photos by Madd Hattere

It’s four o’clock in the morning in Montreal at a dive restaurant down the street from a student residence, where you go for the most drunken drunk food of your life.

They're closed, but someone's in there, so a woman starts to bang on the door with six of her friends until they let them in. She demands a pizza, but they remain unswayed: "We're not doing it, we're closed."

"Well I'll do it"

A blur of speed causes them to blink, and now the owners can only account for five girls in front of them -- as they look back to the kitchen, the ringleader has already begun gathering ingredients to make pizzas.

Exasperated, they plea: "You have to take this to go!"

She’s laid back, speaking with a slight slur: "Totally fine man, don't worry about it."

She finishes and even pays for the pizzas, receiving one order free because the owners take a picture with all the girls in the pizza kitchen. The group, now endowed with pizza, walks back home and sits at her home until 6:40 in the morning bawling, for this is her last night in Montreal.

“…and that's not the first time I've been known to make my own pizza at a pizza joint in Montreal. There have been a few... instances...”

This rogue late-night chef is Amanda Garbutt. The Ottawa resident moved to Montreal for schooling in Sociology, but has since completely shifted priorities due to the media force that is her friend.

After growing up in Toronto, April Engelberg was granted internships for CNN in New York and Al Jazeera in Washington after becoming involved with TV McGill; the idea of becoming an official cooking personality would have never occurred to Amanda without April’s background in television. When initially approached with the idea of hosting a cooking show, Amanda's first response was real surprise.

APRIL: "Basically, in second year when everyone moved out of residence, people would tell me they went to Amanda's and instead of going for dinner she made, she actually taught them how to make dinner and they made it together. Then I went over one time and it kind of dawned upon me that I should do the show. Then Amanda laughed really hard for a while, and I had to assure her I was serious."

AMANDA: "It took her a year to convince me."

APRIL: "I started second year, and at the beginning of third year she was still saying 'Yeah, maybe,' and I had to tell her 'I am totally, totally serious,' because she had never done any TV before."

AMANDA: "My first day on camera was the first day of shooting for the Hot Plate. My family isn't even a camera family, so literally no video camera has ever seen my body until this."

Now that the camera has shifted focus to Toronto, the ladies are looking to continue expanding their market. The proud recipients of the Dobson Cup, Amanda and April have decided upon a full commitment to the show.

AMANDA: "Originally when I was moving to Toronto it was to be in the same city as April, so we could pursue the Hot Plate on the side. I had arranged this whole marketing job, I had everything lined up and I said to April: 'You know that if we really want to do the Hot Plate I can't take this job.' She left me alone to think for a few days and then I called her to tell her I quit the job.

[April was thrilled]: "Yeah you did!"

The Dobson Cup is an award given to budding entrepreneurs. Looking at the competition for the Hot Plate, the closest runners-up seem intense: WOODSTREAM, a company that makes their own wood-plastic composites as an alternative to mainstream oil-based plastics, and BestSPEC, integrating robots into the inspection and maintenance of wood turbines. Up against extremely business-oriented competition, the Hot Plate found themselves at the top of the podium with their own plans of expansion.

APRIL: "A lot of people ask us 'Oh, so do you want to be on TV?' Basically, we're really happy with the way everything has gone, and we owe a lot to fans on Facebook and YouTube for how well we've done so far. Our goal for the next year is to keep it as a web series, to put out 25-30 episodes in the year, provide a video for each episode that profiles a recipe in the upcoming book that show our audience how to [prepare the recipes], then maybe reevaluate our position from there."

Their upcoming cookbook will transcend the static pages of print-only publication; no longer confined to the old, yellowed pages of your grandmother’s cake book, the Hot Plate fully supports online supplements. Amanda actually taught herself how to improve her knife strokes watching videos on YouTube.

AMANDA: "The new website coming out is a lot more streamlined for people to go get video tips. The glossary of the cookbook is going to be supported virally with 10-15 second video clips. What's going to separate this cookbook from other cookbooks is that we're trying to support the digital age; new cookbooks should have supporting features online for free."

Although currently tackling twelve-hour editing days, before getting into cookbook production April and Amanda became more involved in the Montreal community: after an article from the Montreal Gazette drew the attention of the Loblaw’s Cooking School in Montreal, Amanda taught four classes there between April and May, and while the Loblaw’s classes attract middle-aged women for the most part, a few younger pupils were starting to tiptoe in. After the classes were done, Amanda kept in contact with some of these older women over Facebook, which allows her to continue to coach her followers.

AMANDA: "We want to offer lots of details on how to properly use the book [and website], and how to use the leftovers from the recipes. They're all written for a family of four, but if one person wants to make the full recipe there are tips on how to freeze, save or turn it into an entirely new dish."

The focus of the Hot Plate has become increasingly more interactive: April runs the Facebook and Twitter accounts and offers prizes, such as Amanda’s cookies, in contests for those willing to try their hand at creating picturesque dishes. She’s recently received video entries as well, but my personal favourite is a zealous entry for their Ultimate Egg Competition. A fan plated a portrait of himself with a ham face, mushroom nose, scrambled egg hair and a tangerine smile, and for the eyes: avocado sclera, hard boiled egg iris, blueberry pupils.

The encouragement for ingenuity in these online contests gives viewers an outlet to hone their hands-on cooking beyond the basics of their every day routine. Amanda wants an audience that responds well to new ingredients, and can take her initial instruction to create something new and different.

AMANDA: "Your beginning recipes are your safety net, they're your guideline. [I want people to] get comfortable with them and then push themselves, try new things, experiment, it doesn't matter. You're in here to watch me make this recipe, and I am going to make a version of this recipe, but I'm never going to take a teaspoon measure out. I'll work with a new ingredient and want to know more about it -- I might know how to cook certain things but I'll want to know where the ingredients come from, what happens to them while they cook, and some of the chemistry behind it. While I continuously learn more about food, I have by no means an authoritative stance on everything. I just like to impart what I've learned onto other people."

In the upcoming cookbook, a certain portion of recipes have been chosen to appeal to everyone's dietary needs, such as vegetarian, vegan, or Kosher -- meat and cheese aren't always combined, as much as Amanda may want that to be the case.

AMANDA: "Bacon isn't wrapped around... cereal. We are making a book accessible to everybody's palate. You don't want to exclude anybody, but for some of the recipes I literally have to have a comment at the bottom to say: 'You can leave out the bacon, but you don't have to, and I wouldn't suggest it.' Bacon and I are kindred spirits. When I come back in another life, it will be as bacon."

MADD: "It'll be a short life"

AMANDA: "Yeah, but it'll be tasty."

I've finally met a carnivore after my own heart, one that selects a short-lived reincarnation in the name of a single bacon strip rather than redo the whole human fiasco. Make sure to peruse the Hot Plate, which April and Amanda will continue to spread throughout Toronto. Not only do they support the growth of BYOB restaurants in Toronto (everyone should), but they have recently been adding local guests to their repertoire -- winning their next contest could be your chance to get into the kitchen with Amanda, keep an eye on their Facebook page for all the details. And stream one of their new episodes below for the lowdown on some serious peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies.

Comments

• July 19, 2010, Emily writes: This looks like such a cool venture! It's a great article Ted!

Warning to the reader: Although this story should emerge top to bottom in chronological order (the higher up on the page something appears, the earlier it happened), the first person narrative bits are written in the present tense, while the conversation between Michael and myself refers to events in the past tense. Switching between tenses may cause something akin to vertigo in the reader and possibly mild frustration. This is almost certainly intentional.

Let's start with this story about my friend Stu:

It's Stu's last day in New York before he flies to Bermuda. He goes to the East village, to Porqueta, a tiny little sandwich shop run by a woman who roasts porquetas and nothing but porquetas. He walks in and the place is so small, he's at the counter where there's just two seats and he's facing a wall of glistening pork. Stu eats pork fat, pork skin, all different kinds of pork meat, in a sandwich. Then Stu goes to the East Village Motorino; the porqueta was only a snack. He eats a whole Filetti Pie at Motorino, baked with fresh mozzarella, tiny little cherry tomatoes and thyme in Anthony Mangieri's famous pizza oven, allegedly the best pizza oven in North America. The pie is amazing, it's got a super flexible crust that you can poke and immediately returns to its original shape. With the pie he drinks a glass of gragnano, semi sparkling Neapolitan wine. He leaves Motorino and he's feeling pretty fine, he's had two lunches now and only one of them was a sit down lunch. He goes from there to Momofuku milk bar, which is the bakery associated with David Chang's Momofuku Ssam bar. At Momofuku you get can cereal milk ice cream: milk that has had cereal soaking in it transformed into soft serve ice cream, so that it tastes like the milk at the bottom of your cereal. Here Stu eats a banana cake and drinks a bottle of strawberry milk. Think Nutella, banana bread, then Nutella icing with a crunchy praline layer somewhere in there.

After two lunches, one giant piece of cake and a bottle of strawberry milk, he's walking down the street, on his way now to JFK airport, and a funny feeling comes over him. Stu starts feeling pops and shivers inside of him and he's shaking, sweating, his heart is beating fast. He's wondering if anyone's ever had a heart attack from immediate overeating. He wonders for a little while if he's going to pass out, and then, his body drifts for a while until eventually he's slammed back into reality. He's awake, he's still alive, he goes to JFK and gets on a plane and flies to Bermuda.

Here's what he has to say about this:

Stu: It's important to get the most out of your travel food eating time, there's no point in thinking of food as sustenance when you're trying to experience all the good flavours a city has to offer in a limited amount of time. Any respectable city has enough food that you could die from caloric intake if you're working with a limited amount of time. You're never going to have eaten enough. And so you need to be willing to suffer.

San Francisco

Mark Ibold, the bass player for Pavement and Sonic Youth, is on our flight from Newark. I stare at him awkwardly and at one point during the flight I go over to his seat to talk to him but he is sleeping. At the luggage carousel I call out, "Hey Mark!" He signs my copy of Evelyn Waugh's Vile Bodies and tells me that the Toronto Island Concert was in the top five shows of the Pavement reunion tour.

We arrive in San Francisco, meet a third friend and go to a bar called Doc's clock. There's a hand shuffle board table, maybe you know the kind, with the sawdust on it to provide traction for the tiny pucks. I recognize the bartender's Yeasayer shirt, a brightly coloured base with a black psychedelic houndstooth hand on it. He was on tour with Yeasayer one time, he says. He feeds us cheap shots of whiskey and pints of PBR. "Liquor is so cheap it's basically free in America," I think, "even at bars."

We go down the street to Farolitos and order the Al Pastor Super Burritos, with beans and avocado. It is the greatest, greasiest, burrito that I have ever eaten. Shockingly delicious and a challenge to finish. I soak the golden prize in multiple sauces from the salsa bar and almost weep for joy.

At the MOMA SF I walk through a wall of golden beads, realizing that I find modern art sexually arousing.

Bourbon and Branch:

A cheesy speakeasy style cocktail bar. The host gestures for us to come in out of the freezing weather; it is ten degrees celsius and misty. Everyone is wearing a fedora. "Some people," I think, "should never wear a fedora." The host leads us to a book shelf where he pulls at the spine of a book and spins us into a separate room. It's supposed to be this secret chamber outside of reality and there is a cool icicle-like chandelier hanging from the ceiling, but people keep opening the door to reality and ruining the mood. I drink a Sazerac for the first time, the oldest American cocktail in existence, born in New Orleans. The glasses are washed in absinthe and the Sazerac makes me feel like a wobbly newborn.

In the Mission we stop at a bar called the 500 hundred club with a giant lit up champagne glass for a sign. I punch in a bunch of Neko Case songs on the juke box, but we leave before they come one. Outside it is misty and cool, but the palm trees make me feel like I should be wearing sandals.

Frances:

Appetizers: Panisse Frites (Chickpea fries) with lemon aioli, chicken patte.

Stu: The chickpea fries had this super crisp exterior and then the crazy fluffiness of the hummus in the middle, a perfect window pane of deep friedness that you cracked through with your teeth and then suddenly you were swimming in a pool of chick pea mud. When you dipped it in mayonaise it was like goo, window pane and then more different goo on the inside... two layers of garlicky goo separated by an aquarium.

Entrees: Tender pink lamb, Crepe Cannaloni with melted leeks.

Stu: Pat had some kind of bird it wasn't a chicken, it was um.....

Dave: Safe to say it was some kind of game.

Stu: Well, I don't know if they'd actually shot it.

Dessert: we shared the Bittersweet chocolate pot du creme with cherries.

Stu: It was like the same texture as the chicken patte. Everything was just so buttery smooth. It was like the restaurant of buttery smoothnesses, this made it a very feminine restaurant.

Dave: There were cultured homosexuals there, it was run by women.

Stu: It seemed super San Franciscan, right? Things you've had before but easier to digest. There was nothing edgy about it at all, it was almost like pablum.

We met a South American girl on the plane who'd been living in San Francisco. We go to meet her at a bar for her friend's birthday but she stands us up. I go over to some girls and start a conversation, "I'm an artist" one of them says "I make my own clothes and I sell jewelry. I've been reading a lot of Timothy Leary lately and I believe that acid is truth. Jack Kerouac is my favourite author."

"For Chrissake!" I think, but Moody and Stu are coming over and start talking to the other friend and here we are stuck like this for at least fifteen more minutes.

Tartine:

General impressions: Hyper butteriness of the ham croissants, the Croque monsieurs are soaked in sauce and topped with great ingredients: asparagus and tiny little buttony mushrooms, in addition to the cheese.

Dave: A very liberal interpretation of the traditional croque monsieur

Stu: Mhmm, usually its on bread sliced from a loaf, this was a rounded loaf, a big oval shaped piece, thick cut, maybe it was sourdough bread even.

Battle of the Ice Creams

Bi-rite Creamery:

Stu and Moody buy salted caramel ice cream and even though I'm stuffed with croissant and croque monsieur, I want to steal their ice cream it is so delicious.

Humphrey Slocum:

After a taco crawl we hit Humphrey Slocum which has more attention to detail in decor (A taxidermied double cow head graces the wall) and hip clever names like Rosemary's Baby or Harvey Milk and Honey Graham Cracker.

Winner: Bi-Rite.

Columbus Avenue

We visit the MH de Young Museum and pay to enter an exhibit of famous Impressionist paintings that the Musee D'Orsay has leant to SF while they're undergoing renovations. I fall in love a little bit with a steamy Monet train station, but mostly I'm just working hard to stay on my feet.

We take the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) under the water and come out in Oakland. Apparently George Lucas was inspired by the architecture of the Bay Area when he was working on his model designs for the original Star Wars Trilogy. The most obvious evidence of this are the huge four legged cranes in downtown Oakland that resemble Imperial AT-AT's (All Terrain Armoured Transport) - those giant vehicles that roam Hoth, the ice planet, in search of a rebel base to destroy. Second only to the cranes is the Trans-America Pyramid in downtown San Francisco, which strongly resembles an imperial star destroyer. The traces of Star Wars architecture are randomly scattered around the area, so that walking about in the sunny, liberal west coast paradise that is San Francisco one can suddenly find themselves staring, head cocked to the side, at a giant relic of science fiction lore.

MH de Young Museum

Pizzaiolo (Oakland):

List of Pies: Tomato sauce with meatballs, white pizzas with majorum, broccoli, rapini and sausage, one with wild nettles and pecorino romano.

Stu: The one with tomato sauce was really good, the meatballs were so smooth. The coolest thing is that we ate the pizzas in a dive bar, instead of the restaurant itself, which was kind of fancy and stylized to look like something in the south of France

Dave: O yeah! It was a real hole in the wall Oakland bar that served cheap jugs of PBR and Jack and cokes with barely any coke in them.

Stu: When I asked if we could bring in the pizzas, the bartender was like "we already got potatoes 'n cheese," or like "rice 'n cheese" or like "Mashed potatoes and gravy... 'n cheese" some gross side dish that everyone at the bar was slopping into their mouths.

We go to see Pavement at UC Berkeley's Greek theatre. We buy eight dollar MGD's served in a plastic safety bottle and watch from the coliseum style stone seats. For the encore Pavement's original drummer Gary Young comes out to play a bunch of Slanted Enchanted with the band. His rhythm is sloppy but damn can he drum fill.

Later we're at a bar called...

Zeitgeist:

Stu: If you wanted to compare it to bars in Toronto, it's kind of like a combination of Ronnie's and the Brunswick house. A hipster bar for frat boys, or a frat boy bar for hipsters.

Dave: The kind of bar you could blast Band of Horses at.

Stu: I still don't know what Band of Horses is but I know you think they suck.

We've met up with our friend from the plane (we'll call her Dorothia) at this point as we sit down to eat more giant golden salsa soaked burritos at a place called Cancun. Her boyfriend passes us all beers from a corner store which we accept hesitantly, but hey everybody's doing it and if it's okay to take outside food into a bar in California, maybe you can bring outside beer into burrito joints too.

Stu: Dorothia had a wealth of practical knowledge of what you literally could and could not do. But I don't think she knew much about what you technically couldn't do.

The Ferry Building:

A general rundown from Stu: Lots of fancy food places that don't have other locations, that just exist in the ferry building. Like a farmer's market where the booths are open all the time, plus there was extra farmer's market stuff because it was Saturday. I knew it was an old terminal or something, I guess it still is a ferry terminal?

Dave: I have no idea!

I was hungover and a bit stoned on headache medicine so I ended up laying on a slab of wood in the sun deliriously napping and looking out on the bay while Stu and Moody navigated the Ferry Building. Here's what they ate there:

1. Cone of Meats and sandwiches with Testa (Italian face meat) from Boccalone, whose slogan is "Tasty Salted Pig Parts."

2. American Bahn Mi (Vietnamese Sub).

3. Grass fed Hamburger.

4. Porqueta Sandwich from Roli Roti: a truck that a Swiss master butcher has converted into a rotisserie showcasing glistening twisting porqueta.

5. Two Oysters.

6. Jellowy Linnaean candy-cot from the Linnaen candy-cot man who had been developing this delicious apricot for fifteen years.

7. A soda carbonated using all natural milk whey.

Roli Roti

Stu: (describing porqueta and the Roli Roti experience) You take pieces of a pig wrapped in a pig's skin and roast them for a million hours with herbs and spices, then you slice it and you chop it up into fine pieces and put it on a bun with some kind of greens and some salt. You have a mixture of different pork textures, some of it's really mushy and fatty, some of it is gooey gelatinous, some of it is crispy, like hard candy crispy. Like the last bite when you get to the end of the tootsie pop. This was better than the porqueta sandwiches at Porqueta in New York. It's not like a roti at all... roti is French for roasted I guess.

Nopa:

Cocktails: White Manhattan, Pisco Sour with Eggwhites

Apps: A Goat Cheese Dip, little fried anchovies with mayonnaise, salad with olive oil poached sea bass.

Stu: The goat cheese toast rounds were perfect. It was like a classy version of a superbowl dip, like you were eating a bowl of cheese salsa. Those anchovies were insane, we ate them head and everything.

Entrees: Pork Chop, Grass Fed Hamburger, Tagliatelle with peas and cream sauce.

Stu: Pork Chop was cooked in a wood oven, it was a little smoky, crispy exterior, lots of pieces of melting fat. Tasted a bit like barbecue. There were a few apricots. Think about a big salt hit from the pork, a lot of smoke, this smooth bacon-y ham texture, with beautiful apricot jam on it

Dave: Eating two or three bites of that cheeseburger changed my life. While I was chewing I closed my eyes and was transported to a better place.

Stu: I always think that the key to a good cheeseburger is to make it thick enough that you have a textural contrast between a burnt caramelized crispy brown outside and the super moist, almost cool, beef tartarish pink or purpleness of the inside. You really can't fuck up a burger if it has that gradation.

Dave: So the recurring theme here is crunchy exterior, soft interior.

Stu: O yeah! Food's about the play of contrasts!

Dessert: Soppapillas (a type of fried pastry) with spiced chocolate sauce.

Stu: Moody was licking the chocolate off the spoon, he looked like he was going to pass out. He'd stopped talking to any of us, he didn't ask if this was okay, this was a communal spoon. He was putting it into his mouth really slowly, in slow motion... it looked like he was nursing.

Dave: In his defense, we had gone from heavy cocktails to proseco, to California red, and we were passing around the straw dogs at this point.

Stu: You mean the white dogs (American whiskey moon shine). The server brought us three different kinds and she was like "can't you tell how different they are?" and I was like "I have no idea!" Moody said he'd had to put his hand up on the wall in the bathroom for support.

Dave: At that point I thought we'd all had that experience, 'cause we agreed that it was the drunkest any of us had ever been in a restaurant. That was the night we ended up at that block party where they were playing "Dancing in the Streets." I caught last call at the liquor store and got a thing of Wild Turkey, we went back to that girls house and I threw up that whole meal meal in her bathroom. Well, not the whole thing... a third of it maybe.

Taco crawl in the Mission:

Al Pastor Taco

The next day we stumble over to the mission and embark on a taco crawl. Argentina and Mexico are playing in the World Cup so the mood is especially exuberant in the taco joints.

Dave: What do you look for in a down and dirty Al Pastor Taco?

Stu: Like most meats on a spit you want the combination of crispy outside, smooth fatty inside. Then I want crunchy onion, a little bit of herbal kick from the cilantro and then the vinegar and spice that comes from the salsa. Corn tortillas are quite flavourful, there's a lot of suppleness, there's almost something kind of creamy about them, they're sweet. There so much nicer than the papery, cardboard tortillas we get in Toronto, even at respected places.

Dave: I found that with foods that are kind of a cultural signature, like the taco or the Halifax donair, there's a special way to eat it that you have to figure out.

Stu: Right, because they give you two layered tacos beneath the meat and you have to split it up.

Dave: It's like the three shells (see Demolition Man), except it was the two tacos. How do you split it up without ruining the taco? They were very sparing with napkins.

Stu: It was hard to find napkins.

Dave: They wanted you to know how to do it, or to figure it out.

Stu: It was definitely a lot of meat piled up on those tortillas, it was not neatly wrapped or anything. There were not a lot of concessions made to the taco neophyte.

Elixir: (Make your own Bloody Mary Sunday)

Stu: I think that bar's been open since the 1890s or something crazy.

Dave: We put bacon in the Bloody Marys. Like cold pieces of bacon out of a pint glass. We couldn't figure out if the bartender was messing with us.

Stu: I knew he wasn't messing with us, I'd heard about the Bloody Mary bacon on the internet. There was an incredible selection of hot sauces. and then spice mixes, a pickle drawer.

Dave: It really helped me to understand how difficult it is to make a properly seasoned Caesar. It took me a long time of putting a lot of stuff in my drink to make it taste right.

Stu: It gave you a chance to try a complex Caesar though because you mixed a million things into it. Horseradish! Don't forget about the horseradish, it gives it a cocktail sauce flavour and makes it more meaty and spicy. The Horseradish tastes good with clam juice probably, right? That seafoody spice combo.

After applying the Caesar hangover glaze we walk in a hungover daze to Dolores park and meet up with Dorothia and some of her friends. It's so sunny, the Pride parade is going on downtown and I notice in this park that the divide between hippy and hipster is less accentuated on the west coast. Hippies and hipsters are actually friends. "Where can I find someone to smoke pot with?" I ask Dorothia.

"I dunno, walk ten steps in one direction and ask."

I walk around the entire park and everyone is smoking cigarettes which is frustrating and I think that's so weird because we're in California and everyone should be smoking pot. I get back to our little encampment looking forlorn but we all smell pot and there are some dudes hitting a joint ten steps away from us in one direction.

"Are you a cop?" the guy asks.

"Yeah, this beard is fake, you're all under arrest." I say, which is maybe kind of a stupid thing to say.

"I've known cops with beards. If you're a cop you legally have to tell me or else it's entrapment. Are you a cop?"

These dudes are real pot nerds and I learn that in Oakland, if you acquire the proper licenses, you can legally grow more marijuana than anywhere else in North America. It's sunny and 75 degrees Fahrenheit. In Toronto, I learn, there's a giant thunder storm and everyone's under arrest.

The next day we all wake up hungry for double cheeseburger.

Red's Java House:

Java House

Dave: I thought that the pier itself eclipsed the meal. Where we were sitting seemed like a cross between a setting in Scorsese movie and an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. The Sheer Americanness of eating a double cheeseburger with a coke on a pier... it felt so right.

Stu: You felt like cops would eat there, from cop movies right? You could imagine McNulty or Bunk (see The Wire) going there. Or the cops from The Departed... or Serpico.

