The Chronicles Of Fridgia
There once was a man and his fridge.
More to the point, there once was a man sitting on a kitchen chair in front of his open fridge and staring into it for hours on end.
I never knew exactly what the hell my father was doing when I would find him hunched forward in his housecoat, bathed in the holy glow of that Westinghouse fridge and seemingly ensconced in matters of crucial importance known only to him, the mustard and the ketchup. Every now and then while going about my kid-ness, I’d stop for a curious few seconds and observe. It would seem that the outside world was no more as he peered within and rummaged. I watched him pick things up, check containers, occasionally taste their contents, put things back, lapse into apparently heavy pondering, and then start the whole thing right over again. To be honest, I had much bigger Hot Wheels to roll at the time, but that’s what I remember from those few occasions I tuned in.
Looking back, I see him in those moments as an out-of-shape Viking jarl on his throne, surveying the hard-won spoils of some previous glory. But instead of heaps of gold, jewel-studded helmets, chain mail and the echoing cries of his foes, there’s a squeeze tube of Kalles fish paste, rock-hard rye bread, Mrs Whyte’s herring and a can of Molson Ex.
I actually always felt that there was some kind of magic infused in the whole thing. Like he was looking into a refrigerated Narnia and simply watching stuff happen. It wasn’t until I was much older that I tried it out for myself, and I understood the fascination instantly. Sitting up close and untethered from the routine pragmatism of simply reaching for cold food, I saw the contents of the fridge in a whole new glow, infused with new life. The eggs told a story, the relish was somehow greener, the baloney had a new bounce and the orange juice seemed more Floridian than ever. Things were different. And no, I wasn’t high.
Frankly, it didn’t really come as a surprise to me that my dad was onto something with the whole fridge thing. Because when it came to food, Rabbe Gustaf Emeleus-Äimä, aka Robbie, was always onto something. He was, after all,
A Feinschmecker
From the German fein (fine) and schmecker (taster), my father was to me the epitome thereof, a true gourmand, the mother-sauce root of all fine foodery that I would come to know, and my introduction to the good stuff started early. Very early. In fact, before I had my first Transformer, my favourite foods included caviar, escargots, lobster and octopus, and this was very much my dad’s doing.
The type of died-in-the-apron gourmet one could easily see basting a coq-au-vin with Julia Child as they slowly sherry their way into broiled oblivion together, my father was the proverbial life of the party, a bon vivant of the first order, hell-bent on having a good time while making damn sure you had one too. And I mean the kind of good time that leads to lobster shells on the chandelier, Grand Marnier on the sauna floor, Roquefort in your trouser pockets and an ache in your belly from all the laughs, definitely not from the food. Or something along those lines. My dad wasn’t just the guy you want to invite to dinner. He was the guy you want to plan a dinner around. And he would have been 80 years old today.
King Of Clubs
In his prime, Robbie (his name swiftly changed from Rabbe upon moving to Montreal from Helsinki as a kid to make his life easier, especially with his new peers asking him if he had rabies or something…) was a polyglot/piano-playing/song-composing/joke-telling/cha-cha-dancing/downhill-&-cross-country-skiing/windsurfing/bicycle-&-car-racing/Finlandia-vodka-importing/globe-trotting businessman and merchant of mirth who apparently also made a mean Moules Marinières.
He was a central figure in a variety of Montreal clubs and organizations, nordic and otherwise, at one time serving as president of the Finnish Chamber of Commerce for 8 years in a row. I’m told that during his tenure, the overall fun and flavour factors were dramatically taken up several notches. In association with said chamber, something called the Finnish Picnic would happen every year at our country place, summoning Finns and friends from far and wide for a weekend of unbridled revelry on the shores of Lac Masson. He was also a member of something called The Viking Club, which I get the feeling was a bunch of guys in helmets who pillaged open-faced sandwich plates and bottles of Aquavit more than anything else. I also found out much later that my dad was a valued member of the Montreal Danish Club (he was in no way Danish), something I discovered at his funeral when two illustrious members came over to me to extend their condolences and share stories.
My father was many things, did many things, and he began leaving us far, far too soon. Of those many things that he lived for, good food was at the top of the list, and it was the number one bond that he and I shared. If I may, I’d like to take a bit of your time right now and celebrate the man by sharing with you a few tasty morsels about that bond.
