Peter Chandler (1928-2007) - a tribute through food
“He was eating four loaves of bread and two pounds of butter a week,” mom will tell you about dad in the years before he died. Dad, you see, loved food!
I can hear him now: “But I’ll cook them,” he said selecting some squid from a fishmonger at Toronto’s St. Lawrence Market. They’d come to visit and we’d find fun things to do - the Market being high on the list.
“They’re your problem - I want nothing to do with them. You’ll wreck them,” mom scoffed. She had a firm hand on what went on in the kitchen, dad’s domain being the 200 acre dairy farm that sustained them economically and later, his workshop where he built double basses.
Unfazed by mom’s response, dad took those squid home and cooked them into rubber bands, their nearest relative in the wrong hands. Always keen to savour something different, and equally keen not to admit he’d messed up, he ate those rubber bands as though they were the greatest delicacy.
Another time he and I had a contest to see who could eat the most of some particularly hot curry at the Thai place next to the Metro Reference Library. Going out to eat on his dime was a fun treat when they came to visit. He loved trying different food, nothing too exotic for his tastes. He never balked at the cost either. Good, interesting food was worth it.
He flexed his culinary muscle once at my sister’s place. “I’ll cook it,” he said of a pork hock, setting it low and slow on her stovetop. He was there renovating her bathroom and, as was his tendency, got hyper focussed on his work. Hours later, when he noticed a burning smell, he found his meat black and the pot with it. My sister returned home to her Teflon pot gleaming stainless. He’d cleaned it, taking the entire coating off, frightened at the prospect of being accused of wrecking both meat and pot. You didn’t mess up mom’s kitchen and he assumed my sister would be the same.
Dad’s real habit though was bread and butter. The space on the tablecloth to the left of his plate always bore crumbs and a grease smear. This was where he put his bread to butter, a remnant of his posh English childhood when there was a side plate.
The first three meals of the day were mom’s domain. Bread supplemented whatever she rustled up Sometimes she’d baked it - those were red-letter days. Her loaves were tall white or 10% whole wheat yeast affairs, best served hot with butter. Mostly though it was Country Harvest 12 grain pre-sliced commercial loaves. “Perfectly edible bread,” dad would say if I ever commented on the lack of variety.
Dad was not given to hyperbole so “edible,” "perfectly edible,” and occasionally “very edible” was the range of verbal feedback. He demonstrated his enthusiasm instead through his consumption. As a young cook, nothing made me happier than dad smearing his bread across the plate to wipe up the sauce of something I’d prepared. Or better yet, agreeing to have seconds. I still occasionally make something and think how much he would have loved it.
But dad didn’t stop at three meals. “Want a snack?” he’d ask at 10 p.m.
“Sure,” I’d always reply, eager to see what variation on bread and butter he might produce. Sometimes bread and butter was the complete deal. Often, though, it was bread, slathered with butter and topped with an even thicker layer of old white cheddar, sometimes with a thinly sliced raw cooking onion, or, in August, a thick slice of tomato from the garden. Lots of salt and pepper, sometimes open-faced, sometimes closed. Always delicious partly because dad made it.
Family events always involved restaurant outings. The last one before dad died was Sunday Brunch at The Old Mill in Toronto’s west end to mark my parents’ 55th wedding anniversary. I sat beside dad and together we took multiple trips to the buffet to sample (and re-sample) the various smoked and pickled fish.
“Congratulations,” someone said as we toasted them.
“It’s been a good 50 years,” dad replied, not loudly. His voice was often lost in the crowd when the Chandlers were in full form. I heard him though.
“Dad, it’s 55,” I said quietly, not to embarrass him at the gaff.
“The first five were a bit rough,” he cracked, just as quietly, as a forkful of kippers went into his mouth.
The last meal I had with dad was a month before he died. He and mom came to Toronto to celebrate an early Christmas. I can still picture him eagerly poring over the Italian menu at 7Numbers on the Danforth. He always picked something he rarely had, or better, something he’d never had before. If there was offal or something raw, you could bet he’d choose it or be negotiating with someone else to order it so he could have a taste. Even today, I can hear him excitedly report that night how he’d seen a licence plate that started with B, the province having run out of options starting with A; he shared this great moment in licence plate history while shovelling salmon carpaccio into his mouth.
His enthusiasm for food is the best legacy I could have received.
I will enjoy a good meal today as I salute him.