It's so sunny and hot that we decide to take the bus to the beach, to see the pacific ocean proper. We're foiled by the microclimates of the west coast and once we've travelled the distance from downtown to the beach we're walking through a cool mist. On the beach I'm intermittently struck by warm swathes of air emerging from the cool. I find a wooden beach horn and start waving it out towards the ocean, chanting "yo-papa, yo-papa," inventing a tribal water worshiping religion as we walk. Further down we all lie down on the warm sand where the swathes of heat are plentiful, and here I fall asleep for half an hour.

Hog Island Oyster Bar:

Happy Hour

5:00-7:00 Every Monday and Thursday at the Ferry Building.

$1 Oysters and $3.50 pints.

Stu: It was crowded as shit and we had to wait, but eventually we did get to eat twenty oysters. My one regret is that we didn't eat forty oysters, Jesus, shit, we could have had so many oysters. They were good little guys, very creamy. Hog Island has their own oyster farms.

Final thoughts, differences between Toronto and SF:

Stu: The quality of restaurants in a place is probably determined by the expectations of the market. In Toronto, people will wait to get tacos from El Asador, and the tacos from El Asador... are objectively bad. You get dried out meats, you get tortillas that taste like... cardboard is too kind, they taste like they're made out of wood.

Dave: You could get a taco on some street corner in the Mission and it would be superior to any Toronto taco?

Stu: I assume that any taco truck in San Francisco is way better than El Asador. Of course in San Francisco they're going to have better tacos, they have a much longer taco tradition.

Dave: What about the correlation between the amazing ingredients that are available in the Bay area and the restaurants that prepare the food?

Stu: I think what's more important is people's expectations. It's not like we have bad ingredients in Ontario, we have good ingredients. And it's not like those taco places were buying their tacos from any kind of fancy artisan purveyors. They were getting it from Industrial Meatland USA. When people have really high expectations it makes the food way better. I don't know why people in Toronto don't have higher expectations. We have pretty high expectations for Chinese food. There should be more competition here, Toronto has like four million people, the Bay area has far fewer than that. But San Francisco is close to L.A. California has a massive economy, there's probably a lot of restaurant dollars to go around. California's got a lot more money to spend on food. Toronto's got some pretty good stuff though too, that didn't we see in San Francisco: I didn't see much West Indian food, much middle eastern food... SF is supposed to have really good Vietnamese Thai, and famous Burmese restaurants.

Dave: I don't even know what Burmese food is.

Stu: They make a salad with tea leaves, it's supposed to be delicious.

Dave: What's Burma called now?

Stu: Myanmar, but I don't think anyone calls it Myanmarese food.

It is the calm after the thunderstorm.

Fashion spent a 2010 Fall/Winter season worshiping Balmain’s party-girl aesthetic with studded handbags, navy sequined cropped jackets, body-con dresses and strappy four-inch gladiator heels that soared above the ground. Men and women raged the nightclub scene in disco colours like fuschia, orange, and purple. Nars’s Schiap nail polish was a popular choice, named after surrealist fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli. Sweaters with broad, beaded shoulders and marching band jackets were a salute to the King of Pop’s death.

One fashion year later, that memory is bittersweet. Michael Jackson hits no longer tremble through the speakers in stores. I recently heard a salesgirl chat so loudly with another about her weekend plans that she drowned out a faintly played, radio station tribute of “The Girl is Mine”.

After the rain comes sun, and the summer heat is like a Sunday morning hangover. On the dog days of summer where it’s over 37 degrees Celcius, I can only think of one thing to cool me down, and that’s to be on the water. Quite frankly, the beach wouldn’t be the right cure to those throbbing UV rays, especially with the effects of global warming strutting before the melted eyeshadow on our eyes. Instead of transporting us to tropical island excursions this season, several new designers have taken inspiration from boating trips and sailing voyages for their Resort 2011 and Spring/Summer collections. Being on a sailboat is much cooler anyways.

For some designers, sailing voyages remind them of impressionist artists who took their rowboats into nature and painted abstract flowers. In the impressionist art movement, spontaneity was the drive, and the blurring between lines was an important element that exemplified the feminine and romantic spirit of those days. On the runway, small, multicoloured florals were the predominant print of the season. The floral prints look less Renaissance and more Impressionist in their execution - less Italian and more French in their cultural references. Dresses, blouses, pants, shorts, sailor shorts, scarves, jackets and everything you can possibly imagine down to the ankle socks on your feet were printed in small abstract flowers. Some flowers even bled into the colours of others. These new textile designers give Monet a run for his money. Cacharel and Balenciaga even styled separates together in head-to-toe floral prints, making it hard for the eye to differentiate where the blouse ends and the pant waistband begins. At Jason Wu, long bias-cut dresses with ruffles were given a further Parisian touch with confectionery colours.

Left to Right: Cacharel Resort 2011, Balenciaga Resort 2011, Jason Wu Resort 2011, Jill Stuart Resort 2011 - Courtesy of Style.com

And while florals are not a new Spring trend we haven’t seen before, their enthusiastic whimsy this season are made current by designers blurring the boundaries between the feminine and masculine. The femininity of the printed frocks is juxtaposed with dandy, masculine elements and southern garcon flair, seen through finishing details and accessories. The straw porkpie hat is a popular fashion accessory on the runway, with references to gender pushing artists such as Mary Cassatt, or in the case of the Dior men’s show, Buster Keaton. For women, neck bows and French jabots are worn with tailored men’s shirts or military cargo jackets; tight tops are paired with slouchy pants; exaggerated glasses balance serious shifts; gingham plaid patterns turn up in chain handbags; and high-waisted ankle pants come in waist-to-toe flower prints. I can see the girls on the street pairing these pants with Sperry top-sider boat shoes.

Even men have adopted a creative outlet through their appearance as much as women. Cream coloured suits were splattered with watercolor flower motifs at Kenzo; Lanvin creates a men’s embossed brocade suit; John Galliano has a Degas moment, putting his male models in satin ballet point shoes with jute soles.

Left to right: John Galliano S/S 2011, Kenzo S/S 2011, Lanvin Homme S/S 2011 - Courtesy of Style.com

In some cases, the soft, romantic boating motifs for summer were contrasted by mod silhouettes in Technicolor and nautical brass accessories, as if taken straight out of the Godard classic Pierrot Le Fou, set in the Mediterranean Sea. Junya Watanabe’s Men’s show had jackets in all the primary colors taken straight out of  Jean-Paul Belmondo’s closet. Jil Sander did an entire collection of solid neon basics. Men exposed their ankles in flood pants by rolling up the hems, which proves to be a recession-proof technique that avoids taking your slacks to the tailor. Marc Jacob’s women’s Resort collection was also quirky, whimsical and nautical at the same time. Retro colour-blocked dresses and exaggerated straw boaters reminded me of Anna Karina’s baby blue sweaters and bright red dresses. Prada went overboard in Technicolor accessories, which ranged from ankle socks in fun colors to bracelets that reminded me of the stacked ring toys I used to play with when I was a kid.

Left to Right: Junya Watanabe S/S 2011, Marc Jacobs Resort 2011, Jil Sander S/S 2011, Prada Resort 2011 - Courtesy of Style.com

How is it that fashion has taken inspiration from such opposite eras of our timeline? Although it’s hard to dissect how Renoir’s “Dejuner-Canotiers/The Boating Party” could be reincarnated on the runway, or how designers figure that women and men want to buy clothes that pay tribute to New Wave French cinema, both ideas seem to merge together this season to form the perfect outfits for a summer voyage.

I recently went to a public park screening of Godard’s A Woman is a Woman in the Lower East Side of New York. It was my friend Isabel’s idea -- even if the movie was still trippy after two glasses of wine, we could at least take pleasure in the colours, the costumes, and the art direction. There were hundreds of young neighbourhood intellectuals and artsy fartsies there that night, absorbing the artistic inspiration from this period, while smirking at the crappy, confusing dialogue. They probably would have done just the same in the sixties. The experience was retro, but still fresh.

Perhaps it has to do with the resurgence of existentialism in the air, and that dressing in this eclectic manner is an expression of freedom to live one’s life as passionately as possible. Maybe it’s an ironic commentary on the social divides created by commercial mass market corporations -- screw the gender rules created by the patriarchal society, I want to wear FLOWERS! Maybe women and men just prefer to wear clothes where they don’t have to take themselves too seriously, especially on vacation. Whatever it all means, the beauty of summer is knowing that any day is an opportune moment for an expedition, and a sailing one at that. After a hard year of being bombarded with work, school, papers, numbers, and bills to name a few, it’s nice to relax and play, no?

Photo by Matthew Filipowich

Contrary to my typical time/space arrangement, I do not currently exist in Toronto – and thus at Eastern Standard Time. Rather, as of last week I have temporarily returned to my roots: Western Canada, Edmonton to be exact, and will be here visiting family and such for the next few weeks. It’s been pretty good thus far.

So, those of you familiar with this column will surely know that I’ve lost my faith a little bit with regards to the TTC, as well as Toronto’s capacity to give a shit about infrastructure. G20 certainly didn’t help, either. In addition to my overwhelming desire to vomit all over Dalton McGuinty’s best suit, I crave little more than to suckerpunch David Miller when his bodyguards aren’t looking and then take him out for coffee where I will apologize for clocking him and explain the best strategy for going about growing a pair. This is of course without even getting into the unnatural, obscene things I’d like to see done to the Fuhrer. But that’s all actually not at all what I wanted to talk about here. I just wanted to briefly remind everyone that those guys are chumps.

Infrastructure is getting to be a pretty prickly issue in Toronto, even more so than usual. Mostly because getting anything accomplished in this city is – you guessed it – more time consuming and costly than the average person’s logic would suggest. As I’ve mentioned in previous columns, I’m often prone to saying that the majority of Toronto’s infrastructure problems are more or less universal as far as larger cities go. Name me a city with over a half million citizens that doesn’t have a tighter-than-reasonable budget and a whole whack of problems that need a-solvin’ and fast.

While far from the utopian Magic City of Efficient Infrastructure that is forever haunting my dreams with its glorious promise – not to mention that it will forever live in the shadows of much greater Canadian cities – I was surprised to find when I arrived in Edmonton, that the city was being developed in many positive directions and with seeming haste. Weird. Usually Alberta is a hot, sweaty breeding ground for politicians of the tax-slashing, surplus-enjoying sort – not to mention Western Separatists – who enjoy little more than giving cities a hard time. Strangely though, there seems to be a lot going on around here when it comes to transit and urban development.

I lived in Edmonton until I was nineteen and at no point was transit even remotely a priority for anyone. I’m the only person I can think of around here who doesn’t know how to drive, so who cares about the ETS (Edmonton Transit System)? This is first and foremost, above and beyond, irrevocably, interminably and staunchly a motorist’s city. Up until recently, I would rank the ETS down with the atrocious mess that is Mississauga Transit. For some reason, though, city council seems to be concerned that people might actually like to enjoy the city they live in.

Seriously, guys, this is some completely unheard of stuff.

Courtesy of the City of Edmonton

Edmonton doesn’t have a subway in the sense that Toronto has a subway. Toronto’s subway (apart from the SRT) is heavy rail, almost entirely underground, and of course it’s much larger. Edmonton’s rapid transit system consists of a single light rail line (LRT) that runs from the northeast corner of the city to the south-central edge with a grand total of fifteen stations end to end. This seems pretty unimpressive, until you consider that one third of the line has been built in the past four years after having being stuck at a measly ten stations since 1992. The two latest additions to the Southern extension project, Southgate and Century Park stations, were just opened earlier this year. I ventured down that way – which given the location of my parents’ place in relation to the extension was no short trip – and was surprised to find that the new stations are operating as though they’ve always been there, integrated flawlessly at street level. I was impressed.

Now it seems as though Edmonton City Council is going transit crazy, with plans to extend the LRT in just about every direction possible, including the construction of a second line to serve the city’s two stranded-yet-primary education centers: the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology and Grant MacEwan University (the University of Alberta is already served by three separate stations in the existing network). Not only do the plans for these projects exist, but the city is already finding inroads for funding them and is giving them an extremely liberal timeline for completion.

Of course, there are many differences between TTC and ETS, Toronto and Edmonton. The most obvious of which is that Toronto is a much bigger city with about three times the population in the city proper and almost five times bigger as a metropolitan area. Also, Alberta is typically viewed as a province with money to throw around. Sure. Fine. Personally, I am of the mind that when it comes to budget, infrastructure, etc, everything is proportional. Toronto has three times as many people, it should have three times the budget and three times the demand for infrastructure initiatives. We’re still talking about the same country, so costs should realistically be in the same ballpark. There’s a lot of things to take into account, and there will never be a clear cut answer of which city is necessarily “ahead”.

However, there are a few things that I would like to draw attention to that make Edmonton Transit interesting when compared to the TTC:

1. Edmonton transit, in terms of both subways and buses is one hundred per cent wheelchair accessible. The TTC is not even close to that.
2. Edmonton sets unrealistic timelines. This seems like a bad thing, but in this case I’m inclined to believe that it’s much more irritating to hear in 2010 that something is going to take until 2020 than it is in 2010 to hear that something is going to take until 2014 and then takes until 2020. At the very least it makes projects palpable to citizens and then they can complain about how something that they know about is coming is taking so long, rather than how this thing that probably isn’t going to happen still isn’t happening.
3. This is the big one for me: staggered openings. I don’t understand why the TTC feels that it is necessary to wait until an entire line is built before considering it open. With the Southern expansion of the LRT, Edmonton Transit opened a station in 2006, two in 2009 and two more in 2010. Again, citizens are more content when things are palpable to them. It makes it at least appear as though things are happening. In Toronto, the TTC expects to open the Yonge-University-Spadina extension to York University/Vaughn to open all at once allegedly in 2014, but more realistically 2016-18. But with all of the budget cuts and skyrocketing costs, not to mention the time it takes to get projects off of the ground at all, even projects like this that have been assured to be a done deal are looking less plausible by the second. Why don’t we stagger the station openings over the course of a few years rather than waiting until their all finished? Sheppard West and Finch West in 2012, York University and Steeles West in 2014 and Highway 7 and Vaughn Corporate Center in 2016. Everybody’s happy-ish. The only realistic downside to this is, as we’ve seen with the Sheppard subway, when this happens, governments tend to see opportunities to pack in the project early and halt development because “hey, this should be good enough.”

Finally, much bigger cities are expanding at a much faster rate, including some of the largest rapid transit systems in the world. New York’s subway is expanding, London’s underground is expanding, Paris’ Metro is expanding. Even Edmonton’s comparatively measly LRT is expanding at a much faster rate than Toronto’s subways or light rail transit. There’s a reason I haven’t touched vodka in years: I was saving it for Dalton.

Comments

• July 16, 2010, Fiona writes: Haha, how interesting that you decided to talk about Edmonton! Very funny article. Good times with ETS!
• July 21, 2010, Refreshed writes: woah. a piece on SB that isn't Toronto-centric. I darn near stroked out!

My conspiracy theorist fears are not completely unwarranted. Just last month, a man was infected by a computer virus. Okay, it is not as wacky as it sounds. Mark Gasson, a University of Reader researcher, had a chip implanted in his hand and deliberately infected it with a virus from a laboratory computer. He was testing how simple radio-frequency identification chips like those used to track pets and other animals can carry computer viruses. As implantable bionic devices, like pacemakers, cochlear implants and “deep brain stimulators” become more complex, they will also have the potential to be infected by technological viruses. Imagine how terrifying The Matrix would have been if Agent Smith could control you from the inside. And then he could spread himself to anything you touch because everyone has wi-fi these days.

Courtesy of Maximum PC

But seriously, even animals are more hip than I am. Cats are using Twitter via a lifelogging device equipped with a camera, acceleration sensor, and a GPS. The device detects the activities of what the cat is doing and posts comments on Twitter like “this tastes good” when the cat is eating something or “on a walk” when the kitty is taking a stroll. The reason I never got a Twitter is because I don’t think anyone would be care so much about my daily activities that they’d read updates on me taking the bus or something. Apparently cats are more interesting than I am.

No one I knew got an iPad because they’re just glorified iPod Touches and no one wants to carry around what sounds like an electronic “feminine sanitary napkin”. I really think Apple made a boo-boo on that one but at least dolphins are into it. They’re using iPads to teach dolphins to communicate with us. They can touch their noses (beaks) to a wide assortment of symbols on the screen and tell us when they’re sad or when they’re planning to enslave the human race with the help of Tweeting kittens and our brain pacemakers.

Sources:
Ars Technica
BBC
Maximum PC

For the average North American sports fan, the month of June is full of excitement. Why? The NHL and NBA finals are being fought over, the new season of Major League Baseball is well under way, and the CFL and NFL begin preseason training camp shortly. Suffice to say, the evenings and weekends are jam packed with excitement throughout the bars, living rooms and bedrooms of the nation. However, there is a glaring exception from this list: football. On June 11th, the World Cup finals tournament will begin South Africa, and the whole world will watch. Or will they?

Historically, the American tradition revolves around three sports: baseball, basketball and football. The same way hockey reflects Canadian culture and attitude, these three sports have permeated the American sports landscape for generations. The history of these sports in America – and their effect on the culture – is an interesting question, but will not be considered here. The point to be made is that American sports, as with American art and literature, is an introverted beast that ignores all outside influence so as to project their own attitudes on others. Indeed, this pomposity is witnessed in many mediums. Hollywood, for example, is nothing but an over-glamorized media creation used to project particular conceptions and ways of living onto the public through the movies.

Canadian sports media reflected this attitude toward football for years. It makes sense – we are a small nation (in terms of people) that sits directly above America and its huge cultural and media machine. There was little organization of leagues for kids or adults, rarely were top European games shown on the weekends, and the general sense was that Canadians, like our American neighbors, preferred the pigskin to the ball. But as we all know, media is not always an accurate representation of a nation, particularly a country as multicultural as Canada.

Consider the city of Toronto as a microcosm of the nation. Toronto can be described regionally in relation to its variety of dense cultural hubs. Little Portugal, Little Italy, Chinatown, Greek-town and more all give Toronto its rich cultural backbone. Obviously all these regions are distinct because of the differing cultural character, and the most common way in which these cultural minorities project their homeland patriotism is through football paraphernalia.

I currently live in Little Portugal, a region that stretches West of Shaw to Lansdowne, and north from Queen to College. I have only lived here for a month, but it is obvious this neighborhood is football mad. Nearly every shop along Dundas or College has some reference to football, either pictures of the national team, logos of Benfica or Porto (the two biggest Portuguese clubs) or what have you. This neighborhood has been Portugal mad for the month, as have all other ethnic neighborhoods that have a corresponding team in the tournament. This transformation can be expected in every ethnic neighborhood in every city in North America, which is a great thing.

Photo by King Frankenstein

It must be said that the World Cup, unlike any other sporting event, has the power to convey important values such as unity solidarity and equality. Witness the match between Ghana and the Unites States of America, when the players from both teams stood for pictures holding a “Say NO to Racism” sign. The tournament is also a great instigator in nationalism. In 2002, the Ivory Coast – a small island nation in of the coast of Africa – was one of the 32 nations to be involved in the tournament. At the time however, the country was in turmoil: a brutal civil war was escalating by the day and threatening to destroy the country.  But Didier Drogba, the captain and star striker of the football team, appealed to the people of his country to stop the fighting and unite in support of their national football team. The people listened, and for the duration of the countries involvement in the tournament there was no fighting.

My problem with the World Cup is that it has become the epitome of a bandwagon sports event; every four years the World Cup Finals come around, and suddenly everyone has an opinion on the sport. Fred in Missouri and Isabelle of Ft. Lauderdale takes an interest in the sport only to remain relevant in the summer sports scene. Essentially, a bunch of randoms begin to cheer for teams based on the relative hotness of the players. Not only does this violate the universally understood yet never-spoken-of rules regarding bandwagon, a subsection of the complete Sports Fan’s Etiquette Booklet, but it renders the sport of football simply game of kick and chase, for there is so much they choose to ignore.

Fred in Missouri might cheer for Brazil because they have the brightest jerseys, but that is the most shallow reason to cheer for a team. Indeed, there are innumerable other reasons to be a fan of Brazil. Brazil is the undeniable and globally revered hub of football. They are the most successful nation in the World Cup, winning the coveted trophy five times. Brazilian players star for clubs all across the globe, from teams as strong as Barcelona, to minnows such as Sparta Prague. Brazilian players also espouse a particular playfulness and joy in the way they play the game that is reflective of Brazilian culture. The Germans may have a great team, but they play with the stark efficiency and composure typical of a German’s mentality. The Brazilian national team, referred to as A Celecao (the selection), play an attacking, attractive style of football based upon the technical flair and creativity of their players. Furthermore, a number of their players are famous for their extracurricular activities: Romario, a star striker in the 90s, a man who lost his virginity to a goat in his small village at the ripe old age of 8, was an infamous womanizer and party animal throughout his career. Ronaldo, the great star of World Cup 2006 and the most famous footballer since the turn of the century, has recently had some embarrassing tales of his sordid lifestyle exposed in the tabloid press. Any one of these things is reason enough to cheer for Brazil, but the color of their jerseys is not, and I would rather these bandwagon fans not pay any attention at all then to support a team on such a superficial level.

The problem is obviously much greater, reflective of a shift in the mindset of society in the last generation. We all feel an engrossing need to have an opinion on every little thing. We are all becoming extremely vain and narcissistic, and we need everyone to know about it.

Photo by King Frankenstein

This long winded preamble is simply to say that while the world is engrossed by World Cup fever, it is only a month long epidemic, and no one will really get that sick. We will all feign interest in the events in South Africa to make ourselves feel relevant and cultured, but very few of us will consider the sport until the next tournament in Brazil.

There are a few among us – the purist football fan – for whom the World Cup means very little. This is because European football leagues function in an entirely different way to the World Cup. Each country has a professional league, made up of clubs from various cities – there are often multiple teams in a large city. Take London for example: Arsenal, Chelsea, Tottenham, Fulham, and West Ham all play in the top league, the Premiership.

Have you ever wondered where all these World Cup players play all year round?  Well that is your answer. They are scattered around Europe playing for their club team on wages that exceed even the NHL average. It is an entire web of culture and intrigue that remains hauntingly absent from Canadian media. The argument I am trying to make is that club football is real football; World Cup football is merely a once in a blue moon event that, while obviously meaningful for the players, does not adequately convey the true depth and intrigue.

In Europe they are soccer mad. Think of the Maple Leafs in Toronto, or Green Bay Packers mad. Imagine this level of devotion, but present in every major European city and in many different neighborhoods of the same city. Indeed, fans see their local teams as a projection of themselves, and therefore serve to validate their lifestyles and ideologies. This type of connection between fans and a team has not been seen in Canada since the free-flowing Montreal Canadiens of the 1970s espoused a certain character that appealed to the ravenous Parti Quebequis nationalist movement. As the great Peter Doherty – co-founder of the Libertines and singer in Babyshambles – said, “ football is the last bastion for the working classes.”

They give the average workingman a great release from their mundane existence, relief from responsibility and the fleeting chance to be involved in a communal setting that reaffirms one’s existence. Another product of this aesthetic is that players come to hold near God-like status for many teams. The reason is an incredible youth system that forms the backbone of a clubs existence. Often referred to as the academy system, this system is a form of football pedagogy, wherein clubs have youth teams that compete with other clubs, the object being to nurture an groom players from a young age to one day become stars for the top men’s team. This creates an inextricable bond between the club and the neighborhood.

Sharing in the Chicken of Knowledge Past was evidently not enough to satiate me. But it was cognitively far too much: the digestion has dislodged my primary processing and severely damaged my biological rhythms. I lay flummoxed at the side of the road, watching the traffic pass. My circadian rhythm had been knocked askew--my eyes succumb to imposing external cues, gauging time relative to light reflecting off the vehicles. I need to scale down. But I still have a hankering for chicken...

REBEL HOUSE (1068 Yonge St.):

I arrive before my fellow journeyman, and am shown to the outdoor patio: floor inlaid with brick, adorned with soil-filled planters, four large heaters (unused) and a large parachute overhanging the entire operation, surrounded by wooden gates. I cathect upon a lone wooden sunflower at the back, feeling the effects of time, stuck rapidly losing its leaves but no one else seems to notice. But I am informed we are to be joined by a third guest and we now move to a nook still outdoors, close to the interior dining room. Inside I see vacant booths elaborately stitched with picturesque landscapes; distracting.

The establishment proffers Oven Baked Wings of Rebellion, jerked in the most zealous of spices, charred to the bone, one half kilo.

"Give me half of that half." There were many more wings to be had and I could feel my time limit shrinking down around me. This half order costs $5.95 with sides of kettle fries, vegetables and chived sour cream.