Follow The Eater
Robbie had what they call in French “le pif”. The nose. Not a big schnoz, to be clear, but a talent. With this pif of his, he could uncannily sniff out and home in on superior food, drink and good times with preternatural ease, no matter the packaging, no matter how things may seem at first glance. I like to think I inherited some of this pif, but my father was the grand master.
One of my first great lessons in life was learned on the streets of Montreal Chinatown one Saturday afternoon sometime in the early 80s. Searching for a place to eat, my dad would stop in front of one window after the other, not looking at signs or menus or anything, just peering within. After a few stops, he turned to me and explained: “We only go in if everyone inside is Chinese. And don’t pay any attention to what the place looks like.” Following this advice, we would soon become patrons of a restaurant my dad lovingly dubbed “The Hole in the Wall” for years. The place was very much that, perhaps in contravention of a number of health regulations, but we couldn’t care less as we regularly enjoyed some of the best Chinese food the city had to offer at the time. I still dream about their squid with black bean sauce…
It was decades later that I read an interview with Anthony Bourdain in which he dispensed some familiar-sounding advice: go where the locals are and forget appearances, including the condition of the restrooms. “Some of the best food experiences I’ve ever had are places they really don’t give a shit about that,” he says. I have found this to be the case on too many occasions to count. This brings to mind legendary Montreal breakfast temple, Cosmo’s, where my dad used to take me sometimes after doing my paper route. They had a literal hole in the wall in their bathroom through which you could actually see outside (and did for years – in fact, it might still be there), yet they made the best damn brekkies this side of the Mississippi.
Kid Kaviar & Breath à la Bourguignonne
As mentioned earlier, my first favourite foods were not exactly pizza and Zoodles, although I loved those too. We were pretty well-off in those early years of my life – this didn’t last, but boy am I grateful for the taste I got – and Dad made sure to show me the other side of the menu from the very get-go.
Caviar came ridiculously early. I was 17 months old when my father sat me on his lap on Christmas Day, feeding me tiny yuletide mouthfuls of sweet beluga cheer (see photo above). My reaction was to try to clutch the spoon lest those magical little globes somehow stopped. And just a few years later, again thanks to my dad, I apparently would eat escargots in garlic butter so frequently that my grandmother asked my mom not to let me have any before visiting her because they made my breath a little too “à la Bourguignonne”, so to speak. Now that I think of it, at the time, chances are Nana’s breath would often have been a little too “à la Beefeater”, so to speak, but I didn’t mind.
Skål forever, Nana, with love;)
Lobster Lessons
And then there was lobster. Some of my earliest memories in this respect involve playing with live ones in the kitchen sink with my aforementioned Hot Wheels, moments before the crustaceans were sent to their ultimate demise. Once I had had my lobster derby fun, my dad would then remove my “toys” from the sink and lovingly slice them in half, hearts still beating, to be breaded and summarily sent to the rack. This may sound potentially traumatizing, but few things were cooler and more thrilling to me at the time. Don’t worry though, I was sure not to name them.
Over time, I was taught about all the overlooked meat compartments that the lobster hides, places nobody cares to check. Glorious, juicy troves where the torso meets the legs. Tender bits hiding under the hood. Not to mention the magnificent roe and, of course, the green stuff, Poseidon’s pâté. Thanks to my dad, sitting down to a lobster is now more like spelunking through a network of delicious, briny little caves, working my way slowly by the warm light of dilled garlic butter with lemon and a beer.
On that note, before I forget, see down below for Robbie’s boiled lobster recipe.
Bad Vacay & The Little Hats
Next stop, Octopus Road. I once went on a Club Med vacation with my parents to Guadalupe when I was five, and I only remember two things: hating the kids’ club and loving the octopus. First of all, F%$K that kids’ club. For untold hours every day, I was thrust into some god-awful hand-holding singalong shitshow that had me in tears for the greater part of the slog through. Until I met some kid who always had cool toys with him, and then I was able to deal. We even had to put on a dance number for our parents at the end of it all in which I was dressed up as some kind of ridiculous clown bunny, buffeted about on stage by little gusts of tropical misery. See photo below – I’m the blond kid in the middle, 5th from left, praying for it all to stop.
