In Canada, I searched for Minus 8 vinegar and didn't find it (although I hope to have some by the end of this article). On the other hand, I had 2 meals in 2 days at Musashi, a small chef-owned Japanese restaurant in Toronto. Like Kurumazushi in New York City and countless restaurants in Japan, its formula is simple: small and chef-owned. As everybody in the world knows by now, if you sit at the sushi bar and tell the chef how much you like his fish, he will pull out all the stops (like a pipe organ master) and make you moan with pleasure. This man did it to me with his soft-shelled crab tempura (no hint of grease, no background taste of oil, so perfectly cooked that the green stuff exploded in my mouth and all over my hands). He also did it with the uni sashimi (raw sea urchin, so sweet that it was dessert); the combination of squid, scallops, uni, and mayonnaise; the udon noodle soup (full of flavor thanks to hours of simmering); the chicken teriyaki (no sugar in the sauce, just reduced soy sauce among other things); and the grilled lamb. Wait- that was at a Greek restaurant.

I love watching a craftsman who is in love with his craft. Sitting at the sushi bar is like being at a show in Las Vegas- only better. To me, a meal of the freshest raw fish, arranged by an artistic chef, is just as exciting as a meal at a 3-star Michelin restaurant in France. (Huh?, you might be saying- but give me a chance to explain.) Hirame engawa (fluke fin) is crunchy and a little sweet. Toro (tuna belly), is rich, fatty, and mind altering. Mirugai (giant clam) is 'clam' with all capital letters, in other words, crunchy, full-flavored, and a reminder of where we all came from. Awabi (abalone) is intoxicating and alive. Ebi (shrimp) is also alive, and it is unlike anything you have ever tasted in the shellfish family. It's not slimy like dead fresh shrimp, and it shudders a bit as you eat it. Anago (eel) with sweet sauce is a rush. Uni (sea urchin) has color (bright orange), texture (indescribable), perfume (like ocean water transformed into a perfect candy), and a tendency to ensnare a user like heroin. The sight of perfect fresh uni takes your breath away. It lasts in your mouth (as long as it is the last thing you eat) for 20-40 minutes. (We are not even in Japan yet!) What ties it all together is the chef's artistry. The addition of some multi-colored seaweeds or freshly ground wasabi root or an edible flower or just the right amount of grated ginger to complement the raw mackerel- there is incomparable beauty and a perfect matching of ingredients. There is never any excess; it's always the right proportion. And here's a bonus: no other cuisine comes close to Japanese's ability to make you feel great after a meal.

Back to Minus 8. In France, at 3-star Archestrate, the owner, Alain Senderens, made a vinaigrette of truffle oil (oil in which he soaked whole black truffles for 3 days) and aged sherry vinegar. I became hooked on sherry vinegar. Then I tasted balsamic vinegar, age 1 year old to 100 years old, the latter very thick and complex. (I know a trick to make young taste like old. Email me and I'll tell you. I just want to see if anyone reads this.) So, I'm trying to get a bottle of Minus 8, which no one in Toronto seems to know about.

I found the rare Greek restaurant that uses the best part of the lamb (the leg, in case you weren't sure) and grills it medium rare. I'm trying to resist the urge to launch into a reverie about rare lamb. Must resist. Must re-sist.

Well, grilled rare lamb (the loin and ribs are pretty spectacular too) brings me back to a tiny restaurant in the middle of a lush field with nothing but nature surrounding it in the south of France. It was an old farmhouse, and there was a fireplace in the dining room. More importantly, there was a magician with a box of fresh herbs (thyme, rosemary, sea salt, freshly ground pepper, and something that made my brain pulsate) working the flames. After you ordered lamb, he grilled it for you, and it was crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside, kind of like a Nutty Buddy ice cream cone. But seriously now, the aroma of herbs (herbs de Provence) formed an olfactory blanket; and all the diners experienced peace, happiness, and perfectly grilled meat.

Still searching for Minus 8 vinegar, I stopped at a liquor store- actually more like a liquor pavilion- that carried almost every wine and liquor in the world. My favorite section was the sweet wine emporium, occupied by French Sauternes (including the incomparable Chateau d'Yquem), German Trockenbeerenauslese, and Hungarian Tokai (including one called Essencia, supposedly as thick as honey). The wine merchant and I discussed puttonyos (the way you grade the sweetness of a tokai and also, lately, the way you measure the strength of your cellphone signal), but he had no clue as to where I might score some of this very exotic vinegar.

But lo and behold, as Lady Luck would have it, the owners of Minus 8 responded to my pleading email, told me to contact such and such a purveyor of hard to find delicacies, and here I am with a bottle in my hand.

I'm thinking back to my favorite sauce for salmon: a balsamic vinegar beurre blanc. The salmon has very crusty skin on one side and is rare on the inside. The sauce is made of reduced balsamic vinegar with butter whisked into it while it is warm. (Classic beurre blanc uses a reduction of wine vinegar, white wine, and very finely chopped shallots which absorb almost all the liquids.)

So- thanks to a local hunter, I'm sautéing the tenderest, most delicious venison. Then, I'm deglazing the pan with Minus 8 vinegar. Then I'm adding some stock made with venison bones. Then, some wild cranberry jam- or maybe not. I'm not sure. At this point, I am getting off on the complexity of this ice wine based vinegar.

More on this later, because I'm off to California.

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