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New Coffee FormulaCopyright © 1994 by Stuart Daw Tom Lightfoot really knew how to throw a party. Tom was a leading supplier of produce to the "carriage trade" of Toronto eating places. And every year on his beautiful farm at Clarkson, 10 miles west of Toronto, he would throw a wingding of an affair for what was then called the Stewards’ Association, a precursor of today’s Food Service Executives Association. That group was made up of the crème de la crème of cooking artistry. Master chefs from places such as the Royal York and King Edward Hotels, Winston’s, La Chaumiere, Fantasy Farms Dining on Pottery Road, perhaps 100 in all, looked forward to coming to Lightfoot’s farm every autumn bringing their particular piece de resistance — their cooking specialty — with them. These items would include suckling pigs, glazed hams, and other opulent extravagances to be enjoyed solely by these gastronomical craftsmen and a small coterie of their suppliers. Lightfoot would pitch a huge tent on the broad lawn of his farm yard, a bar would be set up decorated with such things as angels carved in ice, and the buffet when completed was as fine an aesthetic presentation of glorious culinary art as one could imagine. But that was just the beginning! Tom would give away, through a draw, an animal to nearly everyone present at the picnic. One year the top prize was a Shetland pony with full harness and sulky. Another year it was a monkey. These would mysteriously go to someone such as a reporter for the Toronto Star or the now defunct Telegram. And you can be sure Lightfoot the provisioner would get a terrific write-up in the next evening’s paper. My role was to provide the coffee, and for this task I employed a 10 gallon spun aluminum stock pot known as a "CB 10." And so with an urn bag and 5 pounds of the finest coffee, I would visit the farm around noon of the great day and put the pot on Mrs. Lightfoot’s kitchen range so the fresh cold water would be at brewing temperature when I returned to the farm around 5:30 p.m. to create a brew worthy of the occasion, which began around six. But Lightfoot placed one caveat on the animal giveaway idea—you had to take the animal you won home with you, with the exception, as I recall, of the horse. One year (and this was during the 50s) I won a guinea pig. Being late in the evening and with the coffee pot by now empty, I found it the handiest place to place my new pet. My wife who was eight months pregnant at the time had remained at home. When I arrived there around midnight she was still awake, and I asked her where I might put the guinea pig for the night. "Anywhere, but in here," was her reply. So what was I to do but leave the animal in the coffee maker all night. But there was a slight problem. In the morning when I found a more suitable habitat for the pig, I discovered to my horror that the coffee maker had taken on a new aroma. The stench was overpowering, and I had promised the vessel to the woman who ran the concession at the Toronto Island airport for a flying show being held that day. The coffeepot had to be on the ferry to the island by 10 a.m. At the office I turned it over to the equipment repair man to boil out thoroughly with urn cleaner. This he did, scalding the pot over and over, but when he invited me to smell it just before having it taken to the ferry, the telltale aroma of guinea pig still remained. There was no alternative—the pot was all we had for bulk brewing on occasions like this, so to the island it went. Somewhat ashamed and not just a bit frightened at the call I expected to receive from the woman caterer, I was surprised my telephone never rang. The silence was deafening. But next morning it did ring, and the woman was on the line. I waited apprehensively for the much-deserved blast I was about to receive. But imagine my surprise when she said something like this: "Oh, Mr. Daw, I’m so grateful, the coffee was fantastic. Everyone was rhapsodizing about it. Thank you so much." Thus the secret formula had been discovered for the Perfect Cup! One guinea pig for 12 hours, one spun aluminum stockpot with urn bag… © 1994 by Stuart Daw
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