The highlight of my day was lunch with my parents, when I was temporarily freed from my Romper Room gulag and allowed a precious taste of sweet, delicious reality. At the buffet, there was only one thing I cared about: an absolutely fascinating bowl filled to the brim with steamed octopus suction cups that had been sliced off the tentacles and piled for your pleasure. I called them “little hats” because they looked like little hats, and I loved them. They were pretty much the only things keeping me sane, along with that other kid’s toys. Again, F%$K that club.
Octoplussed
A short time after that, back home and sworn off of day camps forever, I found myself in a Japanese restaurant with my parents. This was back in the eighties, the golden age of sushi bars in Montreal, places that to me were made of pure spun dreams. I was a kid in a candy store, except the candy was sumashi soup, seaweed salad, shrimp tempura and octopus for days. Again, that’s octopus for days.
That first time I saw octopus sashimi, I couldn’t believe it was an option. You mean I can have the hats and the rest of it too? Dad confirmed. “Yes, son. Yes, you can.” I became obsessed. Whenever we would go out to a sushi bar, octopus was now my cardinal concern, and I would often eat little else. In one establishment in particular, the chef would just start piling octopus on a plate as soon as he saw me come through the door. I was a fiend.
My father would be on his own cloud nine while on a visit to the sushi bar, loving everything so much that he would end up drinking the sauces straight from their bowls to top things off. Once a little toasty on the sake, he would invariably regale the sushi chefs with the phonetic similarities, as he saw them, between Finnish and Japanese, repeating this one phrase that translated to something like: “The bed springs were bouncing and the whole family was watching.” It really did sound like Japanese, the chefs always agreed, and when they found out what it meant, they’d be rolling on the ground with my dad every single time. Miss those dinners.
Fish Eye Surprise
We didn’t just do the restaurant thing though; he would take me fishing as well. Ok, correction: he’d take me to the Atwater Market parking lot to fish for rainbow trout out of a glorified kiddie pool with corn niblets for bait. And it was awesome. We would then take them home and fry them up, enjoying their little eyeballs together for “dessert”.
Many years later, on one of my first dates with the woman I would eventually marry, I ordered a whole grilled fish and polished off the eyeballs at the end, just like Dad taught me. I looked up from the carnage and saw Vee, mouth agape and absolutely horrified.
“Please, don’t ever do that again,” was all she said.
I have admittedly slipped on a few occasions over the past 22 years, but she’s found it in her heart to forgive me; she even tells me to go ahead and knock myself out every now and then. Now that’s love.
Sinaloysters
These days, Vee and I live in maravillosa Mazatlán, Mexico. Among countless wonderful things, when you’re talking Mazatlán, you’re talking oysters, and I often think of how much my dad would have loved it here for this very fact alone. They’re practically encrusted in this town’s DNA, with vendors shucking away on street corners or walking the beaches while pushing refrigerated carts or balancing trays on their heads, heaped with a variety of oysters (and clams) fresh from the very same water you just splashed about in. There’s even something in the air here that we like to call “oyster mist”. When the waves crash and spray, there’s a bewitching, fresh-oyster-shell mineral smell that hangs about for a few seconds afterwards that is now one of our very favourite smells on Earth.
A Shucking Good Time
My love for oysters began with, you guessed it, my dad. Surprisingly, it actually began way later, in my twenties. And what an introduction. We’re not talking about a small, pre-shucked sampling served with a little mignonette on the side to make things easier for you. No, Dad decided I was going to like oysters whether I liked it or not, and I was going to like a lot of them.
He brought me to the Montreal West Rotary Club’s annual oyster party held at Montreal West Town Hall. I had no idea he had any type of affiliation with this organization, but, true to form, it turns out he knew practically everyone there. It was a wholesome, family-friendly affair, featuring raffles, community announcements, easy-listening live music and finger food. Oh, and an aircraft carrier’s-worth of fresh oysters.
Three very long wooden troughs were laid out in the middle of the whole thing, filled to the brim each one with Malpeque’s that had been trucked in fresh from PEI. At intervals along each column were shucking knives, paper towels, bowls of lemon, bottles of Tabasco sauce and garbage cans for the shells. This was serious. Like shut up and shuck serious.