"And a poutine of lesser brutality for my vegetarian photographer, the Madd Hattere." Made with kettle fries, because wings aren't his style.

The wings fly quickly. Close to the bone the skin stretches, moist, the spice transferring well through flame. The heat in my mouth builds each consecutive wing I barrel into, the spindly flat wings break easily in my clutches. Deeper in the pile I encounter insurgent drumettes, but nothing compared to the wing from what must have once been the albatross of the chicken world, a creature that wonders out loud "Why am I so massive?!" I thought its wingspan had more joints than a chicken could dare to have as I savoured the final wingtip of the meal.

I find out that our third member is a fellow known only as Char. "With a name like that, he must have emerged from the taste of the wing itself," I think. He is to drive me tonight, to what ends I am not yet sure. Thus far, he eats my side dishes at my request, for I am destined to be surrounded by vegetarians in my jaunt for chicken truth.

SQUIRLY'S (807 Queen St. West)

Surely the driver has something to do with the shifting of my internal clock, for suddenly we seem to enter a different time period altogether: I find myself sitting in a plastic, sparkling chair, and red leopard print bar stools line the curved bar. I go downstairs to the bathroom to find my bearings, and instead am confronted by a Bell telephone and a cyclical towel rack that has reached the end of its tether.

I dash upstairs to find my wings laid upon the table. My side caesar salad is swiftly snatched up by my driver and the intensity of the situation rises a notch. An ebony man wearing a large rimmed hat leaps from the wall, informing me that there is a back patio; I do not move. Instead, I watch as a mermaid with glasses hangs over the bar, lewdly gazing down the tops of leopard-skin dresses and inappropriately winking at passerbys, seeming particularly pleased with the sexy red walls and pieces of risque art. Even the ceiling is leopard print. Surely I am transported to a different time, through the wheel of Char. Finally, the bartender wears a red shirt that looks as though it were meant to match a different animal.

"Quickly, please! What kind of animal is your shirt to represent?"

"I have no idea actually... several?"

"Oh."

...

"Then I'll just have the Grilled Wings of Jumbo 1980s aesthetic. Medium strength, I don't know if I could take any stronger."

When I start eating the wings, I feel myself adjusting to the chunky, voluptuous feeling spreading through my body. The final wingtip of the evening turns out to be a 1987 wingtip collar that sprouts from my neck and makes me feel more at home. Although I keep accidentally chomping into the dominant bone at the bottom of the wing, well-disguised in the Squirly sauce, my experience remains wholly amped with these dribblers. I decide to take a chill pill and bask with my cool wings, for perhaps the 80s weren't as square as everyone loves to espouse--what's wrong with the decade that brought us the word crakalackin'?

Char shakes his head slowly, disagrees. My attention is wholly drawn to him; we were not meant to stay. Without verbal cue I settle up my $9.95 tab and scram from Squirly's. He'll lead me in the right direction, I know this even in the depths of my chicken-scrambled cognition.

MITZI'S SISTER (1554 Queen St. West):

Darker, ominous, I feel my internal rhythms choke up with fear. Wood grain, black accents and dispersed red are the themes throughout the room. Skulls and flashing ducks line the walls in display cases, and the main hall darkens towards a well lit blue stage, green stage, red stage--lights ever-changing. I am given a water with lemon and I fear that I may be squeezing my last Lemon of Self Doubt.

The waitress arrives and looks concerned at my overburdened belly, worries that their wares may not be able to please me with so much chicken already controlling my various urges, so she first offers me their Moroccan Dry Rub. The look in her eye suggests some sort of physical confrontation, so I take her other suggestion of Tamarind and Lime. These victuals arrive in less than five minutes.

I take the garnishing Lime of Self Importance and spray it all over the pound, also $9.95, and take a life-altering bite. I feel an immediate strong union with Androsthenes, a ship captain serving under Alexander the Great, who described in detail the leaf movements of the tamarind tree. He supplied the earliest known account of a circadian process while I am simply eating chicken, but the Self Importance has already soaked into my thoughts, and the Tamarind of Circadian Descent causes a tranquility in me that I had thought nigh impossible at the outset of my journey.

Then the band begins to play. In a flash I know where I must travel next, this time without Char, who has led me to this final destination to traverse alone.

I walk down the hall toward the ominous curtain, lights changing along the way; red, blue, green. I walk through a confused quartet and knock my nose on the wall behind the curtain, but at last I know I've been cured.

Comments

• June 17, 2010, Nic writes: this is awesome.....and delicious.

What does this course of action even mean? Are you trying to show up your over-achieving younger brother Milton? Or perhaps trying to impress your dear ol' sis, Mississauga? Either way, Markham actually blew a rare opportunity to become a self-sufficient trailblazer, and instead have presented themselves as yet another suburban subdivision statistic.

One particularly impressive councilor had this to say:
"People I talk to don't want this community to look like Toronto," Mr. Landon said, which is baffling due to its vague bamboozlery.

Of course, there are many Markham residents who are upset, and I suppose that's a positive. Check out the Markham Sustainability people. They have prepared a long list of points on the direction that Markham should take as opposed to blind residential development. The main issue at hand is that Markham is in possession of such rich Canadian soil; less than half a percent of Canada's farmland falls into their Class 1 category.

Hot diggidy damn I harbour dislike for Markham.

In also-bad news, reading an article from a publication on loan from Devon Wong (yes, the Devon Wong) I was shocked to find that one of the main dangers of a GMO is that its shenanigans can be nigh untraceable. I thought us humans had invented instruments that could see everything! Shitty.

So I shot a message over to the Big Carrot in an attempt to clarify and henceforth alleviate my concerns, which was promptly responded to by Patrick Conner, the Chair of their Standards Committee. He supplied me with a bit of information regarding Canada-specific GMOs:

"First of all, the only GM crops grown in Canada are Corn, Canola, Soy and Sugar Beet. These are exclusively used in processed foods.

GM foods imported to Canada from the US are Cottonseed Oil, Papaya (from Hawaii), Squash (some zucchini, yellow crookneck and straightneck squash) and Milk Products (as the US still allows Bovine Growth Hormone which was never approved for use in Canada). As far as genetically engineered crops used in prepared, processed foods, much of it, especially GM Sugar Beet is so refined that the protein tag required to positively identify GM presence has been refined out."

One oft-unexplored route to take in an urban setting to ensure that your food is organically grown is, believe it or not, grow it yourself. The pictures throughout this article represent the garden of Greg Misumi, a Toronto businessman whose hobby, if widely practiced, could eliminate the sway that these GMO-touting companies hold on food production. He grows carrots, snap peas, tomatoes, corriander, basil and English cucumbers, spending only a few hours a week on the garden. The top of his building was originally made as a park for the residents, but many banded together to request a division of lots for the purpose of private gardening. Many people in Greg's building are avid vegetable gardeners, even in their limited space constraints, and are an important example for city dwellers who are no longer complacent about the origins of their food.

Big Carrot's Patrick also pointed me towards this campaign of environmental justice, make sure to check out their coverage of a Haitian protest of GM seeds. I think I'll chat with them next month--don't you just love how one conversation leads you straight into another?

Photo by Matthew Filipowich

So these past few months have been pretty slow for transit. Or at the very least, relatively scandal-free, which leaves me with relatively little to rant about. No major announcements. No negative press, because let’s be honest, the TTC can barely afford any more bad buzz at this point; no positive press, because let’s be honest, the TTC can barely afford fresh coffee for the break room at this point. I suppose this does indeed make for an interesting discussion piece: the purgatorial aftermath of the complete and utter meltdown of the Toronto Transit Commission.

Between weary, suspicious customers with their trigger-happy fingers just waiting for an excuse to whip out the old phone camera and catch an operator being huffy or negligent, and being in absolutely no position to provide the much needed service improvements that were promised in response to sleeping collectors etc., the TTC is in a pickle to say the least. Expansion is now guaranteed to be sluggish at best, most of the money is going toward ensuring the existing system doesn’t collapse into itself, and the days of the loveably cranky bus driver are a gleaming, distant memory. Indeed, the TTC is in a transitory phase at the moment. The tangible lack of things for me to discuss here I find highly indicative of the much-maligned transit authority’s current state of affairs. TTC operations seem to have grinded to an awkward, largely undignified halt.

I’ve often found myself coming to the defense of the TTC in the face of accusations of incompetence, lack of service and especially in grass-is-greener arguments about how other cities don’t have these problems. In this case, however, there just really isn’t all that much to say and the TTC has no choice but to simply absorb it all as it helplessly falls into an increasingly intensified version of the sordid state it’s in now.

I used to truly believe that all cities have exactly the same issues when it comes to infrastructure and that Toronto’s transit woes were merely the usual, unavoidable blunders of bureaucracy that occur identically all over the world. Now I’m not so sure, though I still have no idea why. There are so many things that leave me totally baffled wondering why in this case, the grass does appear to be slightly greener just about everywhere else in the industrialized world. Other Canadian cities don’t seem to have this much trouble getting projects off the ground and politicians interested in spending the money on transit initiatives.

I do not have a clue why expansion seems to be infinitely more expensive in Canada than in other countries. I do not have a clue why the politicians in the municipal and provincial governments either have absolutely no idea how much things cost (see George Smitherman’s pretty, but ultimately misinformed transit platform) or have absolutely no interest in building infrastructure. I do not have a clue how Toronto’s transit system fell into such a bizarrely pathetic state. Furthermore, due to the first two of my bewilderments, there does not appear to be many options to solving the third problem.

I think the worst part of this – well, certainly not the worst part, but a pretty bad part of this – is that while it is very convenient to place full responsibility on the TTC, I do think it’s fairly safe to say that most of the TTC’s problems are well out of the its realm of control. It really can’t help that building things like subway stations, for whatever reason, are just really, really expensive. It also really can’t help it if governments don’t want to spend the exorbitant piles of money it requires to build these outrageously overpriced, but ultimately indispensable public spaces.

What’s a transit authority to do?

In this case basically nothing. The embarrassing choice in this case seems to be the only choice. All the TTC can do at this point is stare at its feet with its hands in its pockets, hoping everything gets suddenly better before it has to answer any more questions it isn’t prepared to respond to. We the citizenry require that responsibility be taken for the things that aren’t working as smoothly as they should. The TTC, being on the front line, is an easy target for scapegoating and that isn’t going to change. The sad part is just that it both is and is not the TTC’s responsibility to own up to these issues. As a result, we are left sitting here ourselves with our hands in our pockets, wondering what happened and looking for some kind of reason as to how things came to this.

Most of these women who walk the red-carpet must share stylists. They wear the same hair, some jewelled drop earring, and they have on a carbon-copy dress that I’ve probably seen ten versions of in the past. If you follow this formula, you’re indisputably guaranteed a spot in some trashy blog’s “Best-Dressed List.”

Eva Longoria Parker in Pucci | Cannes 2008 | Courtesy of Zimbio

Maybe it was Eva Longoria Parker in that typical one-shoulder Pucci gown.  Hearing her get praised for this dress truly inspired me to want to gauge my eyes out, cut off my ears and then type this obituary. In that order. After spending fifteen minutes browsing through a gallery of less than impressive red-carpet photos on some gossip website (that proved to have less than impressive taste for putting up said photos), I came to a few conclusions:

1) Black-tie has never seemed like such a snore.

2) I -- a regular mortal being, who cuts her own bangs, has a (below) average income, and prefers to carry vintage briefcases over a Vuitton any day -- have never felt less envious of these unoriginal blue-blooded sheep.

3) No matter how much money you have, sometimes taste is an innate gift, right? The “real” people featured on style blogs seem to get it right a million times better.

In North American fashion, the Cannes Film Festival act as an international publicity stunt for designers, along with other major red carpet events such as the Costume Institute’s Met Gala. In the last ten years, designers have focused on tracking down famous women to model their clothes because the amount of attention and free photographs that will be taken is undeniable. The age-old relationship between cinema and costume has translated to Hollywood and fashion.

The concept of “celebrity” as a publicity stunt used to be, and still somewhat is, crucial. For the regular Joe or Jane, it was like keeping up with the popular girls in high school -- the Plato’s Cave of fashion, if you will. You recognized that face from that film you saw. You related to that face you saw on the screen and thus emotionally identified yourself as an entity in said film. Eventually your curiosity to know more about that face led you to the small print under a Cannes red-carpet photo in some magazine you were reading while waiting in the aisle 3 cashier line at Safeway. For the last decade, most people’s attention to red-carpet gowns has been related to a “false” concept of reality based on what was perceived in newspapers and magazines.

Which is why the red-carpet dress is supposed to be a big deal of eye candy for the average person. Of course, “false” is the keyword, and the frothy, pastel-colored concoctions as of late have recently felt unfitting and unsuitable for our generation. Such formulaic styling choices represent bygone years of taste defined and dictated by a generation of wealthy baby boomers who couldn’t relate to the new millennial generation. When a huge crop of celebrities started hiring the same stylists in fear of being placed on a worst-dressed list on some newsstand, the young millenials began to demand new definitions of glamour.

Timing is important in fashion, and it separates the good from the bad and the ugly. After all, fashion and beauty are related to context. Take for instance, the Sex and the City film. Reasonably successful, especially with fans of the television series who followed Carrie Bradshaw closely as she led liberal feminism in stilettos instead of loafers over ten years ago. The show was timed perfectly with the rise in incomes of the baby boomers, and for their children it painted a desirable life to look forward to.

Consider the sequel’s release, birthed in an age of recession. The second film felt over-the-top, hard to relate to, and uncomfortable to watch (I’m talking about the impractical clothes… not the sex). Gasps of previous excitement now turned to groans, which I heard from a few ladies in the theatre when Carrie walked out of her cab in 90-degree Abu Dhabi wearing a purple, floor-length crinoline skirt to go shopping. The mainstream market formulas of the successful women’s show worked for a particular generation a few years ago, but the same formula couldn’t recreate the feelings of freshness, hipness, and hilarity.

This is proof that what we used to think was “beautiful” on the red-carpet, on screen, and in the magazines, has nowadays shifted to ordinary. It was hard for Kate Beckinsale to revive the same level of public excitement over her blue Marchesa at Cannes when Charlize Theron wore a similar Dior years ago. Ironically, current red carpet fashion is evidence of the lack of imagination that exists among some of the most popular faces in Tinseltown. One of the major issues of the red carpet dress is that it’s short of the aggressive styling seen on fashion runways and in fashion magazines -- the smorgasbord of colour after accessory after piercing after tattoo after runny liquid eyeliner on Poker Face songstresses and other various ingenues. Nowadays, the young, trendy wannabes such as yours truly expect to see more refreshing faces like Tilda Swinton and Charlotte Gainsbourg at these events. Otherwise, they’re just not worth looking at.

Kate Beckinsale in Marchesa | Cannes 2009 | Courtesy of Arizona Foothills Magazine

I can’t help but wonder if boring, cliché red-carpet dresses will follow the same pattern as cliché, heavy handed movies that have done so poorly with movie critics and box offices (that’s YOU, Robin Hood). That’s the relationship between Hollywood and fashion, cinema and costume. Like my good ol’ go-to-date movies that always have a spot in the theatre, there will always be that red-carpet dress that’s “pretty” to look at, and temporarily satisfying at a below-mediocre level. But in the meantime, red-carpet fashion is going to be stuck in its creative rut if some rich bitch doesn’t spice up this schnitz soon.

At the Boutique | Photos brought to you by the Cheese Boutique

I have said it before and I will say it again: the Cheese Boutique boasts stellar cuisine at every opportunity. A veritable cheese palace complete with ceremonial throne lording over the boutique from a position atop the stairs – glory be. This month the boutique once again proffers a generous hand to our fair city, honouring the best chefs the city has to offer, subsidizing prices for the public every weekend in May.

A table of furs and jaws supplied by the Toronto Zoo acts as the starting checkpoint, exhibiting the pelts of a kimodo dragon, cheetah and the elusive and endangered snow leopard -- in Washington, they have chuffing live specimens, in Toronto we must be content with the fur. An unlikely pair, it turns out the Zoo teams up with the Cheese Boutique on an event called Seafood for Thought.

Sauntering into the terrace area of the boutique, iconic segments of cheese hang from the ceiling for the occasion, plastered with photos and quotes of famous chefs. A large mirror above the chef area gives me the perfect view of the top of her assistant’s head. As the smell of the upcoming meal wafts towards me, I gladly deposit a five-dollar Zoo donation, a paltry fee for an event that grants me superior cuisine. The head chef of Frank in the AGO, Anne Yarymowich, has repeatedly been named one of the best chefs in the city by Toronto Life.

“There is a lot of fabulous competition in the city,” she intones modestly when I bring it up.

Today she serves up Paella Prima Vera, an Ontario-inspired spring paella using ingredients traditional foraged or hunted, augmented with ingredients the cook may bring along. Paella is a meal conventionally cooked outdoors over an open fire, the resourceful cook hunting a rabbit and gathering fresh spring ramps and fiddleheads from the surrounding wild, preparing the meal on fields near streams if possible. With the Ontario country-side and international imports at her disposal, Anne brings chicken, Spanish chorizo, Bomba rice, saffron, smoked paprika, Ontario asparagus, artichokes, east coast clams, all cooked in a meat stock -- rabbit or chicken will do. Anne judicially improves on tradition, covering and rotating her pan during cooking to distribute heat evenly. When the rice is nearly ready she places the clams across surface and drops the lid, leaving it on the flame until the rice is el dente and the clams open their shells soundlessly, as though compelled to eat the dish that has now claimed their lifeless husks. I receive a shallow plywood bowl filled with the paella, Anne slides a rabbit leg on top of my dish and as soon as I am away I pluck it up, a small tender appendage.

The ingredients she uses are vibrant, for spring ramps and fiddleheads are available in the Ontario market for only a few weeks in springtime. Some cooks identify fiddleheads as the culprit of unexpected ailment when undercooked, but Anne defies this unsubstantiated research, cooking the fractious fern to perfection, which emits satisfying soft crunches along with the asparagus and the artichoke.

I walk back to talk to Anne as a familiar customer approaches: “It’s lovely to see you out like this, you’re not only the exec.”

She smiles easily: “Yeah, I always try and keep my hands in it.”

The sponsors of a silent auction have secured a space inside with a private table prepared. I watch in awe as cheese aficionado Afrim Pristine, son of founder Fatos, serves them several rare Spanish cheeses:

Idiazabal and Manchego, both sheep milk cheeses; Cabrales, a rare cow milk cheese from Asturias in the mountains of the Picos de Europa; and Montenebro, an ash-covered goat cheese. He explains that Montenebro is rolled in ash because goat milk cheese contains higher levels of acidity than other cheeses. Ash pervades the outer rim of the cheese and helps combat the tart flavour and settle the stomach.

The entrance fee also grants me a sample of wine, supplied today from Cattail Creek. An independent grower in the Niagara region, they produce wine for several Toronto restaurants and for sale directly from their vineyard. I was given a taste of their Dry Riesling 2007, Pinot Noir 2008, and a Select Lake Harvest 2007. The other events will be hosting several different local wineries throughout the month.

When speaking to Anne of my own post-undergrad aspirations, she informs me that she originally went to university in Ottawa for printmaking, painting, photography, but eventually decided to pursue her career as a chef:

“Cooking for money, what a concept, it had never occurred to me before.”

She was 29 when she decided to cook for food, registering at George Brown. A little older than usual for a starting chef, but Anne believes in a proper jolt to rebound after post-undergrad confusion into a stimulating future with economic durability.

“Change is stressful, but always provides an opportunity for growth, sometimes you just need to take a leap into the void, dive into the deep end.”

So dive into the deep end of life, make haste, for the void isn't going to appear as a tantalizing swirl forever. Look forward to these remaining Cheese Boutique events:

May 16--Anthony Rose, Drake Hotel

May 22--Chris McDonald, CAVA

May 23--John Higgins, George Brown College

May 29--Keith Froggett, Scaramouche

May 30--Jonathan Gushue, Langdon Hall

Due to last month's interview with local cycling advocate queenpin Yvonne Bambrick, I was unable to comment on the outrage that was the now infamous budget cuts that have basically rendered Transit City a David Miller vanity project at best. Fortunately, or unfortunately, for me, this past month has been pretty slow on transit-related news, so I will take this opportunity to  discuss at some length the aftermath of the death of transit initiative in Toronto. Woo hoo.

At the same time, is there really that much left to say?

The Provincial Government's announcement that it would be stretching out initial funds allocated for Transit City and other transit initiatives around the GTA over a much longer time frame than initially projected - effectively ensuring that at least half of the total money will never arrive at all - was notably met with minimal uproar from anyone except for Mr. Miller who pleaded over the TTC intercoms to yawning, disinterested commuters. What is the deal with that?

I've used this space before to vent my various frustrations with people who complain too much about transit, as though every late or full bus is a personal slight. My stance has always been the same: sure, things obviously and always could be better, but find me a city that doesn't have the exact same problems in one way or another. If public services were concerned about your being late for your meeting, they wouldn't be public services, it would be your own car, in which case if you're gambling on Queen Street at rush hour. The difference between whether or not you took the streetcar will be shockingly negligible.

The point is, if you do not or do not want to drive but still think the TTC is balls, you should be the most pissed off at Dalton. These service cuts affect transit riders and drivers alike because, as our benevolent Mayor rightly points out, Toronto's population is on the rise and while the current transit configuration is at least moderately successful at adequately handling demand, it will hardly be sufficient at all to sustain Toronto's population fifteen years from now. Why aren't there more angry people? Anyone that has ever had a jam-packed 29 Dufferin speed past them without stopping is going to be mighty upset in 2020 when the city's population goes way up, but can only afford to operate transit at 2010 levels.

Alas, the Provincial Government has moved on to bigger and better things, or whatever. Transit City, once a cornerstone campaign issue and indeed the sole reason why I voted Liberal in the last provincial election, has slid down the government's list of priorities and now it is unlikely that most of the fancy new stuff we were promised will materialize at all. Of course, this is also the work of a government that backed down on its fancy Sex Ed Reform policy the very second the various ultra-conservative "Concerned Parents Groups" raised a fuss. Last I checked, the religious right isn't a targeted voting group for the Liberal party, so as to why in God's name the Liberals are suddenly concerned with protecting the innocent minds of future neocons is anyone's guess. Also, it isn't as though the Liberals are going to lose their majority government any time soon, though it is possible that they are attempting to pander toward voters who believe that government spending is a little too Toronto-centric.

Let's be honest here: no matter what the Liberals do, they aren't about to lose any ground when it comes to their stranglehold over Toronto. A handful of seats are liable to go NDP every now and again, but we all know that a blue Toronto is not in the cards at all. So with that in mind, Dalton probably thinks that giving Toronto a little bit of the shaft isn't going to make much difference in the big picture, where courting voters in other areas of the province might prove fruitful - especially with all of this "Toronto should be its own province" talk being floated around by various MPPs.

So whatever, the biggest city in the country can continue to grow at spectacular rates all the while surviving on severely outdated infrastructure. Fine.

Hey, while we're at it, let's give Alberta some more federal MPs. What with their population being less than a quarter of that of Ontario, having equal representation in parliament totally makes sense!

I will never understand what the deal is with the whole anti-Toronto thing that goes on in this country, much less why politicians even bother to humour the complaints of people who for whatever misguided reason think that too much money goes toward large cities. It's all very silly.

So, now that some of what little dust that was raised has settled, what's left of Transit City? Not a whole lot. The York University subway extension is still a go, though the government continues to grumble that the money may not exist to operate it once it has been completed. The Yonge Street subway extension to Richmond Hill has more or less been shitcanned. The Scarborough RT track conversion and restoration is still going ahead, though that is likely only due to the fact that in this case it is probably more cost effective in the long run to upgrade rather than be forced to close it down all together for being atrociously outdated - the RT cars currently in use are absurdly obsolete and haven't been manufactured for decades. All the same, the extension of the RT will only go as far as Sheppard rather than Malvern Town Centre as was initially proposed.

This is also the case for the three of seven proposed LRT lines that are still on the table for funding. Finch West will go from Humber College to Keele Street, the site of the future Finch West Station, rather than going all the way to Finch Station at Yonge Street. Eglinton Crosstown, originally intended to be the centerpiece of the whole Transit City operation, will now go from Kennedy Station to Jane Street as opposed to the original plan of taking this route all the way to Pearson Airport. Only Sheppard East remains largely unscathed, losing only a handful of stops on its route to Collins rather than Meadowvale. Don Mills, Jane, Scarborough-Malvern and Waterfront West all remain in development limbo each with a relatively little chance of becoming a reality. According to Steve Munro, however, Don Mills is being placed on hold because of talks revolving around the ever-illusive Downtown Relief subway line, the Moby Dick of Transit projects. Though, as Munro duly notes, “Where the money will come from to pay for any of this is unknown.”

