On departing from Fogo, the three of us were on separate time agendas. Chef and Architect were the most pushed for time – trying to get down to St. John’s and then back to Deer Lake in time to return the car and fly home.
Builder and Mamma were also heading to St. John’s, before exploring the southern part of Newfoundland and catching the ferry back to Nova Scotia.
Yours truly was also heading to St. John’s, before backtracking all the way to Gross Morne and then north up the Viking trail to the top of Newfoundland, where the intent was to catch a ferry across to Labrador and then slowly wend my way back down to Montreal via boat and road.
So despite the shared intended destination, our separate schedules meant we ended up going our separate ways over the first leg.
Parting was difficult. Not only had we forged great relationships, the camaraderie that comes from sharing experiences was strong. I’m happily an independent traveler, but joining forces for a while with others had been more than just enjoyable, it had felt “right” in some way.
Eventually I found my way down to St. John’s, a harbour side town with a growing culinary profile. It is a pretty, if hilly place, with a vibrancy expected of a port where ferries and boats come calling on a regular basis When I got there, Architect and Chef were still around, couch surfing with a local who turned out to be a chef as well.
We arranged to meet up for dinner, with our local chef directing us towards the Adelaide Oyster house, a very highly ranked restaurant specialising in small tapas style offerings. We left ordering to our local expert, and I’m glad we did. The food was fantastic – freshly shucked oysters, mini tacos, pork belly – the list went on and on.
As you would expect, 2 chefs, a self described foodie, a vivacious french girl and one of Canada’s (not just St.John’s) up and coming restaurants as a setting led to some fantastic food and drink based discussion.
When we had been travelling together, Chef had regaled us with stories from his youth in France, where apparently the drink du jour had been a concoction of vodka, milk and mint. Fortunately we had never had the ingredients, but being in a fully stocked bar it did come up as an option once more.
For background – I’ve made home mayonnaise a dozen times at least but it never comes out quite right – a little to oily, a little too bitter, a little too whatever. So over the course of travel time, I’d asked chef to teach me to make it properly – but we had never got around to it. So I struck a bargain – show me here and now how to make mayonnaise properly (and let me taste it so I would have the correct flavour memory for my next few attempts), and I would try his childhood concotion.
Now this is where dining with a local has it’s (dis) advantages. Within minutes we had asked for, and obtained, a stainless steel bowl, dijon mustard, olive oil, eggs, vinegar and lemon juice.
As you can imagine, the request intrigued the staff,who gathered to see the french chef in action, but given it was lateish and our fellow diners had partaken of a drop or 17 of attitude relaxant, we soon had a little crowd our table.
Chef did his magic, making the task look simple (which for all intents and purposes it is), and once done handed the bowl to me to taste.
I have almost no shame (ok I have an ego so a little shame surfaced) in telling you that every single one of my previous attempts to do the same paled into some vapid, indistinct, off tasting conglomeration of ingredients, when compared to this simple, perfect emulsion. Oh to be able to record the taste and replay it in the future – I just have to depend on my memory.
An then the price had to be paid – a round of vodka, milk and mint for the table. Despite the negative expectation, it was surprisingly ok. It will never become a staple beverage of mine, but I can see how teenagers might find it reasonable on the palate. A little like a burger from a fish and chip shop tastes sublime at first, but over time, though a great memory and a chance to occasionally trip down memory road, it is overtaken by more sophisticated delights.
Still, as far as bargains go, I had had a double win – true homemade mayonnaise by a french chef, and an introduction to a not too ordinary french drink from an adolescent era.
After dinner we went our separate ways, me back to Charlotte, the frenchies to their couchsurfing lodgings, but I was offered the gift of a shower the following morning if I made my way there. Which I did, and gratefully accepted – despite an odd look or two from housemates living at the premises, who had never clapped eyes on me before.
Refreshed, ready for the road it was time to say a final farewell to my travelling companions. Their local chef was taking them foraging (a growing manner of finding things to utilise in cooking), something Victor was in particular looking forward to.
On the other hand I was eager to get back on the road to doggedly retrace my steps towards the Viking trail.
This parting was a little different than the last. Then we had the possibility of perhaps another meeting in St.John’s, the parting was of three parties and felt more like the end of an afternoon session at the pub with a group of friends than a permanent goodbye.
This time it was definitely permanent, and I was clearly paternal and somewhat protective of Chef and Architect, not that they needed it – they were, and are, 2 very talented, over achieving twenty somethings.
It’s a truism that you can make life long friends on the road, as it is also a truism that you meet interesting people, have a rollicking good time, but rarely, if ever keep in contact with each other.
Builder, Mamma, Chef and Architect, for me at least, definitely fall into the former category – life long friends, and I know we will keep in regular, if somewhat sporadic contact.
This part of the journey has brought so many unexpected delights – too many to mention, but my time in Newfoundland (and previously in Nova Scotia) with my temporary family has been an absolute highlight. It is one I will cherish into my dotage, when I will be sitting in a rocking chair in some old age facility, boring the crap out of my fellow elderly, the staff and the odd younger person who comes and sits and reads to lonely old men.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
