand, slipped him a dollar for his efforts and pedalled out into the biting late afternoon.
‘Thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening.’
As I left Banff, the sun disappeared behind the dark green spruce that covered the mountains, and the warmth of the afternoon went with it. In the sunlight this snow-capped landscape was enchanting, but when you took away the sun it became a different place all together. Cold and imposing, the long shadows of the dark cliff-faces hung over me as if I was entering a whole new menacing world. The air chilled my face and icy drops of rain began to fall and to drip from the boughs of the dark trees that hugged the roadside. Cold and alone in this suddenly intimidating environment, my thoughts returned to the comfort of the hotel. It would be dark in an hour and I had no idea where I was going to sleep that night.
‘Hey there, I’m Dave. Quite a load you have there, eh?’ A man on a bicycle pulled alongside. ‘I’m camping in the woods on the left, seven miles up the road. Come and join me. Can’t delay, this rain doesn’t look like quitting and I need to get a fire going, eh.’
Ending every sentence with the expression ‘eh’, it was clear Dave was Canadian, but other than his name and his nationality I knew nothing about him, and he and his old racing bicycle quickly disappeared over the crest of the next hill. Exactly seven miles from where Dave had raced past me, a narrow track, flanked on either side by tall trees and scattered with fallen pine needles, led into the woods. Away from the road the forest was densely packed and the thick evergreen branches almost completely blocked out what was left of the day’s light. Rain poured down and heavy beads of water fell through the needles and branches. A mile or so up the track the light blue rainsheet of a small tent stood out in the darkness and working away behind it with a small hatchet was Dave, already busy splitting logs for a small fire that