So rejoice, friends, for all is not lost after all. The world-class LRT network we were assured would come so quickly and grandly is still on Toronto’s horizon. Only we’ll just half to settle for less than half of it and none of the lines that are supposed to appear are ever going to connect with each other at all. It’s OK though, because the funding isn’t gone, it’s just being “staggered.” And here we are now, in largely the same place we’ll be when these projects actually get finished: with no one really caring and even fewer really surprised. Or whatever.

Often associated with messy and unprofessional fixes, DIY gets a bad rep for being cheesy but the inner artist knows it can be delightfully “indie-chic” when done right.

As much as I dislike the indie-hipster fad (the thought of skinny jeans, plaid shirts, big glasses, and “ironic” facial hair makes me cringe and want to catch the first streetcar out of the Annex) I have to admit those hipsters are onto something. Maybe that something isn’t fashion, but their celebration and constant reworking of indie culture is key. They’ve developed a DIY cultural movement, perfect for a city as diverse and incomplete as this one.

In Toronto it's said we have only two seasons, winter and construction. In recent months we've been bitching and moaning about the continually delayed renovations on Bloor St and Steeles Ave, and the never improving TTC. No matter where you go in the city it seems as if something is about to be torn down, or is in the process of being built. Yes, the constant construction is annoying in our day-to-day lives, but what we often fail to see is the wonderful opportunity this constant building offers us. Toronto is a young city, a changing city, and as such it is unique. It's a city that doesn't impose on its residents, and instead allows them to shape it to their liking. That's not to say Toronto doesn't have any history, but compared to other global cities, our history book is a couple chapters long at best.

What this affords us is the possibility to form and re-form our own culture. A sort of DIY phenomenon. From the physical buildings to the artscape opportunities, what Toronto is and what it will become is in our hands. Sometimes the result is like to letting a three year old decoupage your favourite household items, but other times our DIY culture turns out functional and surprisingly suave. Toronto itself is famous for its lack of identity. Sure, we have the CN Tower, but there are few things that culturally define the city. As the people of this city we're a mash-up of others, and while that can seem debilitating at times, it also means we have a fresh opportunity to build something. In fact, it's happening all around us. The last decade has been particularly eventful on the indie culture front.

We see evidence of this in the city’s music scene, where indie culture is king. This is celebrated locally - you can see a live band or DJ at virtually every bar on College street and on a larger scale, TO hosts the NXNE festival, Canadian Music Week, and a plethora of other hot music happenings. I suppose you could say it started with Wavelength, but I’ll leave that kind of music trivia to the experts…

The power of indie culture goes well beyond great entertainment, though it seems fewer and fewer people of our generation are realizing it. In a season of municipal elections this is the perfect time to recognize how malleable the future of our city is. Political awareness is a great way to start your own DIY cultural shift. Alternatively, you could always take up guerilla gardening, join the TPSC (the Toronto Public Space Committee), or support your local artists. Hell, you could become a local artist, the possibilities truly are endless. Celebrate indie everything, just leave the plaid at home.

I’m sorry, classes have ended and my brain has more or less shut down so my attempts at rewording the title were futile. In fact, many of my failed titles were “things that seem like that they would be funny but aren’t really” which is ironicly amusing the-opposite-of-ironic.

I remember accidentally coming across Japanese schoolgirl porn in high school and it was total trainwreck syndrome – I just couldn’t look away. Don’t judge me, I bet most of you have watched 2Girls1Cup multiple times. Anyway, they were putting little squirming eels in her rectum and I wanted to throw up. Why would anyone think that’s a good idea? People are fucking weird. I don’t know if that Japanese porn actor ever had trouble with her poops later but this Chinese man recently died after a half-metre long eel ATE HIS BOWELS. His friends thought it’d be really funny to put an eel up his bum while he was passed out drunk. With friends like those, who needs friends?

Have you ever called anyone a failed abortion? I know I have. See, it’s a good insult because it both implies that the person is deformed in some way and that his/her parents would rather s/he not exist. Also, it’s kind of a funny thought that such a commonplace thing like abortion could fail. (Well, it is in Canada for now – I’m keeping my eye on you, Harper). I have not performed any abortions but based on my experience with taking candy from babies, I would imagine that taking other things from them would not be extremely difficult.

Somewhere in Southern Italy last month, a priest went to pray beside a two-day-old abortion that turned out to be a failed attempt. The hospital tried to resuscitate the baby but also failed at that. Apparently, this was the second time this happened in Italy in the past three years. In Manchester, there is a 5-year-old boy running around who survived three abortion attempts. I’m sure you’re all resisting attempts to make dead baby jokes right now but I’m concerned that these stories are giving anti-choicers (“pro-lifers”) ammunition because failed abortions while theoretically funny are practically horrific. Maybe the medical field should focus more on how to perform proper abortions and less on innovative ways to increase breast and penis size.

Here’s a joke I heard the other day: A bobcat walks into a bar in Arizona and maims two people before being shot and killed by the police. It was probably rabid.

Oh, not a joke? Yikes.

Earlier today (April 13), it was announced that this summer will see the construction of dedicated bicycle lanes along University Avenue from Richmond Street W. to Wellesley Street W./Hoskins Avenue, in an experiment that will be the first of its kind in Toronto. Rather than subjecting cyclists to the horrors of open traffic, where even in bike lanes conditions can be somewhat hazardous, the city will be testing out divided European-style bike lanes. This means that there will be one-meter medians separating cyclists from road rage, effectively eliminating one lane of traffic in either direction. Perhaps in a future column, I should discuss why when it comes to transportation, "European-style" in all cases equates to "totally bad-ass."

Seeing as how I have been using this space as a platform to not-so-subtly vent my opinions about this fall's municipal elections, I see no reason to stop now. So here we go:

Predictably, Rocco Rossi (and where would we be if I didn't have something to say about him...) was infuriated by this announcement, stating, "Pulling two lanes of University Avenue out of commission ... is sheer madness. This is a recipe for traffic gridlock and a democratic insult to the people of Toronto" (TheStar.com). The most irritating of the three major "centre-right" candidates, Rossi (former director of the federal Liberal Party) continues to insist upon being as outspoken as possible with regards to anything that might cause motorists a minor inconvenience. Every time any sort of transit or bicycle-related initiative has been taken since the announcement of his campaign, Mr. Rossi has without fail thrown a temper tantrum and made bloggers everywhere wonder why he's considered a big-ticket candidate. Probably money. Fine.

The announcement also called for new bike lanes to be built along Lansdowne Avenue, Bay Street, York Mills Road, Brunswick Avenue, Rathburn Road, Westhumber Boulevard and Spadina Crescent. Overall, a fairly serious 'BOOSH' for cyclists all over Toronto.

This news was further compounded by a major announcement by the Toronto Cyclists Union that their agenda is so thoroughly busy, that they are creating new executive positions within the organization to alleviate the workload of current Executive Director Yvonne Bambrick.

Conveniently, a couple of weeks ago I interviewed Ms. Bambrick at a coffee shop below her office in Chinatown at the Toronto Center for Social Innovation. The Toronto Cyclists Union is what I had planned on writing about this month anyway, so things worked out well.

Before I move along with the interview, if you're interested in reading more about the new bike lanes, The Star has a fairly thorough article on the subject. If you're interested in being the new Advocacy & Operations Director for the Toronto Cyclists Union, some information about the position can be found here.

Right then. Onward and upward:

How did you get your start in cycling advocacy?

I started by volunteering for Pedestrian Sundays in Kensington Market. I was one of the original people involved in coordinating it and now I'm one of two coordinators; it's our seventh season, so we're kind of a gang by now. I've been on a bike since I was a baby and I just love bikes in general, so when my friend Dave Meslin came to the cycling community in September of 2007 and said "Hey, I've got this idea to start a Toronto Cyclists Union," I said "Sign me up." I ended up being a member of the four-person executive team that helped launch [the union] in May of 08, I was an assistant coordinator and spokesperson, and was subsequently hired after that in an open call as Executive Director in March of last year.

What are the Cyclists Union's goals for Toronto? What are the challenges the organization faces in achieving these goals?

Toronto had a strong cycling culture already and there's a number of smaller niche groups like the Community Bicycle Network that's focused on education and learning about bikes, as well as Advocacy for Respect for Cyclists that has been around for a while. They're focused on providing legal assistance to cyclists. There was no city-wide advocacy group along the lines San Francisco Bicycle Coalition, Transportation Alternative in New York, or Chicagoland Bicycle Federation who have changed their name since [to Active Transportation Alliance]. We didn't have that in Toronto, there was no one group or voice for the needs of cyclists.

So the goal is really to speak out on behalf of cyclists and to make sure that the voice of the cyclist is heard when it comes to city building. So, I'm the person that goes to all of the boring meetings and makes sure that we give deputations and support for bike-friendly policy, and to make sure that we voice our non-support for things that are negative or could have a potentially negative impact for cyclists.

So the goal is to provide a voice, and some of the challenges include archaic beliefs that bikes don't belong on the streets of Toronto, that bikes get in the way of cars, that bike lanes are bad for businesses. Things that are entrenched in such dated ideas and beliefs are really at the heart of the challenge. These exist at all levels, even our city council representatives with the urban/suburban divide. Obviously bikes are much more useful and prevalent in the core versus the suburbs. The suburbs were designed around the automobile, which leads to some of the viewpoints of those who represent those areas.

One of the main successes of the Bike Union thus far has been to mainstream the conversation about cycling... I've done over two hundred media interviews since we launched, which is almost unheard-of for any organization to get that kind of airtime and ink space. It really shows the demand there has been for what we've been doing. It's really taking a pragmatic approach; we're advocates as opposed to activists, so there's really none of the whole flag-waving saying "This is wrong" kind of things and more of saying "This is a problem and we want to work to find solutions and show why this is good for everyone."

Yvonne Bambrick rides her neat-o bike up Spadina on a sunny day. Photo/Matthew Filipowich

I saw your speech at the Harborfront Center for the International Festival of Authors with Jack Layton and David Byrne. Continuing from that discussion, and with regards to urban design, what specifically are you hoping to see within the city itself?

I'd like to see the Bike Plan completed. Going beyond that, the Bike Plan is a dated plan already, it's from 2001. I know the City of Toronto's cycling staff at Transportation Services are working on that, they're starting to look at for example where physically separated bike lanes might be feasible [I've got good news for you, Past Yvonne] and how those would connect to the rest of the network.

I'd like to see cyclists get more respect. Considering we're all taxpayers, we all pay rent or property tax in the city, we all pay for municipal roads, and yet we have to fight for any amount of space on there. It's fairly unjust, especially when you consider the relative environmental impact of motorists versus cyclists. You could say cyclists have been subsidizing automobile drivers. Of course motorists have never paid the full price of driving when it comes to collective air space and the broader impacts of automobiles, but that's not part of the story. It's about the benefits of cycling - the more people that are on bikes, the less road space is being taken up. There are so many collective benefits for drivers and pedestrians in having people on bikes.

I guess we're sort of in a transition period in Toronto, and really in all of North America; bikes have for a long time been perceived as recreational and we're moving towards bikes being a regular form of transportation

It really is tough to get around certain things when our cities have been built around the rise of the automobile.

But roads were initially paved as a result of the cycling lobby.

I was not aware of that.

It was cyclists that originally pushed for roads to be paved and along came the automobile and we forgot all about the bicycles, didn't we?

You also have to look at the impact of bicycles on women. It was a huge, big deal for a woman to have a bicycles, it gave them freedom of movement when they were restricted to how far they could walk or their carriages could take them, which would almost always have been operated by a man. So there are lots of benefits to cycling beyond the usual points of discussion.

How are you going about combating the attitudes that motorists have toward cyclists, such as the typical complaints that cyclists run red lights and don't look when they turn and so forth?

Through the mainstream discussion about it, just regularly speaking about it and acknowledging that we all need more education, drivers and cyclists alike. We're working on education. The closest we've got to a public education program right now are the discussions we've been having in the mainstream media. The City of Toronto unfortunately, while there has been money earmarked in the capital budget for the next ten years for cycling infrastructure, there's almost nothing, if anything, for public education around that. So that's something we're trying to push the city towards. Budget woes aside, education does go a long way for motorists. We're promoting Can Bike courses to let cyclists know that there are things available for people who are new to the cycling community.

When it comes to the attitudes of drivers, we are trying to follow best practice and encouraging cyclists to follow the rules of the road. But we also have things like our Driver Appreciation Campaign we did last fall. That was awareness raising in that it was a chance to let drivers know that cyclists will be around in the fall and winter and in times when the days are getting shorter. It was also a chance to thank drivers who are conscientious towards cyclists, to dull down some of the tension that had been highlighted by the Al Sheppard and Michael Bryant case. The outcome of that was trying to talk about mutual respect on the roads. The bottom line is we all have the right to the space, and our conditions aren't ideal, so we all have to learn to get along. We just emphasize respect and playing by the rules.

The things that cyclists get pissed on all the time for are not stopping at stop signs and not going through red lights. Motorists do that all the time too, but we don't paint them all with a brush. Somebody sees one cyclists do it, all cyclists are bad.

We're continuing to reinforce positive messages around the body of bicycles, that cyclists aren't just poor students, but it's everybody that's riding bikes, it's people in suits going to Bay Street, it's women with children behind them going to school and then work. The face of cyclists is changing and people are seeing themselves reflected in people who are choosing to ride, so that certainly helps to humanize it and allow people to see their relatives. So if you consider that the person in front of you on a bike could be your sister or your niece, it really helps.

But the thing about our roads is that - especially in Toronto - we're all so damn busy, we've all got big egos whether we like to think we do or not and when we're on the roads, we're in a hurry. Almost every time, when you're going somewhere you're almost always in a rush, and we all think that we're more important than the people around us. We take everything that other people do personally. It's easy to do that when you're on a bike, because if someone cuts you off, they could so easily have killed you or hurt you so that you wouldn't be able to work or ride a bike again, so it's hard not to take that personally.

If you were to have written the Bike Plan, what would be the things that you would change opposed to the current version?

I would actually have put it in place. In chunks, in big, neighborhood-sized chunks so that this neighborhood is now serviced by bike lanes as opposed to the way it had to be done, which was the path of least resistance. A kilometer here, a kilometer there, it was like horsetrading on council the way they used to get approved. You couldn't get a whole big stretch of them put in because councilors would block them. So we had a lack of action for the longest time and now there's a lane here and a lane there, but they don't connect to anything and people ask what's the point of those damned bike lanes when no one is ever on them. People can't rely on the network. If there was a reliable network that connected from the suburbs to the core and within the suburbs themselves so people don't have to take their car to the corner store... I would have been implementing the Bike Plan all along instead of leaving 375 kilometers for the last year and a half.

So would you say that the suburbs are the areas with the most need for bike lanes?

I would say that at the very least there should be connectors between the major neighborhoods. Having the rail and hydro projects going in is going to be important, but even with that there should be a way to move not only to and from the suburbs but within them. Especially in the suburbs there is way more room, there are edge strips, there is way more space to be putting this stuff in. Just getting it done, and really considering future growth and trying to plan around that, making bike infrastructure a part of that growth so that people that move there can see it as an option when they get there. That's about it.

Oh, and within the Bike Plan, I would also earmark equal amounts of money, maybe not equal, but maybe two thirds to infrastructure and staffing and one third to public education. For sure. That is essential. Infrastructure is only good as people's understanding of how it works and how to interact with it; so making sure that enforcement of bike lanes is as much a priority as putting them in.

For further information about the Toronto Cyclists Union such as how to get involved and upcoming events, they can be located on the web here.

People seem to really enjoy spring because it means that winter is over and it doesn’t get dark at 4pm anymore. Flowers start to bloom and birds are back from their ambiguous Southern location. There’s something romantic about spring. It smells good. Everyone just fucking loves spring.

I can’t say I’m a fan. I like being shrouded in darkness and waking up when normal people go to bed. I am allergic to flowers and nature and anything that looks like it belongs in a Disney movie. Those damn birds can never shut the fuck up. Romance is fictitious. Don’t be so happy about things growing, they’re all going to die eventually. We’re all going to die eventually. In protest of the overwhelming and undeserved admiration of spring and sunshine and superficial happiness, this issue of weird news is going to be about dead bodies. Enjoy.

I recall a somewhat morbid-but-not-really conversation with a friend last summer about how hard it is to carry someone who’s unconscious because they really do not do anything to help you out. You can’t give them a piggyback ride because they’re not going to hold on, and if you’re going to carry them like a baby, their limbs just go everywhere and you just want to dump their drunk ass in a cab and go home. And then we started talking about how annoying it would be if the person was dead and rigor mortis was setting in because then the body isn’t malleable; it’s like carrying a stiff, heavy board around.

I don’t really know why either of us would be carrying a dead body around, especially one that’s so uncooperative. But even if the dead body was convenient to carry around, we certainly wouldn’t be doing it for five years like this 34-year-old man in Tokyo did. He was strolling around in a women’s university dormitory with a rucksack containing the now liquefied remains of his son wrapped up in plastic sheeting. Apparently, the son died five or six or ten years ago (there seem to be conflicting accounts from him and the child’s mother) and the body’s been sloshing around in his backpack ever since. The police took him in for trespassing on university grounds but I wonder if it’s actually illegal to have your dead son in a backpack at all times. I mean, people have their dead cremated relatives in vases above their fireplace and stuff. Sort of the same thing? I guess one smells a lot better than the other. Now I’m imagining that scene in The Big Lebowski where they’re scattering Donnie’s ashes from a Folger’s tin into the Pacific Ocean. But instead of ashes, a liquified corpse. Remember, it flies into the Dude’s face.

Anyone reading this is probably pretty disgusted by the whole melting dead body thing but I really give props to that 34-year-old Japanese man for being practical. Do you know how hard it’d be to carry around a dead body for five years if it wasn’t a slushy mess? These two German women couldn’t even get through the day. The mother and stepdaughter tried to board a plane to Berlin with their husband/father in a wheelchair wearing sunglasses. They claimed that they thought he was just sleeping which is, in my opinion, the most depressing lie ever. I mean, he was 91 but I think if my relatives couldn’t tell whether I was dead or alive, I’d probably put a gun in my mouth and hope that I was right about the whole atheism thing. I’m pretty sure they were just smuggling cocaine in his lifeless body.

This has been a pretty grim read so far. Even I’m a little down. I actually considered writing something about Easter and bunnies, but the first Easter-related weird news article I came across was about these kids on an Easter egg hunt in Iowa who found more than they bargained for. It was a dead body.

The Burrito Odyssey | Photos by Matthew Filipowich

Z-Teca (York University Campus):

A sign reading, "BURRITOHEADZ WANTED!" hung for nearly a year outside an under-construction petty-bourgeois unit inside the mall at York University. The prospect of a burrito joint moving onto campus excited and delighted students and professors alike. Ted and Alex, two "Burritoheads" (Missing that curious 'Z'), spent the whole year yearning and burning for a new burrito to sink their respective teeth into.

It turned out that the place was called Z-Teca (which explains that 'Z'). Upon opening, students lined up all the way out the door. Ted and Alex stood in that line--they stood for far too long. While they waited, they discussed aesthetics.

Ted said, "I just love things which are wrapped: joints, gifts, a lunch in cellophane. Of course there is nothing I enjoy so much as wrapping my member in a well-lubricated protective sheath, and then having that member wrapped within a woman's welcoming lips. Truly, there is nothing so fine as that which can be encased, enclosed, and covered. Burritos are a fine example of the act of enwrapping, second only to the sex act itself. D'lux!"

Alex said, "The universe cannot be wrapped. The world cannot be contained by any mere flatbread. A tortilla is an illusion. The nature of the world is in the spilling-over, the breaking-through. The essence of being is excess, the mess of life cannot not be captured and stuffed inside a tortilla."

When they finally reached the front of the line, their legs weary from waiting, they were forced to face issues of form and content. The options of form were: Burrito, Fajita Burrito, Burrito Bowl, Salad, or Tacos. For contents they could choose Grilled Chicken, Grilled Steak, Beef Barbacoa, Pork Carnitas, Grilled Shrimp, or Vegetarian. Ted's lower jaw jut forth and his face reddened as he ordered a Burrito with Grilled Shrimp inside. Alex ordered the Veggie Burrito Bowl--not for any moral reason, but because he believed that any burrito should be able to stand on its rice, beans, and cheese alone.

Additionally, guacamole was a dollar extra on any burrito except for the Veggie. Everyone agreed this was irrevocably heinous.

The final obstacles between these hungry heroes and their lunch was a choice of Salsa. Both lovers of spice, they chose the HOT option, the Chipotle & Roasted Tomato salsa. As every affirmation of one thing is a denial of other possiblilities, both Alex and Ted commented that the other salsas sounded pretty tasty. Sadly, they did not sample the Pico De Gallo or the Roasted Tomatillo & Jalepeno.

It ended up that the salsa was the real winner of the meal. In fact, every other aspect of the burrito, to hoover a word from popular culture, sucked.

Upon taking the first bite, Ted exclaimed "This tortilla tastes like a dour crepe. Are they using common pancakes to wrap food now?"

Alex's Burrito bowl had no tortilla, so he side-stepped this problem. He did just as the menu told him: "Eat it with a fork!" He mixed the contents of the bowl, creating a slop which was visually appealing, but lacking in flavour. The black beans and the corn tasted like they were poured right out of a can. Both meals were dominated by the plain white rice, spice-less.

"Ted, this is not hot."

"Do you mean hot temperature-wise, or hot spicy?"

"Both."

"Lousy. The shrimp in this is tough, chewy, and reminds me too much of the sea."

"What did you expect? You ordered the shrimp. You sir, are a disgusting mother."

"Verily!"

And thus they left Z-Teca, entirely disappointed.

Burrito Boyz (College & Clinton):

It is not quite a patio. It is a walled-in cave with a garage door and stainless steel furniture. A big screen TV locked into Buffalo news. He is standing at the strange entrance enclave of Burrito Boyz. He speaks: "What is with Burrito Places and the letter 'Z'?" He enters, glides past tiled walls, bright yellow and blue.

Burrito Boyz is everything Z-Teca wants to be but can't. Their ingredients fresh, their staff friendly, their vibe happening. Everyone inside Burrito Boyz is having a good time. Always.

Rocketing through their streamlined process, he orders a small veggie burrito--the smallest, cheapest thing they offer on the menu. The girl behind the glass pulls out a surprisingly large tortilla. She proffers the possibilities of toppings: Refried beans, mexican rice, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, green onions, green peppers, salsa, guacamole, Burrito sauce, Sour Cream, Jalapenos.

"Give me everything," he says. He was the kind of guy who wanted it all and wasn't afraid to take it.

She asks, "Would you like some of our XXX Hot Sauce?"

"Yeah, give me double." He was that kind of guy as well.

The burrito is made and put on the grill. Above the grill a sign reads: "PLEASE EVERYONE - Get into the habit of washing your hands after every time you touch something besides food in the kitchen." He looks at the girl's hand. They are soft and sleek. They are clean.

They don't take debit. Don't worry--he has cash.

The burrito spends enough time on the grill to be crispy on the outside, gooey and warm on the inside. The refried beans are spread evenly, thickly. The salsa is robust, bolstered by cilantro. The secret sauce is only called a secret because there are no words which can even approach its deliciousness. It mixes with the sour cream, guacamole, and hot sauce. The effect of this super-sauce is more powerful than any alchemist's potion or ancient elixir. The burrito is well-wrapped. It maintains its integrity and dignity until the end of his eating it.

It is genuinely shocking to him that he is stuffed. That was the smallest menu item, and yet he has a full stomach. The large must be gargantuan. As he leaves, the spice lingers. It tickles him all afternoon.

Bar Burrito (Yonge & Sheppard):

An almost putrid orange painted on most of the indoor walls offset with extremely colourful art by local Lizzy D. Cacti placed in red-rimmed wall sockets are underscored by a slew of sand behind glass, teasing the viewer with a landscape perfect for tucking a toiling ant farm. Maroon booths line the wall, cherry wood chairs placed on the outside of the tables. A small TV is mounted in the corner, spotlights point down onto the cash and back kitchen. Alex and Ted walk to the counter and order two burritos, a vegetarian and another that combines steak and chicken--the men split each in half for heightened enjoyment and shared experience. Emboldened with their forays thus far, both men order the maximum allotted spice. A lull hangs in the air while the man looks at Ted somewhat incredulously.

"Are you sure? I just want to ask and make sure, it's very hot."

