It was the Maultaschen and the Spätzle that brought us together. I spent the winter semester at McGill University in Montreal, and booked a BnB for my first week, until I could move into student housing. I had come straight from visiting my parents in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania — two long flights, 49 hours in the air — arriving fatigued, famished, and ready to begin my Montreal adventure.
Cooking is about passion, so it may look slightly temperamental in a way that it’s too assertive to the naked eye.
Gordon Ramsay
A white-haired, blue-eyed woman in her eighties opened the door.
“You’re late!” She had a raspy German accent, softened at the edges by decades in a foreign country. “Keys are here. Your room is there. Only breakfast. Be home by 8 p.m.”
She didn’t look into my eyes. But I looked into hers and saw a bitter sadness.
I dreaded the week ahead. I even tried to move into my student housing early — but the housing director told me that wasn’t possible. I would have to manage this woman for seven days.
I returned from my first day in the city with my stomach happily stuffed: buttery croissants, chewy Montreal bagels, gooey cinnamon buns, flaky milles-feuilles. The cold was biting and icy, but the food had already made me fall in love with the city. I tiptoed back into the BnB and stopped — caught by the smell drifting from her kitchen. Baked apples. Cinnamon. Cloves.
Her voice cut through the warmth.
“No loud music, like the other guests I just kicked out!”
The next morning, a massive blizzard closed the city entirely. I was trapped inside with this woman and her silences.
The smell of freshly baked bread woke me every morning. We ate breakfast in the kitchen — me at the guest table, her at the far end of the room. The silence between us was so thick a saw would not have cut through it. I kept my eyes on my plate: rye and poppyseed rolls, whipped butter, marmalade. But even as I ate, questions gathered in my head. Did she have children? What had made her so sad?
On the third morning, my curiosity finally broke loose. I glanced in her direction — and my heart flipped.
On her plate: soft, golden egg noodles, tangled and buttery. And beside them, plump, cushion-shaped dumplings, pale and steaming.
“Is that Spätzle…and Maultaschen?!”
The question flew out of my mouth, louder and higher-pitched than I intended.
The woman spun around. For the first time, she looked directly into my eyes.
“You know Spätzle and Maultaschen?” A soft smile crossed her face.
I nodded.
“Will you dine with me tonight?”
That question changed everything.
That evening, she set the table properly — cloth napkins, candles, two glasses of white wine.
She served Maultaschen first: German dumplings stuffed with minced meat and spinach, cut into small pieces and floated in a clear, golden beef consommé. The broth was deep and silky. The dumplings were soft, yielding, with a richness that tasted like a winter Sunday. Then came the Käsespätzle — cheese Spätzle — the short egg noodles tossed with melted Emmental and caramelized onions until the whole thing was golden and impossibly comforting.
Spätzle translates from the Swabian dialect as little sparrow. That night, I understood why. They were small, light, alive.
Her name was Vera. She had grown up in Swabia, in southwest Germany, and had left after the war. In Canada, she met her husband, who had built the BnB around their shared life. He had died recently. Vera was overwhelmed, lonely, and — I could now see — grieving.
We ate. She reminisced. I listened.
I told her about my life as a concert pianist. About my love of Spätzle and chocolate. About the places I had lived.
We ate and we laughed.
By the end of the evening, Vera reached across the table and took my hand. Would I consider living with her for the rest of my three-month sojourn?
I thought of the flat I had already committed to. I looked at the longing in her eyes.
Her home became my home in Montreal.
Over the winter months, we cooked our way into a friendship. We made Swabian roast beef — a delicate sirloin served with fried onions and its own rich pan sauce. Her potato salad, made with beef stock and white vinegar and sharp raw onion, nothing like the creamy versions I had grown up eating. Apple cake. Apple strudel, the pastry stretched so thin you could read through it. Large pretzels. Beautifully crusted rye breads. And always, always chocolate — in cookies, in cakes, in the bars we made ourselves, studded with pistachios, almonds, and walnuts.
By the first month, we had our favourite restaurants. By the second, we had our schedule: dinner out every Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday. It was our thing, and we both looked forward to it.
The day I left, Vera embraced me tightly. Then she pressed a folded piece of paper into my hands: her recipes for Maultaschen and Spätzle.
“This is where our stories met,” she said.
They have met there ever since. Whenever my parents or brothers come to visit, they expect Maultaschen or Spätzle — and around that table, we make new memories and share more stories.
Some recipes are just food. And some recipes are a door.
Vera’s Spätzle
Spätzle can be served as you would any pasta — in broth, with a cream sauce, or simply with butter and herbs. This version, dressed with butter and fresh parsley, is the one Vera made on ordinary evenings. For cheese Spätzle, toss the cooked noodles with grated Emmental and top with caramelized onions. You will need a Spätzle press, available at most kitchen shops or online.
Serves 4
Ingredients
- 2 cups (250g) all-purpose flour
- 4 large eggs
- 1 teaspoon fine salt
- A pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
- ½ cup whole milk mixed with 2 tablespoons water
- 1 teaspoon salt, for the boiling water
- 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, for serving
- A small handful of flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
Method
Pour the flour into a large bowl and make a well in the centre.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs, salt, and nutmeg. Pour into the well and mix with a wooden spoon — about 10 strokes. Add the milk and water and continue stirring for 8–10 minutes, until the batter is smooth and you begin to see small bubbles. The batter will be thick and sticky; it should fall slowly from the spoon in a thick ribbon.
Bring a large pot of water to a boil, add the salt, then reduce the heat to a steady simmer.
Working in batches, place a spoonful of batter into your Spätzle press and press directly into the water. Cook until the noodles float to the surface, about 2 minutes. Lift out with a slotted spoon, rinse briefly under cold water to stop the cooking, and transfer to a warm bowl. Repeat until all the batter is used.
Toss with butter, scatter over the parsley, and serve immediately.
Flat Irons Skillet Potatoes
Ingredients
Equipment
Method
- Preheat oven to 350ºF/180ºC/gas 4. Generously spray two 12-cup muffin pans with cooking spray. Sprinkle the bottom of each cavity with a couple pinches of sugar. Set aside.
- Add almonds and rosemary to your KitchenAid® K400 Blender. Close lid, select “Ice Crush” setting, and let blender run through the setting. Scrape down the sides of the blender with a rubber spatula, then replace lid and blend on speed 5 for 10 seconds. Scrape sides again and blend on speed 5 for a final 15-20 seconds, or until almonds and rosemary are finely ground.
- Pour the almond mixture from blender in a small mixing bowl. Add all-purpose flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Whisk to combine, and set aside.
- Place ricotta cheese, olive oil, orange zest and sugar into the blender. Pulse 5 times to incorporate. Remove the lid cap and add eggs, one at a time, pulsing once after each addition. Replace lid cap.
- Remove lid, use spatula to scrape down the sides of the bender, then add half of flour mixture to blender and pulse 2 times. Scrape down sides of blender again, then add remaining flour mixture and blend on speed 3 for 15 seconds.
- Assemble the cakes. Use a sharp knife to cut off the ends of four of the citrus fruits. Slice the citrus into very thin rounds, no thicker than 1/8". Remove any seeds from the rounds and place one small citrus round in the bottom of each sugared muffin cavity. (See Chef’s Notes for choosing/placing citrus.)
- Slowly fill each muffin cavity to a little more than halfway full. (A pastry spatula is helpful in portioning the batter from the blender and into the cavities.) Bake cakes for 20-25 minutes, rotating the pans halfway through baking. Cakes are done when a toothpick inserted into the cakes comes out clean.
Notes
Did you make this recipe?
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