Fairview Mount Pleasant Neighbourhoods Dirty Johnny 2003-03-30

The Dutch Wooden Shoe Café #2

When we first set foot on the heavenly shores of the Wooden Shoe back in February, we were impressed to the point where we contemplated purchasing retirement property in one of the booths and living out the rest of our days in a stroop-induced purple haze. John Dys and his talented crew of seductresses went to every reasonable non-sexual measure to ensure our satisfaction and raise the bar to lofty heights for brunch joints throughout the city. Try then, if you will, to imagine our euphoric delight when several members of his crack staff actually contacted us, imploring us to turn the ship around and return to this breakfast lover’s El Dorado for a second helping. Did we want to come back? Does Reese Witherspoon induce Ebola-like internal organ liquefaction? Duck-boy! Astern 180 degrees, and reset our course for the Dutch Wooden Shoe Café, full speed ahead!

Welcomed warmly at the door by the incomparable Nenah, we were ushered to our table and introduced to our affable angel of alternative hillbilly-rock, Char, who was to be our waitress for the day. A slack-jawed stupor instantly overcame us when, acting as Hermes to John Dys’ munificent Zeus, she informed us that today’s meal would be entirely on the house. Our eyes glazed over with visions of silver pannekoeks while saliva pooled at the corners of our mouths as we contemplated the potential gluttony implied by this statement. Could it be true? Could all these months of hard work and yolk-related health problems finally be paying off? Were we at any other restaurant I would have questioned the sincerity of the offer but the word of one of Dys’ apostles was good as gold and we immediately set about scrutinizing the menu for a meal fitting the joyous occasion that, in our minds at least, out-Christmased Christmas.

A carafe of freshly squeezed OJ hastily found it’s way to our table and suitably lubed up our anticipatory throats for the feast that was so shortly to commence. The only real stumbling block we encountered was that, faced with such an expansive, near infinite menu, how was one to settle on simply one item? We needed assistance and thusly, acting on Char’s expert advice, the entire crew, save for myself, opted for the #26 Boeren (farmer’s) Pannekoek. This behemoth came armed to the teeth, topped with ham, bacon, sausages, hash browns, tomatoes, two eggs and hollandaise sauce. A veritable mountain of food, it dwarfed Kilimanjaro with its various peaks and valleys and was conquerable only with full climbing gear, ice axes and crampons.

Luckily, my indefatigable lads were more than up for the task and met this considerable challenge with all the moxie and mettle one would expect of gastronomes of their esteemed prowess. With a focus and purpose not seen since George W. Bush’s determined three-year quest to complete his high school equivalency diploma, M, Ducky and Dang edaciously assailed their prey. All the meats were lean but hearty and the sausages came stylishly butterflied to prevent the very real hazards of pork-related asphyxiation. The hash browns were, as always, the diminutive, varying polyhedral type, popularized by McCain but taken to the next level by the deep-frying virtuosos employed within the Shoe’s spotless kitchen (who we met in an exclusive, behind-the-scenes tour). The eggs were done up suitably well and the hollandaise was the textbook blend of egg yolk, butter and presumably Dutch secret herbs and spices. The loosening of belts and unzipping of flies was ample evidence as to the team’s satisfaction and a job well done.

Unconditionally trusting of Vancouver’s prominent paladin of Pannekoeks, the moment I eyed the “John Dys’ Favourite” on the menu, I had to have it, sheerly for the possibility of gaining a rudimentary, ephemeral glimpse of the man’s idealistic vision. Glistening atop a 12-inch load-bearing pancake rested grilled ham, Gouda, sautéed mushrooms, tomato slices, onion rings and a dabble of parsley. This savoury colossus gave me little insight into Dys’ psyche but it did succeed in elevating me from the “middleweight” to the “heavyweight” division for my upcoming cheeseburger-eating contest versus George Foreman.

Thoroughly sated, myself and my ambassadors of arterial plaque readied our heavily-ballasted bodies to disembark when Char lobbed us another benevolent bombshell, “Aren’t you guys going to have any pie?”

Cut to crew members’ individual faces. Eyebrows raise, heads cock, ticks twitch. The word slowly manifests itself on Johnny’s incredulous lips. “Pie?” Body and Brain wage a brief battle, Body holding the position that every viable orifice is already stuffed with meaty dough, Brain countering with the opinion that the day free pie is rebuffed is the day Burt Reynolds makes an intelligent career move. This is to simply state that free pie is never declined. Body quickly capitulates to Brain’s seamless argument and begins preparing for the fruity pastry invasion.

Now, while I’ll acknowledge that pie isn’t actually a breakfast item, it’s inclusion here is necessitated by the fact that this particular pie ranked second in deliciousness only to that awesome Cherry Pie from the 1990 Warrant video that we all knew was just a shameless euphemism for cunnilingus. Apples, cinnamon, raisins and golden-brown crust synergistically intermeshed with a scoop of ice cream, spiriting us all away to a Vanilla Valhalla where Dutch Valkyries awaited us with bakery treats and plenty of hand lotion. I’d go as far as to say that the only thing missing from this splendorous flaky miracle was Bobbie Brown getting blasted in the face with a fire-hose at close range. The fitting conclusion to a superior meal.

Our lone disappointment on this day was that, due to his absence while undoubtedly out rescuing an overturned bus-full of girl guides from a hungry pack of Komodo dragons, we were unable to make the acquaintance of Mr Dys himself. We ate confidently, though, knowing he was there in spirit, watching over us and protecting us from the demons of insufficient, unimaginative breakfasts. Our gutfelt thanks to John, Char, and the rest of the staff for providing us with the closest thing we’ve found to breakfast Nirvana in all our lonely days at sea. Now, as soon as they offer up the brunch/BJ combo that we’ve been so vehemently pushing for, we’d be happy to crank their rating up to five. Until then, here’s hoping they keep doing what they do so well.