Ted affirms his order and the man rings it up, sighing, resigning Ted to a meal hotter than the sun, tantamount to hot coals slathered in lava. The cook steams and presses the tortillas before tossing it onto the grill, and asks the teller how much spice Ted requires. The man relays maximal potent spices, but the other man stops.

"Are you sure? I have to ask everyone and make sure, it's very hot."

Alex looks on, silently demanding the burrito live up to this potentially scripted response. Eventually the gentlemen receive two super-packed, well-grilled burritos: one extreme meat, the other soy meat. Taking a bite, sour cream leaps to the forefront and Alex notes a definitive lettuce/soy divide down the center of the burrito, and although the soy lives up to the purported spice levels, it is cooled by dressing woven through the lettuce. The chicken and steak was much spicier, for there is less lettuce to give way to the mass of meat. Ted has to cool down with a shot of Alex's Mexican fries, the fake cheese actually taking the edge off the scorching burrito. The fries are covered with green onions, salsa, sour cream, and plenty of that plastic cheese. They are delicious; they are disgusting.

The burritos are served in a thick pita, and not even the combined power of chicken and steak can incite sauce drippage at the end. Alex watches the guacamole fade into the mix, glumly. Although there is hardly any rice, the wraps continue to bring delicious spice, and the pleasant mouth afterglow the men are coming to know so well after a burrito walks over your tongue with heat fused into the soles of its shoes.

Johny Banana Mexican Grill [formerly known as Bistro Latino] (Queen & Bathurst):

Vibrant colours that exceed Bar Burrito seem to expound that life is a carnival. In fact, it is written on the wall: "LA VIDA ES UN CARNEVAL." Painted playing cards depict a mermaid, watermelon, moon, sun, and a man dancing with a baton of some sort. A thick exhaust pipe snakes its way overhead. Vibrant neon swirls of paint accompany every picture around the wall, except for a few large mirrors and framed posters of exploitation films starring Mexican wrestlers, including one known as the "Champion of Death" [CAMPEON DE LA MUERTE]. A white baby stool sits discarded by a lonely black paper stand, large white paper balls cover lights above the wraparium. Complete with action figure-esque Mexican wrestler staring you down as you gobble: “¡JOHNY DAME OTRO TEQUILA!” he roars ferociously [JOHNY GIVE ME ANOTHER TEQUILA!].

The men order a chicken burrito with Mole sauce, made with chiles, chocolate, nuts and spices, as well as a Chorizo sausage burrito with potato, both on whole wheat tortillas. As seems to be the norm, both men order all potential garnishes: refried beans, cilantro-lime rice, lettuce, tomato, green pepper, green onion, sour cream, with cheddar and Monterey Jack cheeses, extra spicy salsa added with a similar warning as Bar Burrito. The man behind the counter offers that both patrons follow him through the process and they look on fixedly, expectantly. The chicken with Mole has a myriad of colour and spice inside, and the roller has conquered the uneven layering effect that have stumped many before. A sit and several bites later, Ted tastes green onions and spicy salsa, nasal drips, so he sniffs, a general throb in the mouth occupies his oral fixation. The guava drink he ordered half drained by the the time he quenches the heat to a comfortable level. The Chorizo with potato has less heat and is more cilantro heavy - potato grounds the flavour, steadying the stronger tastes and allowing the palate to explore the diversity of ingredients.

Both men, inquisitive, ask for a flan advertised at the front, Madagascar Vanilla, sounds delish. Yet denied, nothing, nadda, no dessert. "I'll remember this," Ted thought, and these words are the ends to those means.

Big Fat Burrito (Bathurst & Bloor):

Ted and Alex are excited to try the new "high-profile" burrito place in Toronto, the Big Fat Burrito in the Annex. This burrito is already famous for its presence in Kensington Market and the fact that the new location killed the awesome mural outside Lee's Palace.

"I heard they were getting the same artist to do another one," notes Ted.

They walk in the door. It is a squeeze. There are seven people inside; it is about five too many to stand comfortably. Muffled, the live music from Lee's filters through the wall.

Ted orders the Chicken and Alex orders the Yam. The burritos are made quickly. The boys ask the kind cook if he will chop each in half so they can split it. He does it no problem.

They walk out into the night, cradling their packages with care. First they eat the Chicken burrito. The first thing that pops out is the burrito sauce, a roasted garlic mayonnaise. The chicken is marinated with a nice spice, but lacks something in texture.

Ted explains it: "This chicken is not firm and springy. I want density in my chicken!"

Alex says, "Destiny? You want destiny in your chicken?"

Ted says, "Yes goddammit!"

They each gobble their half of the chicken. Alex opens up the Yam and passes Ted his piece. The first bite shocks, the Yam is delicious. It is warm, sweet, and rounds off the garlic and spice nicely. In moments, the Yam burrito is annihilated by their sticky gnashing teeth.

"That was delicious," says one.

"Became kind of a sludge near the end though," says the other.

They both agreed that it was okay, but not nearly as good as the other location in Kensington Market. Nor was it nearly as good as any of the other burritos they had eaten in recent memory. However, a bad burrito is still pretty fucking good by any standards. They had not yet had the best burrito they could find. But it was close. Very close. Perhaps a paragraph or two away...

Utopia Café (College & Clinton):

Apparently the modern Utopia consists of European sceneries portrayed on wall. A long mirror near table their table. Exposed bricks, an ample wine selection, white ceiling, white walls, cream baseboards that rise up toward the tabletops. A shelf full of multicoloured plates stacked at the back of Utopia obstructs a direct kitchen view.

Ted orders two of the daily special: a chicken and avocado burrito served with charred jalapeño pesto cheddar cheese, salsa, sautéed peppers, onions and lettuce. The special sells out only twenty minutes after the order: brash, a server walks up and slashes the blackboard in red capital chalk – SOLD OUT. Ted licks his lips lasciviously to the smells wafting towards their corner table in the wings, as his stomach continues its impatient urges towards the meal to come. Alex should have expected delays during a massive 5:30pm dinner rush, but that doesn’t stop him from heedlessly oogling the other patrons' dishes. When the food arrives, the plate has been pleasantly piled lots of with Costa Rican black bean rice and sesame coleslaw, the burrito chopped in half and laid across, open face showing them all of the toppings they've been anxiously awaiting. After a bite, the slick pesto and smooth guacamole are not as spicy as the emphasis on jalapeno led them to believe. Alex adds some of the 'AHH! Sauce,' a specialty of Utopia with oranges and jalapenos, and compliments the special on its wonderful curves. The stack of rice on Ted's plate slowly tumbles as he slips a fork around its edges. Alex mixes his rice with the adequate slaw, and its sauce offers affable company for the rice. A well-portioned pastiche of innards, the jalapeno pesto spreads evenly throughout the flavour of the wrap, the subtle cheese trembles underneath the omni-prevalent sauce. Usually in the twelve-thirteen monetary range, the special rings in at a satisfying ten ninety-nine. Both men take a warm bath in their minds.

Ted returns to taste a few more offerings, such as the spicy Merguez lamb sausage and Brie burrito, wrapped with grilled onion, lettuce, salsa and red pepper Dijon mayo. The lamb has a sharp, savoury spice, and the Brie cheese stretches out to meet your lip, the Dijon mayo a light thrill underneath all the main, assertive ingredients. The “Goucho” burrito is a marinated medium rare cow with sautéed mushrooms, grilled onions, lettuce, chimichurri sauce, and feta tucked down spine. The mushrooms may have created a soggy ecosystem given enough time, but the men were steadfast in their jawing efforts, and made each bite count. Rather than settle with the slaw, Ted chose a light salad that he preferred. The 'AHH! Sauce' makes a triumphant return, there are many high fives. It turns out 4pm is the perfect time to munch many a burrito in Utopia, which was nearly empty on a gorgeous day, dazzling sunshine through its front windows.

Comments

• April 16, 2010, Emily Killin writes: I'll have to try other places than just the Big Fat Burrito now! Amazing work guys!

After seeing an ad posted on the TTC last month I attended the COG festival on February 20th, an organic growers conference held on Chestnut Street. I wanted to experience a gathering of the minority market in food production, a market vehemently protesting the dominant norm. I skipped down the road to the hotel conference center, ready to involve myself in a fight for the underdog and nab a free organic lunch for my trouble.

Unfortunately, the conference itself is not an event geared towards a casually interested observer: an expensive ticket ($65-$85!) deters those who have only outside interest in organic, and a lecture-based atmosphere can become arduous. Furthermore, each speaker was limited to an approximately twenty-minute slot. While each were able to present a general sketch on their efforts in aiding organic growing, most were time limited and the speakers were only able to present quick bouts of directed anger toward GMO-based growing, and its threatening prevalence in the food market. The ideas presented, although not enough information on their own, have spurred me in the direction of our local organic efforts, and the problems of spreading a renewed sense of vigor towards organic food consumption.

Barbel Hohn was the former Minister of Agriculture and Environment in the German North Rhine Westphalia region from 1995-2005. In her opening remarks, she outlined facts and figures in the ongoing battle of organic versus GMO users: basically that the organic food market has to fight for its proper share of the market against companies that use Genetically Modified foods (GMOs) that are able to sell in large quantities to profit-hungry farmers, and casually overrun the others that want nothing to do with their product. But she truly awoke my interest with her solution, a strategy of turning German farmers into energy producers, offering grants to build renewable energy sources such as windmills on large rural property. However, while her approach certainly helps the state maintain and expand their network of renewable sources of energy, would this offer create effective financial stability to fledgling organic farmers in the face of larger, more flexible competition?

For example, west of Hamilton in a township called Brandt is Ella Haley, a fourth generation farmer, seeking to preserve her family farmland. In her area, she complains that her neighbours use unsafe chemical and sewage sludge treatments from Kitchener lagoon as fertilizer. The unsanitary quality of this practice prevents neighbours from going organic, for the organic branders have strict guidelines of what products to mark with a seal of approval. Ella cannot influence her neighbours to stop this negligent action, and one of the goals of this series will be to research whether there is appropriate action to take against this type of slipshod farming.

However, while this type of fertilizing is allowed, at least there are several international precedents of banning contaminated food. Hohn was quick to remark on her cutting-edge decision to ban British beef due to BSE risk, even before the UN officially sanctioned the action. Yet these large companies always seem to bounce back: even in the face of several health violations, governments seem more willing to turn a blind eye than confront the food conglomerates on further action. A ban on a national level for a product is only ever temporary, but is there any way to target these powerful corporations at the local level? It seems difficult when the prevalence of the franchise market in Toronto is undeniable: Billeh Nickerson, a fast-food poet hailing from BC, wonders “What the hell is up with all the Pizza Pizzas [in Toronto] though? I don’t get it.” After reading this quote in most recent issue of Broken Pencil, it struck me that the slew of Pizza Pizza outlets that we take for granted in Toronto is not the norm across Canada. The reason that Toronto is overwhelmed by Pizza Pizza is that many Ontarians enjoy the ease of online ordering and late night availability, luxuries available due to the deep resources of a large chain of franchises.

But I am mostly concerned with our local organic efforts, such as maintaining the Greenbelt, which celebrated its fifth year on Feb. 28, 2010. The Greenbelt is widely hailed as the best new policy protecting agriculture in Canada - its boundaries encompass the Niagara Escarpment, the Oak Ridges Moraine, Rouge Park, hundreds of rural towns and over 7000 farms. Say what you will about Dalton McGuinty’s time in office, but one of his major successes has been to help establish and protect the Greenbelt. However, Ontario growers remain restless. They want more space protected and the sooner the better. Larger companies fight to exploit the borders of this space, constantly grappling for control. The Greenbelt has opened a framework for protection, but has not been able to go far enough in some places. Lecturers thought it could stretch further to Simcoe south county, Bradford, Innisfield, Brandt, and Prince Edward County. I’m also actually interested in Markham for once, as the community has opted to freeze their expanding urban belt to begin the process of becoming self-sufficient in food production. Local food ensures safety against the quality issues creeping into the larger companies operating today. However, as Ella demonstrates, corporations can sway these local politics if they have a vested interest in the future of an area, regardless of the wants of other citizens.

Overtaking the dominance of the original Fordian auto industry, the food industry has thrived in post-Fordern restructuring of mass production business models. While cars become a superfluous commodity in economic strife, everyone still needs enough calories to keep going, and the speedy eateries of North America supply a cheap, standardized product through assembly line production. Instead of making adjustments to the process itself to improve sanitary conditions, the flow of profits continues due to technological solutions designed to bypass a reevaluation process, which is perceived as a major hindrance to a company. After all, these companies make a living keeping the massive cogs of the food machine ever-rolling.

In an age where every long-standing corporate institution is facing criticism for long-standing questionable practices, it was only a matter of time before the food industry was held accountable. The general public has a better idea of food production, but at this point, it is obvious that the larger a corporation becomes, the more dominance and influence they are able to direct on the political stage. Ideally no one wants a franchise ruining the landscape of a unique, original town-space, but the question remains: would you not rather an organic, secure franchise in town than a standard McDonalds? It is important to recognize and support rapidly-expanding organic brands such as Stonyfield Farm, an extremely successfully organic yogurt company. Also, check out a dizzying map of organic brands uniting in larger clusters of company ownership between 1995-2007. I have a feeling that networks of organic brands will eventually boost organic foods to a much larger market share.

Logorama, this years Oscar-winning animated short, illustrates that corporate logos have always found ways to fill every urban nook and cranny. Since our well-established system of consumerist competition isn't changing any time soon, the only option left is to supplant the North American stockpile of logos with recognizable, necessarily profitable organic alternatives. Slowly but surely this strategy will catch the citizens no longer satisfied with the conditions surrounding the origins of their food. Barbara Hohn believes that proper labeling efforts creates a freedom of choice. Since in democratic capitalism, it is looked upon as undemocratic to place a ban that encroaches on someone else’s business endeavour, the power that the consumer holds above all else is in their choice of product to buy into. In these articles, I’ll be working out just what choices the common consumer has, and whether the organic process needs to be adjusted to fulfill the expectations of the average Torontonian.

Sources:

Find Ella Haley at the blog for Sustainable Brandt, a movement she is active in maintaining.

If the dizzying map was too much, look at the organic corporate structure posted here at the Certified Organic Association of BC.

Comments

• March 18, 2010, Devon writes: If anyone is interested in the fight against GMOs and the hazards of biotech in general, I highly recommend the book "Redesigning Life?" edited by Brian Tokar. (Ted: I'll lend you my copy when the school year ends.)
• March 18, 2010, Devon writes: Also, check out this article "Unraveling the DNA Myth" by Barry Commoner: http://www.mindfully.org/GE/GE4/DNA-Myth-CommonerFeb02.htm
• March 18, 2010, Devon writes: Or any book by Michael Pollan, really... My fave by him is "The Botany of Desire" in which he discusses the history of the apple, the potato, the tulip, and marijuana.

The city’s streetcar fleet, which is approaching antiquity, is finally and fortunately being replaced by an all-new lineup of fancy newfangled thingamawhatsits which should be trolling the arterials by 2012. As we all know this is a very liberal estimate, as 2012 translates loosely into transit speak as “???????!” Regardless, sometime within my lifetime, there will be at least 204 European-style Light Rail Vehicles on the prowl in Toronto.

The cost of these 204 streetcars the city has commissioned: $1.2 billion. Fine.

Reasonably, the city cannot continue using the current model of streetcar, the presumptuously titled Canadian Light Rail Vehicle for much longer, as the CLRVs and their Articulated cousins that are used primarily on the Queen route have been in service since the late 1970s, thus putting them fairly far out of code. And here we are now, where because of the price tag the general no-brainer of replacing aged public vehicles has become a source of some uproar. I’ve decided, given the fact that last month’s column was nothing but ranting, to avoid sermonizing for today and leave angry taxpaying motorists and transit-illiterate mayoral candidate Rocco Rossi alone for the time being.

Instead I want to talk for a bit about the really cool new streetcars that are being built specially for us, and why I think streetcars are really great in general. OK? Here we go:

So the new cars that are being built by Bombardier are called the Flexity Outlook, which is a low-floor, articulated LRV that has similar models operating in cities such as Brussels and Marseille. Below is a photo of one of Brussels’ Flexity Outlook cars:

Pretty cool, right? These things are larger and leagues more accessible than the CLRVs, plus they will apparently be air-conditioned and just generally all modern and fancy. I’m kind of stoked. Not much is known about the specifics of the Flexity Outlook in Toronto – seeing as how each model has to be very meticulously tailored to meet its city’s needs – however there appears to be some issue over track gauge, which may have to be modified on the street as it differs from standard street car routs, the SRT (which is set to be converted to LRV) and the upcoming Transit City routes. When extending the subway, you can just start digging a hole and away we go because the underground infrastructure of a major city is vastly more complex than one might immediately imagine and the same principal goes for streetcars: the city can’t just pick a model and plonk it down on Queen Street without much thought – it isn’t like buying a car. This is my general mode of thinking for when I’m feeling bitchy about city projects taking way longer than is convenient for me personally: there’s probably a lot going on that I’m not considering.

Anyway, I like the streetcar. I like riding streetcars way more than riding buses; maybe the streetcar seems like a more elegant form of transit compared to the bumpy, dusty crassness of buses. People in general seem to be much friendlier on the streetcars than on buses for reasons I’ll never be able to explain. I like to stick my hand out of the streetcar window on nice days in the summer and the nine-year old toy-truck-and-dinosaur-loving boy in me delights to no end when the operators ring their bells at each other.

Mostly though, I like streetcars in Toronto because they add a lot of character to the city and I think that those lumbering, red sources of motorist rage – slow and bunched-up though they may sometimes be – are something of an identifying point for Toronto. There is a good reason why the city blog, Torontoist’s logo consists of stylized images of the CN Tower, City Hall, OCAD’s Sharp Center for Design and a streetcar: the streetcar is an integral part of the city’s identity and the downtown Toronto experience, in my opinion just as iconic of Toronto as those other things, important parts of our architectural image. Everyone that visits me from out of town is always fascinated upon first encountering the CLRVs traipsing and buzzing down Dundas and indeed when I first moved here, I was completely enamored of their bizarre charms.

There are also many technical advantages to streetcars, as Steve Munro will be quick point out, such as the obvious point of being that they can carry a lot more people than buses. They’re also, on the whole, a lot more efficient, able to run much more smoothly and tend not to need replacing as frequently (as reflected by their cost to the city); to date only one of the original CLRVs has been scrapped completely, though many are now beginning to fail after decades of service. Today I’m not really feeling like going into this, though, as I’m instead feeling very sentimental and am for some reason trying to express my love for Toronto through a discussion of public transit.

Before the CLRVs were built, the city was considering scrapping streetcars altogether, but they changed their minds at the last second. Their extremely car-friendly schemes also at the time included plans to connect Allen Road to the Gardiner, effectively slashing some of downtown’s most vibrant neighborhoods such as the Annex, Little Italy and Kensington to pieces in favor of a network of highways that would essentially make downtown Toronto an overwhelmingly unfriendly place for pedestrians, cyclists and transit riders. Instead, goodness won out in the end – perhaps by act of divine intervention, and much to the chagrin of commuters we all get to enjoy a downtown core you’d have to be insane to want to drive in. I for one cannot imagine sitting on some College Street patio without the nasal whir of the 506 filling my ears.

I feel somewhat hypocritical reporting this month’s weird news because it is all about people operating motor vehicles when they probably shouldn’t be and I’m fairly certain that I’m going to be one of those people quite soon. I don’t know how to drive. I remember nothing from driving lessons. I have trouble even walking near cars and other people – I kind of wish we could all give this horseback thing another try. But I have my G2 and I’ve driven on the highway with my entire family in the backseat screaming “YOU’RE GOING TOO FAST.”

I have not, however, attempted to remove any of my pubic hair while driving as Megan Mariah Barnes, a 37-year-old from Florida, did. I’ve seen this story in so many news outlets indubitably because the writers know that everyone’s going to be like, “what a crazy lady, shaving her va-jay-jay while driving." And I agree, that’s some pretty weird stuff. I would rank a moving car to be one of the least desirable places to be holding a sharp metal tool near one’s genitalia. But I think we’re all overlooking the finer details of this wacky tale. Ms Barnes was on her way to see her boyfriend (which makes sense considering the body part she was shaving) and in the car with her were three other people with one of them being her ex-husband. That sounds so awkward to me, driving to see your boyfriend with your ex-husband and friends. Even without the bikini line shaving part. What kind of dolt is this ex-husband? Get a life, dude. And then after Barnes crashed the car, her ex-husband agreed to switch places with her and take the blame for the accident. I feel like that is what-the-fuck part of this story more so than her poor planning skills. I want to mail this guy a piece of my doormat with a snarky note that says “birds of a feather should flock together” or something.

A few months ago, I read a story about a woman who suffered a damaged nerve in her pelvis during a car accident.  This caused her to constantly be in a state of sexual arousal which sounded rad at first but then I realized how inconvenient that would be in every situation outside of a cheesy porno. The woman is miserable and expressed how embarrassing her affliction is and how no amount of sex satiates her.

I would feel such a sense of cosmic justice if that woman was Megan Barnes. This sounds like a cheesy adult film again but what if after preparing for coitus in a moving car that she was operating, and conning her poor ex-husband to take the fall for the resulting accident, Barnes damaged her pelvis nerve and has to live the rest of her life in a state of sexual limbo? I would perhaps reconsider my status as a militant atheist.

Sweet Shaddock | Photos by Madd Hattere

The good captain Shaddock brought grapefruits to the sunny shores of Jamaica over one hundred years ago, and when Count Odet Phillippe planted the first Florida grove in 1823, he could not have foreseen the integral contribution the fruit would supply for the State infrastructure. With a number of varieties [Ruby Red, Pink, Thompson, Marsh and Duncan] and an absurd growing season that runs from October through to June, the Florida grapefruit company has a powerful impact on the residents of Florida; as an executive branch of State government, the Florida Department of Citrus (FDOC) actually generates multi-billion dollar profits annually for the US government.

Nancy Brown comes to Toronto twice a year in order to plan and attend a public relations event to promote the health benefits and versatility of their hybrid fruit to Canadians. In previous years, Nancy has traveled to Toronto for Florida grapefruit spa events, consumer sampling events held in parks and consumer shows such as Lifefest, in addition to the requisite sampling events in retail stores. But this year the company has taken a fresh approach to their promotion – Nancy and Toronto correspondent Golin Harris recognized an opportunity to reach a younger crowd in the Winterlicious festival.

“We begin our strategic planning sessions each year in February and then in July, after we know our annual budget, we meet in Toronto to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of the various concepts. The concept for this event was immediately a hit and the tie in with Winterlicious was brilliant. We felt that the idea had a lot of potential so I instructed the team to move forward with it.”

The team set upon planning a chef cook-off between three students hand-picked from different colleges in Ontario: Baker Lewis from Niagara, Corinne Babchishin from Humber and Mike Kowbel from Stratford Chef School. Each chef was given little over a month to devise an appetizer, entrée and dessert for three Torontonian judges.

An Australian native, the first judge Jennifer McLagan has received numerous awards such as three James Beard Awards, including Cookbook of the Year for FAT, An Appreciation of a Misunderstood Ingredient, with Recipes, a novel seeking to lift the negative connotations associated with the word. The second judge Alison Fryer has managed the Cookbook Store in Yorkville for over twenty-five years. She has won the CBA Bookshelf of the Year and WCN Woman of the Year, and judged cookbook awards for Cuisine Canada, James Beard Book Awards and International Association of Culinary Professionals. The final judge, Chef Teo Paul, was born in Toronto but has trained as a chef primarily in Europe. He's one of the lucky that opened his restaurant Union on Ossington before the city clamped down on all the restaurant openings on the street, and has also written for the Toronto Life blog.

“This was possibly the best event I've ever attended in Canada or Europe. The audience was so enthusiastic and I loved the interaction. The venue, SCHOOL, was perfect for an event of this type – the open kitchen and layout of the room allowed the audience to see everything happening.”

I enter SCHOOL to an event already bustling: the first dish is a smooth grapefruit guacamole laid out at tables with cassava chips, particularly sweet when I catch a large chunk of grapefruit in the mix. Nineteen clocks cluster on a wall, all set to point toward 3:30pm. Grapefruits and signage of grapefruits has been strewn everywhere, to the point that grapefruits have been scooped out to hold candles on each table. Black cubbie holes have been mounted on several walls that act as shelving for bottles, books, and various figurines. Walls of exposed brick and a wooden slatted ceiling supply the backdrop to stainless steel counters with black trimmings, which have been chalked above the kitchen with a mural espousing such catch-alls as “calculation,” “form,” “colour,” traits of the profession a rising chef should consider. SCHOOL has been built with a large windowed front, and festooned with a sleek black globe on countertop and vases filled to the brim with grapefruits. A large projector screen has gone unused for the evening, but fits right in with the surrounding school décor.