After clumsily cracking my first one under my dad’s watchful eye, I gulped it down, confirmed it was one of the best things ever, and we then proceeded to dig into the pile before us like a couple of ravenous otters. While feeding at the trough to the sound of people winning movie tickets and romantic dinners for two, I remember standing beside a man who was wearing special gloves for the event, cracking away with what seemed to be a custom shucking knife at competition-speed worthy of being televised. His focus was total, and, thanks to my father and his unclear Rotary Club connections, I now understood why. After watching this man shuck like no one I’ve seen shuck since, I turned to my dad with a nod of solemn understanding, wiped the oyster juice, bits of shell and dirt from my face, and dove back in. For life.
Rye Deal
Even in his later years, Robbie had a magical knack for making great things happen when it came to food while also making great connections along the way. For instance, there was this bakery close to his home that he frequented regularly, and he one day got it into his head that they could make a fantastic classic Finnish rye bread if only they had the right ingredients and proper guidance. Knowing my dad, his proposal was no doubt impossible to resist, and the bakery agreed. Upon returning from a trip to Finland soon thereafter, he supplied them with a sample loaf, some rye flour, and a traditional recipe that they nailed to a tee after a few tries. In no time, Robbie’s Rye was an established customer favourite, flying off the shelves week after week.
Alas, the bakery has changed ownership and this beloved bread can no longer be found, but what a run it had. Now the stuff of legend.
The Fall Of Frontenac
On another occasion, finding out that his favourite beer, Frontenac, had been discontinued by the McAuslan brewery in Montreal, he marched straight down there on a one-man mission to get it reinstated. He was ultimately unsuccessful, but in the process, he managed to charm the pants off the owner and founder who ended up happily giving him a private tour of the brewery, after which his arms were naturally laden with free beer and merch. For the record, my dad did all this in a state not exactly conducive to running around in an endeavour to alter the brewing and bread-baking landscapes of his fair city. But when the man had a plan…
All of a sudden, I could really go for a frosty Frontenac with him right now, with a buttered slice of Robbie’s Rye on the side, of course.
May The Schwartz Be With Him
Close to the end, Robbie was still enjoying the good stuff as much as he possibly could. At the nursing home where he resided, my uncle would bring him Schwartz smoked meat sandwiches on a regular basis, one of his absolute favourites. Although he may have had difficulty showing it, this no doubt melted his heart every time. Thank you, Uncle Udo.
Kiitos Ja Kippis!
On this day, Robbie would have turned 80. I know that those experiences we shared so long ago set the table for a great many treasured things to come in my life. There’s no wonder I gravitated to the restaurant business for all that time, which is where I met my everything, my wife, so no redos on that front, thank you very much. It’s also safe to say that this thing, The Hungry Herald, wouldn’t have existed either, and I wouldn’t have had the privilege of taking the time, in this way, to share with you some of those Robbieventures that made such a mark. And this is just the tip of the lobster tail, of course. As always, thanks for humouring me.
So let’s have a round for Robbie now (it won’t be Frontenac in your glass but hey, he tried), and shake that great hall in the sky together in his honour as he raises a glass – or three – right back our way.
To Dad, and to those we miss so much who we know are lighting up that hall with him this very instant,
Hyvää Syntymäpäivää, Rakkaus, Kiitos ja Kippis!! Happy Birthday, Love, Thank You and Cheers!!
Love,
Michael
Robbie’s Boiled Lobster
- (Optional) Play with lobsters and Hot Wheels in kitchen sink for a few precious minutes before saying goodbye
- Bring a large pot of generously salted water to a rolling boil. It should be as salty as the sea
- Crack one can of blonde, easy-drinking beer and pour into said raging sea
- Crack another and periodically pour down your gullet
- Grab a big handful of fresh dill, rip apart in a care-free way and throw into boiling beer brine
- (Optional) Add in a dash of sugar. I personally don’t do this as I prefer to let the lobsters do the sweet talkin’
- Cook lobsters for 12-15 min with pot lid slightly ajar
- Serve with garlic butter and lemon on the side plus your favourite accompaniments and libations
- (Optional) For a touch of grandeur, put the complete works of Jean Sibelius on your stereo, beginning with Finlandia
- Hyvää Ruokahalua! Bon Appétit!
4 Comments
Such a lovely homage to share… an absolute pleasure and delicious read.
Thank you so much Catherine!!
Amazing article Michael!! Such a pleasure to read. I always knew your dad was into food, but didn’t realize how much until I read this!
Thank you so much Christina!!