After a brief delay to allow the spectators to sit, the head chef of SCHOOL Brad Moore grabs a microphone to kick off the event properly, outlining the rules: each chef has 25 minutes to prepare the appetizers and dessert, and 35 minutes for the entrée, with a 10 minute break between each round. The contestant must use at least half a grapefruit in each dish. The competing chefs then announce all of their dishes to the audience:

MIKE: Scallops and grapefruit mascarpone in a grapefruit and civiche salad for an appetizer. Venison loin prepared in grapefruit brine and lobster wrapped in crepes and garnished with brûléed grapefruit for an entrée. Grapefruit bread pudding, brandy snaps, and a grapefruit and champagne sorbet on the side for dessert.

CORINNE: Ginger marinated seared scallops served over fennel-slaw and grapefruit beurre blanc accompanied by roasted fennel and parmesean tuile to start. The main course consists of pan roasted duck breast with caramelized grapefruit served with cranberry grapefruit glaze over a bed of puff wild rice and accompanied by celery salad and fresh mango. For dessert, a chocolate tortellini filled with vanilla mascarpone accompanied by grapefruit salsa with a hint of strawberry, and a miniature maple-grapefruit martini.

BAKER: Begins with a simple salad of roasted purple and golden beets, pink Florida grapefruit segments, shaved Parmesan, baby arugula, and finishing salt. Baker then serves seared sea scallops with chive rosti, zested rapini, and a grapefruit-vodka beurre blanc as an entrée. For dessert, Florida Ruby Red Grapefruit and Blood orange segments, and brûléed grapefruit ice wine sabayon, made with the Niagara college teaching cab franc ice wine.

The chefs waste no time from the start of each dish, peeling grapefruits with a ferocity and efficiency I am able to witness in full view. Yet the average spectator doesn’t get to taste these dishes: the chefs arrive early in the day to accustom to the space, for as they prepare all of their dishes in the short time limits given, Brad Moore has arranged for his staff to cook a six-course meal for the spectators consisting of his own grapefruit recipes. He also emcees the event, hovering in the background to update the crowd on the status of the dishes and casually slip in the key facts about grapefruits. Luckily, at the sponsor’s table I am able to sample many of the competing dishes. All of the desserts from the competitors seem particularly fancy, and all are delicious, but Baker's main dish sticks in memory: tender scallops and a tantalizing beurre blanc create a robust, clean-cut taste.

After the guacamole and chips, the tables are served a Florida grapefruit salad with fennel, radicchio and toasted pine nuts, followed swiftly by the Latin-style chicken with black bean sauce comprised of avocado, black beans, grapefruit and mixed greens. The next dish is a halibut fish taco garnished with a few choice pieces of the fruit, set on a base of the same black bean salsa and spread with the same grapefruit guacamole. The final entrée is pork tenderloin served with a crispy popover, filled with mashed potatoes and a savoury sweet grapefruit gravy, which was my favourite garnish of the entire event.

The judges are often up and down from their seats, and stayed behind the counter during their tastings, masking reactions well and taking furtive notes on the meals they evaluate on the flavour, originality and presentation. The waitresses are quick to bring more grapefruit juice or water whenever necessary and to close the evening, they bring a thickly wrapped cigar-shaped crepe from Brad's menu filled with heavily spiced grapefruit and smooth cream cheese.

The judges are given a brief moment to convene after the final dish is cleared away, but stand up a few moments later to announce the winner as Nancy brings the oversized, pink-edged $2000 grand prize cheque. Alison makes the announcement, and the winner is Baker Lewis from Niagara - the judges substantiate their decision with a quick description:

“Simple is hard to do, and as a young chef to come out and show us simple, that was impressive.”

Speaking later with Nancy Brown, she admits that she would have trouble acting in a judge's role.

“I don't know that I could pick a favorite recipe. They were all so wonderful, and Brad Moore's creations tasted delicious. Having said that, I remember that Mike's venison and the fish taco [Brad's dish] were a pleasant surprise, and Baker's dessert stood out. All of the chefs did a fabulous job."

When observing the competition, I watched three people don the proverbial chef hat and embody the role, a portrayal that cannot allow any hesitation or self-consciousness during such a public preparation. But speaking to Baker later gave me an opportunity to speak with the person, and nerves are certainly a factor:

"The event was obviously a little bit nerve racking, as I had never taken part in an external competition before, let alone one in front of a live audience of foodies and celebrity judges. I visualized it in my head simply as any service at work: ordering and firing four salads, four entrees, and four desserts. That helped me focus a little more on the task at hand, and not everything going on around me. Luckily my plates were fairly straightforward so plating was not a 10-minute ordeal - there is nothing wrong with finishing a couple minutes early, as long as your plates are hot. I was treating it as if our cut-off times were a few minutes before they actually were, to ensure that I would finish solidly with a couple minutes to spare. Yes, the adrenaline was flying, but you have to control it, not let it control you, and use it to your advantage."

Contacting the contestants, the responses vary in regards to their approach to the event, and what the title "rising chef" actually means to their plans for the future:

Was there a specific style or vibe that you were aiming for in your dishes? How did you find the medium of the grapefruit to work with?

MIKE: "I came up with the ideas for the recipes based on my past experiences with food and working in restaurants. My main inspirations came from working at George Restaurant in Toronto. Executive Chef Lorenzo Loseto has a very interesting style of food preparation and presentation and I think that the way I view food and present it is strongly based from my time at George.

"I was aiming for an original and interesting style and vibe when I was creating my recipes; I thought that this being a competition, I could really showcase my talents and create something really different and amazing, something the judges haven't seen or tried before. Working with grapefruit was a great challenge. I really wanted to try and showcase the many different things you can do with a grapefruit – I didn't want to just put segments of grapefruit on the plate and say that I fulfilled my obligation to use grapefruit in the dish. So I used the juice to mix with mascarpone, I used the juice to flavor my dressing in the salad, I brûléed the grapefruit, I marinated the grapefruit, I used the juice to create a brine for the venison, and I used the juice to create a sorbet."

CORINNE: "I wanted to create very original, modern dishes, flavour pairings that aren't often seen. For example, my main course has a molecular gastronomie influence. Grapefruit is my second favorite fruit after raspberries, so I am used to working with them – it was easy for me to imagine what other food items it would go well with."

BAKER: "I spent quite a bit of time brainstorming, reading cookbooks, and consulting my chef professors for ideas to come up with the dishes. I wanted to keep it very simple and clean, because I find that simple and bold flavours leave a lasting impression on people. A balance of sour, bitter, sweet, and salty is the key to creating delicious food. Once you understand how to manipulate these basic tastes, and have a solid understanding of quality ingredients, your repertoire and skills as a cook grow exponentially and you can inject all the flavour you need into a dish. I think that the key to great food is balance and good fundamental techniques.

"I actually had a lot of fun playing around with grapefruit as I had limited experience with it beforehand. I was surprised at its versatility, and plan to incorporate it more into things I create either at home or work. It is sweet, sour, and somewhat bitter depending on the variety, so there is a lot to work with and so many directions to go with it."

What does it mean to you be a "rising chef"? Do you want to open a restaurant of your own one day? Or does the thought of being on television as a chef hold any appeal?

MIKE: "I don't really consider myself a "rising chef," I'm just a student trying to learn and take in as much knowledge as I can to hopefully be successful one day. I want to be a chef and I believe that it takes a lot of hard work and determination to do well in this business. I think one day I would like to open my own restaurant and have people experience food they way I like to. However, as of right now I am far away from anything like that.

"Becoming a TV chef would be another great way to showcase my view and thoughts on food and how I like to prepare and present it. I also think it would be a great way to educate people on food and food production. There are too many people in this world eating garbage - shitty prepackaged, canned, trashy food and it’s such a shame. Some people are uneducated and simply don't know any better, and TV would be a great way to help some of these people out. But at the same time, I wouldn't want it to affect my life as a chef and what I ultimately want to achieve."

CORINNE: "[The term "rising chef"] means that my passion for great tasting food will drive me towards becoming a excellent chef. At this time, I would like to open my own patisserie. I enjoy dealing with the public directly, being able to see the expression on peoples' faces when they eat your food, and receive their comments on the meal; therefore, being a chef on TV doesn't hold much appeal to me."

A focused Corinne portions grapefruit juice.

BAKER: "The term "rising chef" is flattering and the acknowledgement is nice. I have devoted the last six years of my life to kitchens, and it is very nice to receive this recognition - hard work pays off, eventually. This industry has a tendency to be quite frustrating and discouraging sometimes: long hours, little pay or recognition, and stress on relationships scare people off. A chef needs to really be passionate about food and love what they are doing to reap great long-term personal and professional satisfaction. It is a long road to success but tackle it head on if you want to do it, because if you don’t love it, don't torture yourself, find a different occupation. That sounds harsh, but I have found it to be true.

"Owning my own place would be nice one day, but the statistics regarding the success of new restaurants are frightening and could eventually scare me off, unless the economy takes a turn for the better. Total creative control and working for myself is very tempting though. I plan on running a few reputable kitchens as Chef before taking on the responsibility of being an Owner/Chef.

"TV is scary. People might not realize it, but a lot of celebrity chefs dictate how and what a staggering number of people buy and eat in North America. If I were to have the opportunity the be on television, I would like to deliver my own personal take on cuisine and ingredients, which is probably not entirely feasible, as you are fed a large amount of contractual obligations regarding product placement, promotion, and ingredient usage. I enjoy encouraging people to try to eat seasonally and support local farmers, growers, and suppliers if possible. We have phenomenal produce here in southwestern Ontario and the Niagara Peninsula. People need to take advantage of this and stop buying stuff from 3000 miles away."

Florida grapefruit has taken a different path in their promotional techniques this year, a move that directly benefits Toronto cuisine and has allowed three devoted chefs-in-training to present their work. The chefs had been given a tangible goal to achieve, competing for a prize that any student would slaver over: $2000! The cook-off itself provided everyone involved a great local event with delicious results. On my way out of the restaurant, Alison makes a final remark to me as I exit SCHOOL:

"The future of Toronto cuisine looks extremely bright."

Student chefs in Toronto have experience and skill that not everyone has access to and this type of event opens an outlet for presentation that otherwise does not exist. This year's Rising Chef Cook-Off is a prime example of how a restaurant can use the Winterlicious festival to its advantage: sure, a discounted meal can be a welcome change, but an event that draws so many Ontarians and restauranteurs to a single venue for the specific purpose of showcasing our local talent has a greater vision, and could be successfully reproduced at other locales around the city to bring together younger members of the food community.

So… it was a weird month for the TTC.

Off the bat I should point out that this piece slanders just about everyone involved in any recent TTC-related news, as well as a certain faction of TTC riders, and also the Toronto Star.

The moral of this story: everybody sucks.

Full disclosure: I suck too.

I see you eyeing that ‘Back’ button. I know: some jackass on the Internet has an opinion about something. Hoo-Ray. Just hear me out, OK?

OK.

So, in chronological order, let’s start off with the first in the long string of unfortunate incidents: the McCowan station ticket collector debacle. Alright, yeah, so our friend Mr. George Robitaille probably shouldn’t have been a-snoozin’ at his post; however, this was hardly worthy of the absolute rage and indignation it sparked across the city.

To quote Torontoist on the matter: “This news story wasn't just about one sleeping collector, as much as numerous commentators who wanted to pretend that falling asleep on the job never, ever happens in the private sector, and that in the private sector you get fired the moment you do anything that doesn't profit your employer directly… No, this story was really about people expressing their rage at the TTC for sucking in all the little ways that the TTC sucks to their minds, some of which are of course unjustified or simply silly, and others completely reasonable (not that a lot of those showed up on the internet).”

Like I said, Robitaille is one of the aforementioned people who suck. He clearly doesn’t care too much about his job and isn’t justified in his action at all; however I do have a number of problems with this whole situation:

First of all, and this is just me nitpicking, but Jason Wieler, the guy who snapped the shot seen round the world, posted his masterpiece on his Twitter with the following caption: "Yup, love how my TTC dollars R being spent..."

I’m not a Twitter user, but he easily had characters to spare to finish his “are”. Frankly, people who are too lazy to spell three-letter words fully aren’t aloud to have valid opinions about their fellow citizen’s lack of industriousness.

Wieler, in an interview with Torontoist as part of a different article had this to say: "I didn't want to get the dude in trouble...that wasn't my intent of course; I know that this guy's probably got a mortgage and kids. No one wants to take away someone else's work. But on the flip side, I'm still rubbed a bit the wrong way when it comes to the fare hike and I thought we got a raw deal on that. It's a fine line: you don't want to get the guy in trouble—that wasn't my intent originally to do that."

Which brings me to my next point: one thing that really rubs me is when people (on the internet or otherwise) explicitly refer to themselves (when referring to public employees) as “Your boss.” Like the first Torontoist article suggests, people are using this scandal as an excuse to get all huffy and entitled. I find it highly offensive that some people are under the impression that public employees – whose salaries are largely drawn from tax dollars – somehow owe them something personally. That because a small, miniscule fraction of your tax dollars went to form a small, miniscule amount of this bus driver’s salary, this gives him the responsibility (despite any x-factors, like, say, I don’t know, traffic) to have a perfectly timed bus with plenty of available seats, and you the right to chew him out if he doesn’t.

I’ve talked to a lot of people who are under the impression that all transit operators are surly and rude. I think this is ludicrous. For one thing, I’ve encountered way more rudeness and indignation from pissed-off passengers who take a late or full bus as a personal slight against them, as opposed to a relative few rude operators. For another, I’m sure the only reason that there are sassy operators is because they have to spend all day dealing with people who treat them like the help.

Anyone who has worked in the service industry can attest that the majority of people that you encounter in such an occupation are a swarming mob of hateful, impatient drones that are brimming with spite and hopped up on a combination of caffeine and radiation from their Blackberries. I’ve had plenty of jobs in the service industry, and the one thing you learn, and you don’t often learn much, is that most people aren't nice. The natural reflex is to throw the malice back. So yes, Robitaille fell asleep on the job and some whiny, resentful citizen of the universe thought it prudent to tell the world about his beef.

The guy fell asleep, it’s not like he was taking handjobs from people who were short a quarter on their fare. As though ninety-nine per cent of angry commenters haven’t ever fallen asleep at work, or at the very least sent a clandestine text message or surfed Facebook when they shouldn’t have been. As though, because Robitaille is a public employee, it changes the whole face of fucking around at work. Let’s be honest, the amount of people who are fucking around at work greatly outweighs those who aren’t. You’re not the only one who thinks your job is boring, just count yourself lucky that you aren’t being watched by every citizen’s avenger with a camera.

But, just when everyone thought that it was all going to blow over, some other jackass took that video of the TTC operator taking a liberal break at a coffee shop. OK, so maybe he didn’t need to take as long a break as he did, but he’s – and I can’t stress this enough – a human being with a tough job and a long night ahead of him. The man deserves a break, he’s a bus driver not your chauffeur. Furthermore, you have no right filming him without permission even if you do think of him as your “employee.”

So now we’ve got a bunch of would-be vigilantes with cell-phones running around the city snapping justice photos. True, the TTC isn’t what it possibly could be, and there are a lot of TTC employees that aren’t that great (as though any large company is made of entirely reliable and vigilant employees), but it is neither the right nor the responsibility of riders to police public employees. They’ve got supervisors like everyone else who are more than capable of dealing with these sorts of problems. One hopes.

Then there was Adam. Seriously, what the hell happened here? From total rock star to dumbass-of-the-year in just ten days. Baffling. I was at least eighty percent sure I was going to vote for Giambrone, but now I’m glad he’s pulled out of the mayor’s race; the man is spineless. Honestly, some stupid little girl with revenge in her eyes gives the Star an exclusive interview and the guy just packs it in without a fight. Pitiful.

A politician’s personal life should in no way determine their performance in office. That’s it. So he got himself some inappropriate tail: surely not something that the woman Giambrone lives with should or would want to deal with, but ultimately something that shouldn’t factor into whether or not I want to vote for him. It’s his life and he’s got to do what he’s got to do – shit happens. It’s the fact that he merely apologized and quit that makes him not worth voting for.

Adam, you were a young guy, with a brave, exciting vision and at least the façade of knowing what you’re talking about – you might have been a good mayor, had you any balls. Why didn’t you tell those vultures at the Star to go fuck themselves because that idiot you were sleeping with has nothing to do with  the campaign? Why didn’t you tell your opponents, such as that perfidious elfin neophyte Rocco Rossi, to stick to the issues and keep talking when their teenage girlfriends give scandalous stories to an even less reputable paper? Alas, you proved them all correct when you bowed out with a pathetic whimper: you aren’t a rock star, you’re another spineless politician with a taste for undergraduate ass.

That said, Kristen Lucas, the woman in question here, is no prize herself. Blabbing to the Star because she didn’t get her way – Giambrone rejects her, so she, being the worldly woman that she is, decides her only choice is to ruin his career. Awful. Though, once again, this can easily be construed as another poor choice on Giambrone’s part who probably should have known better – that getting involved with immature young girls when you are a politician almost certainly leads to calamity. Poor move, Adam; probably should have dealt with someone who isn't a fresh out of high school drama queen. And then there’s the Toronto Star, which has clearly lowered itself to Sun-level proportions of spectacular tabloid journalism.

Shortly after the McCowan incident, I made a journey out to the windy eastern limit of the subway, a purgatory where I’ve never been. McCowan really is a useless little blight on the otherwise mediocre face of the SRT. Proof of the TTC’s flawed nature – but let’s again be honest here, name a Transit System that isn’t cracked – McCowan has no reason to exist.

No buses go to McCowan – even the McCowan bus terminates at Scarborough Town Center, as does every other route that passes by the lonely station that doesn’t even have a bus stop for buses to not stop at. The RT ride from Scarborough Town Center to McCowan takes about thirty seconds if there’s no train on McCowan’s one operational platform. If there is a train on McCowan’s one operational platform, you will be stuck in a bottleneck between the stations for longer than it takes to walk the very short distance from one station to the other. In fact, McCowan is literally across the street from Scarborough Town Center. There’s nothing in the direct vicinity of McCowan station except for the Mall parking lot, a Price Chopper and a couple of condo buildings, so there is no reason to go there unless you shop at that Price Chopper or live in one of the condos. If you are going to Scarborough Town Center Mall, you’re better off at its namesake station which connects directly.

I counted fourteen people getting off the train with me when I went to stake out this dark corner of Scarborough. In the fifteen minutes in which I waited in the station’s concourse, I was able – due to the fact that McCowan has only one entrance and no connecting buses – to count exactly how many people were coming in and out of the station. Three trains came after mine: the first contained twelve people, the second contained six people and the third contained twenty people. Nineteen people boarded a train in fifteen minutes. This sampling was taken at rush hour on a Monday. The Robitaille incident took place late on a Saturday night. No wonder he fell asleep. Wieler was probably the first person to have passed through there in an hour.

The point is, in this month of scandal and debacle, there is no clear cut right or wrong. Everybody is right and wrong in some way or another, but they’re all to busy slandering and appeasing to look at the issues. We are a city of over two and a half million people, we are all facing a very important election in the fall, and we are all concerned about our infrastructure and our transit. We are a city, a community and we cannot let ourselves get bogged down with such trivial things: we must take the good with the bad and recognize that everyone has a part in making a city a good place to be.

TTC, sometimes your employees are kind of not great, and you haven’t always made the best choices in designing efficient ways of moving Torontonians, but as a public office it’s inevitable that you are going to take some heavy flak that you may not necessarily deserve, because we've all got to blame someone. I still think your heart is in the right place and you’re not out to screw me.

George, get your head in the game, buddy; I know taking tickets at the 66^th least busy TTC station (of 69) on a Saturday night is boring, but it’s still your job. That said, you didn’t deserve all of the publicity you got and were made a scapegoat when it really could have been anybody.

Jason, you really should have kept your mouth (and by "mouth," I mean camera) shut. You should know better: the internet is a harsh mistress and no place for photos of sleeping strangers. Also, learn how to spell. However, you didn't know that this would blow up as it did, and you have a right to be disgruntled and a right to be concerned.

TTC riders, you need to learn that if you want TTC operators to be nice to you, you’ve got to be nice to them. They aren’t your personal chauffeurs, and they're people too. It's called "public transit" for a reason. Though it’s true that there are a lot of things that could be better with the system, and we all need to be able to express our opinion. However, you should keep in mind that the customer is not always right.

Kristen, you’re a pretty serious bitch, and while you may have exacted your revenge, you still made a total ass of yourself in the process. Adam’s career may be more or less fucked, but you certainly don’t come off sympathetically at all -  you’ve merely exposed yourself as the child you are. But you are very young and were apparently given a false impression. The “what was I thinking?” moment you’ll have in a couple of years will be more than enough punishment.

Toronto Star, if you had any taste, you'd send that misguided fool of a girl home on a rail, and for that you made yourself no better than any other rag when some of us were under the impression that you were a half-respectable publication. But, it's a tough business, and these days especially, as a newspaper you have to really grab people to make them interested. I understand that it maybe will have been a good decision in the long run, but you still should probably have left this one for the Sun.

Adam, I have no sympathy for you at all.

Comments

• February 15, 2010, Riaz writes: Hilarious article, although I will add that Giambrone did have 'multiple' affairs. Sure, one could argue that a politician's personal life shouldn't have anything to do with his professional life. In some cases a personal decision doesn't necessarily reflect how you can do your job, I believe that Bill Clinton is a pretty good example of this. In other cases, some people can't seperate their personal lives from their work. Depends on the person. I do believe that one affair is too many, and the fact that he had 'multiple' affairs says a lot. Cheating on someone instead of being honest that the relationship isn't working shows a cowardly and immature quality, definitely wouldn't want someone like that as mayor. So even though he didn't strike back or say anything, I think it would be hard for him to make any type of argument considering the numerous affairs. Good riddiance. Good article.
• February 16, 2010, Karen writes: Whether or not Giambrone had multiple affairs is beside the point. The man folded at the first glimpse of PR trouble, which is pretty spineless. Of course, his chances for actually winning after such a heinous debacle were completely rendered null, but still, the larger shock is his inability to publicly stand up to his own decisions. He could have, at least, gone out with the dignity of defending his choices. Either way, he's definitely living with the consequences. Oooooh and Riaz, be careful with your stiff moral judgements. To construct a pathology for a person through the sensationalist tabloid info we're getting out of *ahem* respectable publications like the Toronto Star is also quite immature. Though we love to stoop to mud-slinging when public personas show their fickleness and stupidity, it's always prudent to remember that we are still outside of their context, and we really don't know enough to so vehemently declare the death of their dignity. I've never been to McGowan Station, but TTC operators are always nice to me, and definately alert. I take the TTC at least three or four times a day, and I really don't have too many complaints - it's cheap and surprisingly reliable. People who complain about the transit in Toronto are obviously fostering cushy suburban personal-car leanings, and should probably lighten the fuck up. Head out to Africa or South America and you'll find that people aren't complaining about a five-minute transit wait.
• February 16, 2010, Riaz writes: I get your point, there is always a grey area and we don't know everything, I just think that it shows poor judgement. I do agree that not confronting the media was spineless. The first thing we learn in pr is if you're receiving negative publicity you stand up and say something, or at the very least apologize for your actions if you feel that's necessary. In my personal opinion, I don't know how someone tries to defend such choices, which is probably why he just didn't say anything at all. Not saying that silence is a good choice, but it was a choice nonetheless, as was his infidelity. Again, just my opinion. if those opinions are considered immature, then so be it.

Pedestrian:  Pe-des-tri-an (Puh-des-tree-uhn)
1. Walkers, jaywalkers, car-less wonders. Frequently mistaken for new-age hippies; this stems from the ecological aspect of their actions, though the aforementioned hippies are typically the cyclists of the city.
2. Pedestrian is a term referring to those who propel themselves forward on their own two legs, despite technological advances of vehicular support. Clenching their coffee cups and darting between traffic, the pedestrian commuter is at home in the urban jungle, and surprisingly they are not yet extinct.

The reason for pedestrian behaviour is varied among practitioners; for some it is exercise, for others it’s simply a lack of car, for some it is convenience, and still others believe it is an ecological choice. Whatever their reason, to those who drive safe and warm in the cars this winter, the pedestrian is a misunderstood figure.

In large cities like Toronto, there has been a kind of turf war going on between drivers and walkers for years. Despite all the developments in urban landscape, we’ve yet to find a satisfactory way of sharing the streets. Toronto is not a pedestrian friendly city.

At first the government officials were all for encouraging walking, a mode of transportation that is greener and healthier for you. (Now of course, they’re eager to have you on their poorly run, over-crowded, over-priced buses and subways - but that’s another matter). Drivers have always had a bad rep; their cars are unsafe, automobiles aren’t environmentally friendly, drivers try to dangerously multitask, driving promotes road rage and other stressful situations, and of course the ever popular adage, “more people die in car crashes than plane crashes."

But finally, it’s us pedestrians who are the bad guys. Those of us who walk have come under some severe finger wagging by government officials and the police force lately. Apparently January’s tragic 14 pedestrian deaths means that something needs to be done about all these unruly walkers! Jaywalking is the decided culprit of vehicle/pedestrian injuries, and the police force has spent the last month cracking down on these walking menaces. Some Torontonians have protested that jaywalking is a part of Toronto culture, which is true, but more importantly most “jaywalking” is also legal.

Yes, despite what you may have read in the Toronto Star what most people consider jaywalking is not illegal! Of the three kinds of jaywalkers in this city (listed below), only one of these groups tends to participate in dun dun dun… illegal crossing.

The dodgers: typically imbued with middle-class guilt, these jaywalkers dart quickly across the road in a half-walk-half-run hilarious fashion, after waiting for the same two minutes it would’ve taken them at a set of lights.

The cocky douchebags: jaywalkers who strut across the road like they own it, not bothering to see if there are vehicles in their way or not.

The zen crossers: jaywalkers who calmly and collectedly cross, believing that the one true path is here, not 60 feet away at the intersection.

According to the Highway Traffic Act, City of Toronto By-laws, and Ontario law: pedestrians may cross mid-block anywhere in Toronto as long as they yield to traffic and aren’t adjacent to a marked pedestrian crossing. And the definition of “adjacent” isn’t clearly defined in any of these texts. Technically as a jaywalker you are only breaking the law if a car has to slow down to avoid hitting you, or if you get hit by a car that is going the speed limit. The natural instinct of not wanting to get hit by a car ensures most pedestrians follow this by-law.

However, some of the actual pedestrian laws are flat out ridiculous! Did you know it’s technically illegal to cross at a light once the red hand has started flashing? At some crosswalks, that’s only seven seconds into the green light, and crossing anyway could cost you upwards of $35, especially during the recent pedestrian safety blitz.

For the first time in years, police are issuing fines for jay-walkers, and offering stern lectures to people even nearing a street mid-block. Sure, cutting corners, crossing a few feet from an intersection, or darting across a highway can be dangerous, but it was not the major factor in last month’s appalling high pedestrian deaths. In fact, the majority of this year’s pedestrian deaths were practicing “safe” crossing when the fatal incident occurred. What authorities fail to realize is that often times jaywalking can often be the safer choice. Crossing mid-street instead of at a corner means that you have a full view of the road and no cars will come zipping around a corner. Jaywalkers are typically less oblivious than other crossers and they take nothing for granted, this makes them alert and quick crossers. People crossing at streetlights adamantly believe they have the right of way, failing to realize that in the physics of flesh versus steel, flesh will inevitably lose.

Everybody walks, even if you drive or take the TTC. Drivers must eventually park, and all TTCers must eventually ring the bell - and these people will probably jaywalk too. Is the pedestrian really to blame?

Comments

• February 16, 2010, B-Rad writes: Lol @ The cocky douchebags.

The "B" Word | Photos by Matthew Filipowich

I have always been a bit hesitant towards the word myself. I thought brunch was a typically bothersome title given to a meal that didn’t fit within the standard pre-planned three-meal mold of childhood. My youth rarely gave me the opportunity for such late-morning explorations and when the word was finally introduced to me, I didn’t really understand the concept. I was confused that people would try to cram a meal in before lunch, and then have to wait until dinner to eat something truly substantial. Acclaimed New York chef and host of No Reservations Anthony Bourdain is a man who shares my doubt:

Then there the People Who Brunch. The "B" Word is dreaded by all dedicated cooks. We hate the smell and spatter of omelettes. We despise hollandaise, home fries, those pathetic fruit garnishes, and all the other cliché accompaniments designed to induce a credulous public into paying $12.95 for two eggs. Nothing demoralizes an aspiring Escoffier faster than requiring him to cook egg-white omelettes or eggs over easy with bacon. You can dress it up with all the focaccia, smoked salmon, and caviar in the world, but it's still breakfast.

Yet we must be missing something crucial, for there exists a veritable mess of devotees to brunch that cluster around several locations around the city that offer this meal. To properly understand this phenomenon, I decide to check out a few of the newer brunch locations in the city to discover why they set up shop.

Simply Nosh Bistro (2210 Dundas Street West):

In a hapdash arrangement of tables throughout the space, I choose a table at the front at the window that has a view out down Roncesvalle. Several pieces of local art hang on the wall, and a plush Scooby Doo has been placed inexplicably in the corner, along with other antique nick nacks that have been scattered in the space.

The menus are all loaded into old vinyl LP covers, and I’m given “The Plan” by the Osmonds, a Mormon concept album complete with passionate religious quote inside: “As man is, God once was – As God is, man may become,” right above my potential order. My fellow bruncher receives the Best of Earth, Wind and Fire, but perhaps due to the frightening hyper-pure photo of the boys on my menu, neither of us order from the menu, and order instead off of the board posting specials hung beside the kitchen at the back of the bistro. I order the ratatouille omelette served with herb roasted seasoned potatoes, organic salad and toast.

Oddly enough, I find out that when the owner of the bistro Steven Khor worked and trained in New York, he worked in a bistro called Les Halles, and Anthony Bourdain is one of the partners.

“Brunch is not for everyone, I agree, but it is huge in Europe and I'm surprised Chef Bourdain didn't accustom to it. You can't beat the price compared to fine dining and not many can afford fine dining. Besides, fine dining is not always healthy yet it is always expensive, whereas brunch on other hand is usually less than $10 and eggs have complete minerals and are a good source of meat alternatives.”

I’m not sure Bourdain would sympathize with any idea of necessary alternatives to meat, but I think Steven has a good point, and he certainly makes the comment from a solid foundation of fine dining. Steven has worked internationally in fine dining locations as far away as Kuala Lumpur in Lafite at the Shangri-la hotel, and at oft-touted North American locations the Plaza Hotel in New York, and Epic (formerly the Oakroom) in the Fairmont Royal York.

“The fact is that I wanted to make a fine dining location, but due to the recession I've decided to open a brunchy bistro. As I see it, many greasy spoons are being replaced gradually by more upscale healthy options, which makes it more interesting. I'm a nutritionist so breakfast to me is the most important meal and should not be missed. Portion size, vegetarian options and minimal use of oil are my style of cooking and hope I will make people realize breakfast comes with different variety.”

For the ratatouille omelet, Steven chops zuchinni, yellow squash, eggplant, red bell peppers, yellow bell peppers, and red onions, then cooks everything separately with seasoning, oregano and parsley, and then sautés the vegetables in olive oil and drains the juice. After baking the resulting ingredients he stuffs the ratatouille into the centre of the omelet and folds the ends. He garnishes the plate with potatoes that are seasoned with oregano, thyme, paprika, onions, peppers, and salt and pepper. The organic salad mix is drizzled with homemade garlic and Dijon dressing, and there is strawberry jam for the toast in a basket placed on the table.

“Delicious, simple food has always attracted me – basically, a one-page long menu with a variety of pastries that are made in house. Eggs can be cooked in hundreds of ways and can accompanied with interesting ingredients that are unimaginable. What brought me to Nosh's is what I dreamt for many years and has finally happened.”

Steven has won several awards in Escoffier competitions in Toronto and Malaysia. In 2007, he was awarded a designation as Canadian Chef de Cuisine (C.C.C). There are only 1600 across Canada and the position is recognized internationally. The residents in the Dundas West neighbourhood have had transit cut out for several months due to construction, but the Dundas west streetcar now takes you directly to this location: the service is extremely friendly and the food is certainly worth a trip.

Karine’s (109 McCaul Street):

I come to the Grange food court late morning, negotiating my way through standard quick-fry asian cuisine stands, a dingy bubble tea and the eventual fast-burger joint – in this case, McDonalds. Luckily, before resigning myself to a mistaken sense of direction, I stumble upon the location that Karine’s has taken over. Owner Maggie has created a more unique booth than their fellow in house competition: the owners chalk up the black underbellies of purple-speckled counters in order to display key menu items. Flowery pink and brown wallpaper supply the backdrop, supplemented by hanging black signs showing cropped photographs of the menu items. Silver ornaments hang off bejeweled silver lines, which seem more of permanent fixture of the booth than outstanding holiday decorations.

The menu prices here are extremely low, the highest priced meals on the menu ring in at $8.99, a short list that includes a smoked salmon eggs benedict and the AGO-themed King Tut special, with two fried eggs, sausage, regular and peameal bacon, and two pancakes or pieces of French toast, which the Egypian pharaoh would have eaten had he any accessibility to Karine’s.

However, I have read positive reports on their waffles, so I order the peanut butter banana waffles for $7.99 and sit down at a cafeteria table with immovable fixed chairs to wait for my order, served on a large green plate with a slew of fruit: orange, pineapple, watermelon, strawberry join the four large wedges of thick waffle covered with chunks of banana, and lambasted with fruit syrup and icing sugar with a touch of cinnamon. A dimly lit food court has never particularly put me at ease, so the ambiance around may be a little off-putting, but the shining center that Karine’s occupies successfully resists the void that the rest of the Grange occupies. I was disappointed that I was not able meet Maggie, the professed spunky entrepreneur that transformed this simple booth into a successful brunch spot, but I returned later in the day to find her available for a chat.

Extremely pleased that we had stopped in to talk, she immediately offers to make a smoothie, which turns out to be their special Vegan soy drink, made with a blend of mixed berries, bananas and soy. She sits down to share her opinions about the dank underground that constitutes the Grange.

“One problem is Karine’s is very hidden, students call it hidden gem. It’s like we are part of OCAD, the students are very comfortable with us. But I miss my restaurant – this is going to be the last one in a cafeteria. Like a caged bird, I want to be free again. But that’s not an issue these days, I made this place and I love it.”

The Grange actually looks at her menu to make sure she doesn’t sell anything too similar to any of the other vendors. Apparently the bubble tea people initially made a stink about her sale of the smoothies, but none of it hampers Maggie whatsoever. Fresh from the sale of her popular GTA mini-chain of breakfast diners called Maggie’s All Day Breakfast, she named the new brunch spot after her daughter Karine, who was in her last year at the Ontario College of Art and Design when she pointed her mother to the location across the street. Maggie has given the students from OCAD a local inexpensive brunch option and they are her primary business.

“This is Karine’s area, and I think that students are very nice people – this is our generation and I want to be part of it, otherwise I don’t like to be inside as much. I’m very lucky that I get to work with my daughters, we’re what I call ‘the women.’ Not that I have anything against men, we love men! But at this point I want it only to be us.”

Karine’s is actually an entirely family-run affair: Maggie’s mother acts as the cornerstone of the kitchen, and Maggie’s other daughter works as well. When I mention Anthony Bourdain Maggie lights up, for I had sent her the quote beforehand.

“Oh my god good luck baby, he’s hilarious whoever he is. Tell me again what he said about vegetarians.”

Even more despised than the Brunch People are the vegetarians. Serious cooks regard these members of the dining public - and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans - as enemies of everything that's good and decent in the human spirit. To live life without veal or chicken stock, fish cheeks, sausages, cheese, or organ meats is treasonous.

So she takes a bit of a stab at Bourdain’s terminology:

“It’s different than Hezbollah! They eat meat but only Halal meat, vegans don’t eat meat period.”

But she is truly serious about her brunch business and as you can see from the rather meat-centric King Tut special, she doesn’t only cater to Vegans:

“I didn’t want to kill our breakfast from Maggie’s. Most of our dishes are gluten and animal product free, but our meat lovers, I have a big respect for them. When in a business like this you can’t say ‘This is how I am,’ I have to please everybody. We do the best we can, and a bit more.”

Littlefish (3080 Dundas Street West):

As I walk into Littlefish, late-morning glare illuminates the front of the bistro, overwhelming what looks like the most comfortable seat in the house, a padded bench that wraps around a small window nook. Light purple cabinets in the front hall display the baked goods for the day. The bistro’s light-blue painted walls match a chair and couch, juxtaposing the primarily exposed brick interior. Small bulb lights hang overhead and a long metal exhaust winds around the ceiling. I take a seat closer to the kitchen on a plush bench that spans the back wall.

The daily scramble, a holdover from Carey’s days at his diner Okay Okay, contains polish sausage, peppers, onions, and fresh parsley, but I cannot pass up the highly recommended huevos:

Served with a slice of watermelon, the huevos is a whole wheat tortilla stuffed with three eggs scrambled with jack and mozzarella cheese, as well as spiced black beans, with three piles laid on top: one of fresh salsa, one guacamole and one sour cream, all laced with green onions. I spill the piles and sweep them into a single layer in preparation for a large, well-crafted portion of omelette-filled burrito.

As I’m finishing my meal, Carey Wesenberg enters from the kitchen and takes a seat with me. After starting out of school cooking French cuisine for the head of a prepared-food outfit that he had previously managed, Carey opened the Mockingbird, a bar previously residing on King Street West that he stayed with for ten years. He later opened the diner Okay Okay in Leslieville. He switched into breakfast because nowhere else satisfied his breakfast need.

“I only open places that I want to eat at myself. I feel that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I love brunch items, I think they are the hardest things to cook well.”

When I mention Bourdain’s quote I ask if he’s being needlessly malicious, but Carey doesn’t seem to think so.

“I understand his point of view: for Bourdain, it is beneath him to cook eggs, because it is easy to throw an egg together and build the framework around it, but not everyone can cook eggs well. In high-end cuisine there is a certain brunch customer that expects more than a dish of eggs with eggs – they want a certain flair and a whole attitude, not just cooked eggs because of the money involved.”

Carrie describes a high-end atmosphere complete with cocktails, coffee, and great chef interpretation of eggs, and that takes time. At a café, it’s not necessary that you have a quick turnover, but you certainly need a consistent turnover to profit. In high-end, you get people who expect a two to three hour stay; brunch becomes more of an event. The café has traditionally not been oriented for long stays, rather a place to grab a quick bite. He explains to me that opening a neighbourhood bistro seems like the safest, most self-assured option in these economic times:

“The café has been completely obliterated: the café has turned into a coffee shop and the bistro has filled the vacancy left by the café, so lots of people are opening new bistros. You go to a bistro to grab something really nice and roasted, or a medium price hot meal and a glass of wine. This is when you see the success of places like Pizzeria Libretto, where people that have a high-end background end up doing more accessible food – high quality, but not necessarily the price. The high-end market is very saturated, and it’s hard to get people to come out for an expensive meal, especially in these economic times. Even people in higher income brackets are now more conservative and look for value.”

I certainly smirk a little when I note the $12 price tag on the heuvos, only one dollar short of Bourdain’s estimate, but the price is valorized in the quality of the meal: the guacamole is so smooth and not too heavily spiced, leaving room for the cheese and the stronger taste of the beans packed inside, a dish that unites several different factions into a singular, delicious whole. When I mention the quality of the guacamole, my server Dave tells me that the guacamole is Michael Ondaatje’s favourite guacamole in town since the days of the Mockingbird, and Carey fills me in on the story:

“There were so many different events and literary readings he would come to at the Mockingbird, and he really liked to be where the guacamole was. He was always surrounded with fans, but he just wanted to enjoy the guacamole. We would set up three or four stations so that he could move around, excuse himself from a cluster of people to talk to someone at the other side of the room, grab some guacamole there, always moving so that it was close at hand.”

Carey could never stay away from the kitchen; even after exploring other post-secondary options, and despite the stresses and high-paced atmosphere that usually dominates the profession, he always came back. The manner in which he approaches his menu is markedly different from Maggie’s approach.

“The places we do are not for everybody, and we don’t try and make it for everybody, I make it as best as I can. Even if you are the worst, most obnoxious demanding restaurant customer, I can’t take it out on your food. I can’t make it rotten because the food did nothing wrong – I really just love food.”

The heuvos has been a patron favourite since he introduced the meal at Okay Okay, and one of his customers went so far as to liken the completion of the meal to the afterglow of an orgasm.

“It’s like sex: afterwards you’re completely satisfied but with the heuvos you don’t have to talk, deal with feelings, and you don’t have to ask them to leave. When you’re done, just push the plate away.”

I thought that was a worthy argument to justify the popularity of the meal, and finally one that a man as outspoken as Anthony Bourdain may finally accept.

Comments

• January 16, 2010, Nancy writes: I'm sad that I missed this! I love brunch.
• January 16, 2010, Neil vanLoo writes: I agree with your description of Nosh. Steven knows what he's doing and he puts his heart into it. Anthony Bourdain is also a great chef but Escoffier was also a supporter of simple meals like brunch.

I’ve spent three out of the last four New Year’s eves running off to Montreal so I feel obligated to show Toronto some love for 2010 by sharing some weird news that happened RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW (or at some point in the past). I’m going to admit that this narrow theme will prove challenging and most of the news won’t really be as weird as that dead baby who came back to life and then died again or those scary Russian rapist ladies. But listen, Toronto has a bunch of wacky characters too and if you’re a good Torontonian, you’ll embrace our sort-of weirdness and love Toronto for it because the rest of Canada doesn’t seem to like us very much.

As a metropolitan city, Toronto is bound to be host to some well-known names. David Cronenberg, Lorne Michaels, and Neil Young come to mind. But I’ve never met any of these people (well, I had a dream about Cronenberg once) because they’re all big shots and left for Hollywood or something. I have met Zanta though. Who is Zanta? Zanta is one alter ego of David Zancai, a general contractor who suffered a work injury, started physiotherapy and apparently gained some kind of unexplainable superpower. Have you seen Zanta around? He’s famous for wearing a Santa hat, not wearing a shirt in subzero temperatures, and doing knuckle push ups. He wears the Santa hat as a tribute to his daughter whom he lost custody of many moons ago. I don’t know the reason behind the toplessness or the push ups but I saw his knuckles up close and they are HUGE.

Zanta has stated that he wants to run for mayor this year and that he is not bipolar or otherwise psychologically disturbed. He has had his run-ins with the law which caused him to leave Toronto for Brampton three years ago. But now he is back with a vengeance ... and a comic.

Toronto’s second interesting character probably smells better than Zanta but in my opinion is much more unsavoury. Are you an attractive female? Have you been approached by a man in a cheap suit and greasy hair? Were you more than a little bit afraid of being sexually assaulted? Congratulations, you must have met “Dimitri The Lover”! My basic qualm with Dimitri The Lover is the fact that his name/title is a complete fabrication. I believe that he is a hater not a lover, as evidenced by his misogynistic “Toronto Real Men” meetings that I am not even going to link out of disgust. Sorry, Dimitri, I am not a horny bisexual slut in need of a “real man” to sexually satisfy me no matter what your poorly-made animations tell me. And his name isn’t even Dimitri! His name is James Sears. Maybe he sounds vaguely familiar because you’ve read this. Yeah, he lost his medical license 16 years ago for sexually assaulting female patients and then became a quack until he began his new schtick as Dimitri. Oh, and he’s getting apparently getting a movie! Brad Goodman is producing it. My faith in the film industry is dwindling.

Oh, and for some typical weird news ... a study at the University of Toronto found that environmentally-conscious consumers are actually more likely to lie and steal. Morality is funny.

Comments

• January 21, 2010, Hannah writes: Toronto is a huge city, but thankfully people like Zanta have the ability to bring us together. I'm pretty sure everyone has a Zanta story and if not, they know someone who does. I've run into him a few times and never had my personal space tampered with. He's kinda like our Naked Cowboy.
• January 24, 2010, Francine writes: Thank you for alerting me to "Dimitri The Lover". I am in the film industry and what Brad Goodman is doing is disgusting. I searched "Dimitri The Lover movie" and found a clip of Brad Goodman bragging about it. What a jerk!
• February 5, 2010, concerned citizen writes: Dimitri the Lover is really James Nicholas Sears. He's a medical doctor who lost his license for INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR with female patients! He even runs a medical advising company called The Second Opinion in Ontario, even tho his license was REVOKED. He was psychiatrically evaluated by the military as screwed-up, and still somehow got a license. He was ritually abused as a child by mentally unstable parents, and had a problem with masturbating over 10 times a day while on the job...BETWEEN PATIENTS. The link below are only some of many. The Toronto Sun has at least 4 serious articles on this scary excuse for a man: http://jezebel.com/5020419/dimitri-the-lovers-history-of-sexual-assault-weapons-stockpiling-and-psychiatric-evaluations http://www.dimitrithelover.com/ http://s.buzzfed.com/static/imagebuzz/web03/2009/7/9/15/dimitri-the-lover-flyer-23401-1247166969-29.jpg http://brokendoor.com/thought//media/blogs/all/dimitri.jpg http://www.dimitrithelover.com/toronto_real_men.html http://torontoist.com/2008/06/remember_dimitri_the_lover.php http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rfez6RxVWV0&feature=related http://www.blogto.com/tno/2009/03/dimitri_the_lover_exposes_himself/ Dimitri speaking at 15:15 showcasing his jerkish self http://www.the-peak.ca/article/4413 http://www.cpso.on.ca/docsearch/details.aspx?view=4&id=%2059651 revocation due to...sexual impropriety...disgraceful, dishonourable http://www.torontosun.com/news/torontoandgta/2008/12/31/7891486.html Also, his own website where he has crude cartoons shows him wearing a t-shirt that says "NO MEANS MAYBE". Wow. That's what we need to teach men today, huh? Last time I checked, date rape was a CRIME and also just a horrible moral wrong, leaving a girl permanently scarred. His August meeting topic per his own webpage was HAVING SEX WITH SLUTS WITHOUT USING A CONDOM! (Remember...revoked license..) here's an excerpt: "So the theme of our next TORONTO REAL MEN meeting is “I’D RATHER JERK OFF THAN USE A RUBBER”. It will feature Dimitri The Lover lecturing for 3 solid hours on how during the 1980’s, in order to obtain research funding from straight men holding the purse strings, homosexual male lobby groups propagated the MYTH that HIV was also a heterosexual male disease. The Prophet will explain how heterosexual males NOT USING A CONDOM have a ZERO PERCENT chance of catching anything other than HPV (which almost 100% of successful man whores are carriers of anyway)" http://www.dimitrithelover.com/toronto_real_men_august_2009.html And he's angry at any women who speak up, calling them FEMINIST C*NTS. What a prize. Who wouldn't want Dimitri the Lover aka James N. Spears. Gee, where do I sign up? Please. My husband wants to kick his ass. Too bad he's in Canada.

By way of preface and disclaimer: I say you are the reason because without your interest and outrage, the childish and unprofessional behaviour of our country’s leader will never truly be heard. Sure, the ‘Canadians against Proroguing Parliament’ Facebook page has 90,000 some-odd members, but there are 33,000,000 people in this country. Even if we estimate that only, say, a quarter of Canadians are on Facebook, that’s only 1 per cent of the total Facebook population of Canada that is upset at the extremely un-democratic actions of our Prime Minister. I recognize that not only is this partially conjecture but I’m using Facebook-based statistics to make my point. And I don’t care. With so much young Canadian interest in American and global politics, too often many of us neglect the one country in which we can actually affect change, and whose changes affect us every day.

Let’s go back to December 4th, 2008, barely more than a year ago. The Liberal, New Democrat and Bloc Quebecois parties of Canada had just three days earlier signed an accord to form a Coalition against the Conservative minority government, intending to bring it down with a vote of non-confidence. At the request of Prime Minister Harper, Governor General Michaelle Jean declared that Parliament be suspended until January 26th, 2009. This was called a prorogue, not something that the Canadian public was all too familiar with. The idea that the Governor General, a non-elected official who merely represented the antiquated notion of the Queen, has some semblance of authority over Canadian Parliament and can effectively lock the legislature doors on a whim seemed ridiculous to most. It drew satire and criticism from the likes of Rick Mercer and John Stewart.

Harper prorogued Parliament then to avoid the non-confidence vote and the looming prospect of the second federal election in a year. By the time January 26th rolled around, Barack Obama had been sworn in as the first African-American President of the United States and Canadians had lost interest in their own political news. The Coalition had wavered and then fallen, and its supporters (including myself) were instead swept up in the seeming revolution south of the border. Harper and his cabinet continued to run this country as he had before, as if nothing had ever happened.

By December 30th, 2009, Harper was once again under fire. No, the left had not united against him again. Instead questions concerning the length of the current economic recession and the Canadian bailout in lieu of deficit were beginning to pile up without response. The revelation had come through from Canada’s top soldier, General Walt Natynczyk, that Afghan detainees whom Canadian soldiers handed over to Afghan authorities were being abused and tortured. More than this, Canadian officials were aware of the treatment of detainees, and handed them over anyway. Amnesty International was outraged; the Canadian public started to take some interest once again. Not enough, but some. The heat was on. Worst of all, five Canadian soldiers were killed on the same day in an effort to bring democracy to Afghanistan.

Now, as I understand it, a Prime Minister is elected through consensus to represent a people and be responsible for the decisions and policies that he and his cabinet enact. But when there were angry questions from the opposition in the legislature once again, Harper did what he does best: he turned tail and ran. Parliament was already on break for the holidays on December 30th, most of the MPs back in their home ridings across the country. There was no one to oppose Harper’s second request in just over a year to suspend Parliament. Michaelle Jean once again took him at his word, and a figurehead became the most powerful person in the country. Again.

And once again satire and criticism is being drawn from all over the globe; this time even the legendary British periodical ‘The Economist’ is noticing and ridiculing the pathetic state of our political system. Rick Mercer has asked the question, "why do we fight to bring democracy to Afghanistan when we don’t have it at home?" Of course, Parliament has been prorogued several times, by many different administrations. This typically happens, however, once most legislative business has finished and representatives can do more work in their ridings than on Parliament Hill. This prorogue has left several important bills on the table, and is roughly three times longer than the average Canadian prorogue in the last thirty years.

I call Stephen Harper a coward, afraid to face down criticism and accept responsibility for the decisions he’s made. This is the leader of our country? Not for nothing, but I like to think that Canadians have more mettle than our Prime Minister is letting on. We do not back down, we stand up. This can be exemplified throughout our history, from Vimy Ridge to the Liberation of Holland to the invention of Peacekeeping. In this tradition of standing up, I and thousands of other Canadians say we defend our democracy and show Mr. Harper that we demand a working Parliament that acts in the interest of the people, not the Prime Minister.

If you agree with us, there are nation-wide anti-prorogue protests being held on January 23rd, 2010. I encourage you to make your voice and your outrage heard alongside other Canadians who value the democracy for which we have stood for the last 1.5 centuries. I mean, no one stood up to Chancellor Palpatine, and look how THAT turned out (had to throw in at least ONE joke/nerd reference). Details on the Toronto protest will appear on the Facebook group ‘Canadians against Proroguing Parliament’ soon.

If you are fine with the suspension of Parliament, in the words of Evelyn Hall, “I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

But you’re still a moron.

Comments

• January 17, 2010, B-Rad writes: Splendid article, sir. I couldn't agree with you more!

Recently the boys (in this case referring to Matt Marshall and Colin Fallowfield) and I went shopping for an upcoming Theatre Bassaris show (more on that next month). After hours of trekking through the city in search of chairs, the perfect apparently non-existent chairs, our feet were freezing, our spirits a little low, and our stomachs were rumbling… we were also far from home.

I'm not often in the east end of the city, which is a damn shame I admit, but we decided to trek up to the Danforth to check out a little café that opened last week. Armed with the name, the address, and no sense of direction, I led our tired party to the corner of Danforth and Jones.

Approaching the café, we see a sign out front that says “Hot soup and sandwiches,” with emphasis placed on the 'hot.' Let me tell you, after 5 hours of walking around in the slush, those words were akin to “Heaven, just step inside.” So we did, and it was.

The atmosphere at Teatree is calming. Serenely green walls, jazz crooning from the speakers, and not a hipster in sight! I have to admit, despite my love for coffee shops, I can’t stand cafés filled with scenester teens clamoring for attention, typing loudly on laptops, and drinking over-sugared over-priced coffee-like beverages. This is an adult café. I don’t mean that kids aren’t welcome, a small family with wee ones were coming in as we were on our way out, but there’s a sense of maturity about the place. And not “mature,” conveyed in a way that makes you feel like you’re hanging out with tea grannies… the atmosphere is just right. Between the reclaimed bricks, wood accents, and unique mugs its hard not to fall a little bit in love with the place.

If you’re a theatre person, you’ll fit right in. As we sat chatting about the sad state of not finding chairs for our show, the only other conversation in the room (I apologize to whoever it was that I eavesdropped on) was about theatre. It’s funny how the city brings people together…

But I digress. We order immediately, chatting with Ian who was manning the counter. Last time I saw him he was huddled in the corner installing the bar that now looks out the front window. The place has come a long way! It takes on more charm when you know how much work has gone into it. And they run the place like it’s effortless! Erin Pim, the owner and chef, was busy in the back filling orders. She comes out to tell us the soup of the day and we’re immediately convinced. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered something so enthusiastically.

“I’m pretty sure they could’ve sold us anything that was hot,” Matt remarks, which is true. I still can’t feel my feet, but my hands have thawed enough to hold a cup of coffee. Which is great, mainly because it’s warm. It’s isn’t phenomenal, but it’s much better then the junk at the Coffee Time across the street. As it turns out the soup is great not just because it’s hot, but because it’s delicious and filling. All the food at Teatree is filling. I made the mistake of going for a late lunch on a day when I had a dinner date… don’t do that, unless you want your date to be disappointed that you’re not hungry for hours upon hours.

The food verdict? Delicious. The boys and I all ordered different items so we could experience as much of the menu as possible (we always have business in mind…), and I would therefore highly recommend: the chunky hummus sandwich, the brie and baked apple sandwich, and the tomato avocado one too! The menu consists of all homemade items (including the bread!), and specializing in vegan options. Every choice is like a good home-cooked meal your mother used to make - only better.

The place even has WiFi, though it seems a shame to litter such a charming place with laptops. If you find yourself on the Danforth this winter, bring a book and come find a little bit of summer warmth at Teatree Café. And yes, they actually have a tree.

In the later months of 2009, the TTC announced the approved designs for four of the six new subway stations to be implemented as the Spadina Subway Extension. This past fall saw architectural plans for Highway 407, Steeles West, York University and Sheppard West stations brought to the table, which leaves the far less glamorous locales of Finch West and Vaughn Corporate Center still undetermined in their sure to be surprisingly colourful futures.

The champion of the bunch is, without a doubt, the completely bizarre Steeles West station design (pictured above), which is poised to deliver the industrial wasteland that is the area immediately surrounding York University some much-needed pink and baby blue umbrella-esque apparatuses. This absolutely astounding choice, courtesy of Richard Stevens Architects (the firm responsible for Downsview, Bayview and Don Mills stations) and Alsop Architects (the firm responsible for OCAD's semi-ironic, semi-iconic Sharp Center for Design) will no doubt provide commuters and York students with an endless supply of jokes for years to come. It's not that it's especially ugly, rather it seems more like something that is destined to become extremely dated within mere months of its completion. Which is overall a shame, because it is fair to say that, but for a few notable exceptions, the TTC has generally been quite commendable for their tasteful architecture and design decisions over the years.

The thing that becomes somewhat worrisome in all of this is - and this is a problem that has plagued the Spadina Subway Extension project since day one - is that the locations of the proposed stations begs questions revolving around whether the very sunny and bright pictures painted by the architects will be in any way translatable to reality. For example, Sheppard West station (pictured above): sure does look all green and happy. Lest we forget, however, the sun never shines on grey, drab Sheppard West. It is extremely difficult to imagine this welcoming scene attached to this intersection.

Which isn't by any means a negative thing at all. The truly curious aspect of this whole scenario is how, or whether, the subway will or will not revitalize the neighborhoods that it will be henceforth cracking. Sheppard West is entirely surrounded by commercial and industrial projects on one side and Downsview Park on the other. The station, for all of its bells and whistles is being built entirely to be a GO/Subway hub, so should the design reflect its utilitarian functionality, rather than the neighborhood gathering place that is being depicted?

This is, however, the case for all of the forthcoming stations save for Finch West station: their purpose is one of practicality rather than being of any grand visionary nature regarding the future of forgotten neighborhoods. York University station's usefulness is self-explanatory; Steeles West station links to the Northern half of York campus, as well as serving the Jane LRT and Black Creek Pioneer Village; Highway 407 station (pictured above) was only ever meant to be a parking lot; ditto Vaughn Corporate Center Station. So, at this point we can hold out most of our hope for Finch West, the design for which has yet to be revealed - though it too is being handled by Richard Stevens Architects.

The big question surrounding this station is to what degree will it impact the still freshly-dubbed "York University Heights." It goes without saying that this station, being in an area with a high population density and a high percentage of transit users, is the station that would benefit the most from this space-age architecture. A fancy, wacky subway station could be indeed just what the doctor ordered to bring the neighborhood from scourge to "nice place to be." Truly, the introduction of a subway station to an intersection whose most notable feature is two competing Tim Horton's near a Lastman's Bad Boy and several refineries.

In some respects I say "yes!", thank god the subway is coming to York, it will be so wonderful for everybody. Even going to Vaughn isn't so bad because it might actually get the suburbanites out of their cars for a change. But in the end, subway technology is extremely expensive to build and to operate and both the city and the surprisingly powerful Steve Munro are pushing for more light rail to be implemented. This I have no problem with; it's just a little bit tough accepting that the vast, world class subway network that myself and other transit nerds dream of for Toronto will never get further than glorifying a bunch of parking lots and shopping centers. I like the Transit City plan a lot and I do think that it will do a lot of good for the city - light rail is, as they say, where it's at. Hopefully, as I digress, the TTC will be able to do well by placing their stations in suburban malls (Richmond Hill is next) and they can be as colorful as they can make 'em - how else are they going to make everyone forget about the Sheppard line?

The seascape of this installment of Killin Food is ever a-changing. In the fish and chip scene in Toronto there have been some notable changes in the last few years: local Queen East favourite Wood Green has capsized permanently; Danforth and Broadview location Deep Blue has also abandoned ship, a location previously serving some of the more unique varieties of fish and chips that you were likely to find anywhere, including Jamaican Jerk Battered Cod and Corn Meal Battered Sea Scallops; British Style Fish and Chips at Coxwell and Dundas has reportedly changed management since opening, compromising the original reputation that the location had accrued through its previous tenants. Even the new location in Kensington Market, Somethin’s Fishy, did not last very long at all, apparently scraping bottom on the shallows of the current Torontonian economy.

With all these floundering locations in constant flux, I decided to plunge into the depths of the waters of Torontonian fish and chips to check which locations are still serving the top fish in the city.

Harbord Fish and Chips (147 Harbord Street)

Taking in the view from the outside while I wait for my compatriots, I have initial reservations about this: an older, grungy white painted brick building that filth seems to cling to from the outside, standing unconnected from its neighbours, a tarnished teal sign on the front affirming the location. Looking inside, there is practically no indoor seating besides a few miniature bar stools shored up to a counter by the tall front window, but customers do not seem interested in ordering and sticking around. As I wait for Me and the Real Ted Killin, no fewer than five people enter the tiny shop and leave with their meals, people ready to wait in line for this neighbourhood fish and chips.

The purveyor of fish stands behind an aluminum paneled counter, wearing a Nike ball cap and a teal apron that very nearly matches the sign out front. There are strangely two menus posted for such a small store, one above the counter and one against the front wall. There are potatoes deskinned in the sink, prepared for the final transformation into fresh chips. A batch of batter and a pile of newspapers to wrap to-go orders are always on hand, ready to be used at a moments noticed. A poster gives the customer the low down on the advantages of eating fish: “strong hearts help fish to overcome obstacles. Eat fish and imagine what you can do!”

The Real Ted Killin and I order a round of the higher priced halibut while Me orders a small order of six deep-fried shrimp. The cashier is very easy going and tosses Me a few fries to go with the order, even though they aren’t regularly included with the order itself; he just didn’t want Me to be left out!

All three of us take our offering and sit in the stands of a nearby high school track to eat. The newspaper was a great receptacle for the fish, and contributed to the ambiance of the meal, although I am slightly disappointed in the prepackaged vinegar and tartar sauce that Harbord serves. The fish itself is extremely well prepared: a lighter, flakier crust than I expect, bridging the gap between a tempura and a classic greasier coating, the fish and crispy chips able to retain their heat even in the high winds until I had finish gorging myself, the only remaining evidence a few blotches of grease on the newspaper.

Chippy’s (490 Bloor Street West and 893 Queen Street West)

After the disappointment of finding out about the absence of Deep Blue, a large group of diners ship out to descend upon the Bloor location of Chippy’s, a downtown eatery idolized by the common downtown resident to the point that there are now two locations. The Bloor West location looks very similar to the original Queen West location, but is more condensed and already dressed for the holiday season with black, red and silver bulbs dangling in the window.

The rest of the décor inside is fairly standard: the floor consists of black and white tiles, bulb lights hang from the ceiling and on several vintage coke adverts hang on white walls, in addition to fairly kitschy, fish-inspired porcelain models on small shelves that portray scenes of bears clasping fish and pairs of fishes in various poses. A counter runs around the outside edge of half the shop, offering bar stools as seating, and behind the wood grain cashier counter are several fryers and counter space which the employees use to prepare their fishy goods. When we order, I watch as he slices my salmon fillets, a fish that I have never before attempted in a deep-fried format.

Which, as it turns out, was a slight miscalculation. The dense quality of salmon does not fry as well as a lighter fish such as halibut or cod, and although the crumbly fish itself was fresh, the amount of grease involved is far too much: the thin paper plate offered for dining in soaked through long before I had finished, which is a little unnerving. However, the chips themselves are phenomenal: very thick, crispy and fresh, but I am glad that I did not take this meal to go, for while I unwittingly would wait to arrive home and eat, I would run the risk of the dense fish soaking the quality right out of the fries stacked in the thin container.

Reliable Fish and Chips (954 Queen Street East)

With such an audacious name, of course I have to test the claim. Will a fish and chippery named Reliable deliver every time?

I leap out of the cold into a small store on Queen east with massive fryers, the ample menu hung above. Across from the front desk the condiment stand holds dangling aluminum cups that contain peripherals such as straws and napkins. The owner addresses me immediately, but after I tell him I am having a sit-down meal he pulls out two sets of utensils and shows me to one of the few tables in the place. While waiting for Nuke, all I have to do is swivel my head around to take in the entirety of the chippery.

Metal sailboats and fish adorn the white walls, with framed pictures of sailboats sailing smoothly on calm waters, pictures of Queen east from 1959 and other newspaper articles are scattered around Reliable. The wall behind me has been stacked with empty screech bottles relabeled with the Reliable store logo, with a few left bearing their original label. A strong scent of vinegar pervades my table, the source of which is a spray bottle on a mist setting to lightly coat the fish. A final, large model sailboat sits atop a large fridge filled with drinks and condiments. In addition, behind my head are several fish and chip ditties that proudly declare love for this necessitous dish of the English, evoking pride, synaesthesia and hilarity all at once.

Nuke arrives and the owner is anxious to feed us, visiting several times within the span of five minutes. I grab the rainbow trout, which I have not seen at any other location yet, Nuke orders a haddock, and we grab a breaded clam dish to share for only $2.50, which arrives in no time at all with a side of shrimp sauce – I now prefer this chewy snack to deep-fried shrimp. When the fish arrives, I spray a fine mist of malt vinegar on the offering, while Nuke peppers his haddock, preparing for a well portioned sit down meal.

The haddock is always a good, subtle fish that responds well to the battering, and the rainbow trout has a stronger flavour, allowing the fish its independence to flourish while the same time lending itself well to the fryer. Yet after tackling both these dishes Nuke and I are still a mite peckish, so we decide to split a New England seafood chowder: bacon, fish, shrimp, clams and veggies (celery and carrots) in a light broth. Although Reliable has no business calling this dish a chowder, for the broth is so light that it must be a soup, the “chowder” is a blend of several interesting tastes with good texture nonetheless.

As I leave, I read a framed article that outlines the history of the fish and chips stand started by one A.W. Mongour (1886-1960). He had already owned a chip store, and named his second fish and chips stand Reliable when he moved locations to 258 Carlaw in 1934, which gives the claim to the Reliable brand as the oldest fish and chippery in the downtown core. And yes, the Reliable namesake holds true to this day: a friendly staff, a solid deep-fry and a comfortable atmosphere would keep Mongour proud to this day. For great eat-in fish and chips, Reliable should be your destination every time.

The poster inside Hardbord fish and chips shows a little fish escaping the bowl to swim into the bigger bowl, which turns out to be the perfect image for the Harbord location itself. Although the building itself is nothing special, the product alone is worth the trip. This niche store serves a veritable slew of customers and encourages you to take your fish to go, wrapped in a newspaper ala classic Britain, and the mountain of chips offered (my favourite chips of the lot) will sail delicately across your taste buds and challenge the capacity of your stomach.

Chippy's has turned out to be bit of a touchy subject for the fish and chip market, because in the middle of a number of capsizing fish stands, Chippy's has managed to thrive and actually expand to a new location. Yet I am not quite sure it deserves such reputable outlook. It is certainly the most expensive location. The salmon was fresh but certainly did not react well to the fryer. I have visited the Queen West location several times, and while I believe the higher priced Halibut to be the perfect fish for the fryer, the Chippy's price sits at a whopping $11.99, far more expensive than $8.99 at Harbord and just $6.95 at Reliable. There should be spectacular quality above the competitors to justify such a price, but I do not find the heavier, greasier batter to compete with the lighter, inexpensive offerings at the other fish and chip contenders. Chippy's surely is the most successful fish and chips downtown, but that certainly does not make it the port that I will frequent when my stomach hollers for fish.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Kimberley writes: Have you been to the Fish Store on College. They're really great.
• December 24, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - It’s been a while writes: [...] Had fish-n-chips with Steel Bananas’ Mr. Ted Killin for December’s Steel Bananas. [...]

And occasionally it works. Sometimes the bus lane pulls through in a clutch and shaves off a little bit of time. But in the end, while the new bus lane sure is fancy, it remains as unpredictable and volatile as the old route – just with the heightened illusion that because there is no traffic on the bus lane that it’s going to cut down on the commute by vast leagues, slicing away at those minutes like they were blades of grass at the mercy of the TTC’s fancy cement lawnmower. That said, the University is still the same distance away from Downsview regardless, and while you can control the traffic, or lack thereof, on the fancy new bus lane, you can’t control the traffic on the sections of the route not on the fancy new bus lane. That Northern stretch of Dufferin is just as chaotic as it ever was, so if you hit the York Rocket at the wrong time, you can be sure to be taking the exact same amount of time you would have before.

Ain’t that fresh asphalt so fancy though? I’m not going to lie, I’m more than slightly concerned that this concrete monstrosity is, when all of the construction dust settles, poised to cause commuters a lot more harm than good. Most of this worry comes from the nagging feeling that those powers that be, those who decide where the money goes are going to look at the TTC’s absolutely glowing statistics saying that the fancy new bus lane reduces trips by upwards of fifteen minutes on average and deem the subway extension void because, well, we already built them a fancy new bus lane.

I’m pretty sure that this is a more distinct possibility than even I would have you believe. The Yonge-University-Spadina Extension project has been controversial from the very beginning, with politicians and TTC brass musing publicly and at length about how they don’t know where the money is going to come from to run the thing once its built; not to mention all of the brouhaha surrounding the, admittedly, asinine plan of the Highway 407 Transitway and Vaughn Corporate Center stations, which are likely to go largely unused.

The demand for a subway is certainly there for a subway in the West-North York area, and in particular York University. It has retained for some time the dubious distinction of being one of the handful of pockets of the city to have an unusually large population density and yet not to be served by a subway, not to mention that it also has one of the larger population densities of likely transit riders. Furthermore, the 196 York University Rocket has remained one of the TTC’s most profitable (and because we are referring to public works, I use the term “profitable” loosely) routes for years, holding the extremely prestigious honor of being one of the few TTC operations to regularly make back a substantial amount of the money put into its running.

That said, ours being a largely bureaucratic culture, and also one where compared to, say, Europe, infrastructure and in particular mass transit technology is – as it so sadly turns out – mind-bogglingly pricey, demand is not always the key in deciding where the TTC should fix its almighty gaze. I am just speculating here, but given the gag-reflex-triggering price tag of the Spadina Subway Extension (for the whole thing, about $2.6 billion) I am going to go out a limb and say that extension to York University would have been entirely contingent upon breaking that old sound barrier, and by that I mean crossing Steeles Avenue into the ‘burbs where no one is likely to use their expensive new toy anyway.

And politicians know this, which is why the whole project has been problematic since day one. The money would be there to operate a subway to York, given that the 196 carries more people in a day than some of the lesser subway stations that already exist, however, getting the provincial and federal governments (these days, usually opposed to anything particularly Toronto-centric) on board would mean breaking Steeles, thus operating costs after construction skyrocket.

But I digress. The other downfall of the fancy new bus lane lies in the fact that the city doesn’t know just what they’re going to do with it when the subway happens. It seems like a no-brainer – add a lane on either side and use it as public concession road from Dufferin to Keele – but it’s being treated like a benign tumor that will have turned out to be the biggest waste of public dough this town’s seen since the Allen. I should point out that the money for construction is there (though let’s be honest here, the amount that it will inevitably go over budget will be atrocious) and construction has (sort of) started; my concern is not so much that Harper is going to pull the rug out from under York commuters because, well, they already have that fancy new bus lane, but that once it starts running, the bus lane will be used as an excuse to cut costs once they’ve realized that they’ve gone far, far overboard with this project.

TTC chair Adam Giambrone already threatened to shut down the Sheppard subway a couple of years ago when the TTC fell way, way under budget, so what’s to happen when the subway opens and they were all right when operation and maintenance of the Vaughn stations begins to weigh down the entire extension? We go back to the fancy new bus lane and those glorious fifteen minutes we’ve saved.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Alexander Armstrong writes: The 196 bus route no longer goes down Sentinel Road. If you live anywhere in the village, Four Winds, Murray Ross Pkwy, or Atkinson, you can no longer get off in front of your place by taking that bus. If York wasn't so notoriously dangerous this wouldn't be a huge deal, just an extra 10-15 minute walk. However, it obviously is not ideal for a young person to be walking home late at night in the dark. This new bus route shaves off six minutes at best. It fucks over a lot of people who live down Sentinel (which is a majority in the York U community)
• December 15, 2009, Kimberley writes: If you went to U of T, this simply wouldn't be a problem.
• December 24, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - It’s been a while writes: [...] Chased Curran Folkers on the Bloor subway line looking for a suitable stop to photograph for his new... [...]

In 2005, Texas made an amendment to their marriage clause banning not only gay marriages but also civil unions for same-sex partners. This is not entirely surprising because well, it’s Texas. What is giggle-worthy is that they didn’t really specify the “gay” part of that ban so on paper, no marriages have legal status. I doubt any judge would take this technicality seriously but it got me thinking... are there people who are homophobic enough that they’d be willing to sacrifice their own heterosexual marriage standings just to prevent same-sex couples from getting married? My lack of faith in the deep American south says yes.

I think straight men should embrace their gay (bi, pan, queer, etc.) counterparts because researchers at the University of Montreal have discovered that all men share one thing in common: pornography. The original plan was to compare porn viewers with non-porn viewers. On what? I don’t know, the article didn’t specify. I’m going to assume it was something like aggression. Or penis size. Anyway, their research came to a halt when they couldn’t find any men in their 20s who have never watched porn.

It’s all about sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. I wonder how many men in their 20s have never tried drugs. Is the straightedge movement still holding strong? Apparently not for these wallabies in Tasmania who are getting stoned from eating poppies and making crop circles as they hop around trippin’ balls.

Speaking of Russian women, remember that hairdresser who held her would-be robber captive and raped him for several days? Well, she should start some sort of club with Valeria K. aka “the Black Widow,” a woman who was on trial for drugging and raping ten men. She would lure men to her apartment (presumably with candy and promises of an electrifying game of Monopoly), serve them roofied drinks, and wait for them to pass out for 24 hours. Then she’d stimulate their penises to erection, tie a rope around the end (do they not have cock rings in Russia?) and rape them. The punchline to this story is that though police know of ten victims, only nine of them are pressing charges. The last one is mostly upset that he was passed out during the whole ordeal and couldn’t remember having sex with the hottie rapist. What a big slut that guy is.

Speaking of Russian women, Kira V, a Russian woman, blew up her boyfriend’s penis with firecrackers because he was considering leaving her. That is all I have on Russian women and their strange relationships to penises.

My gift to you for the holidays is this piece of advice: don’t inject butt implants into your posterior because the liquid will travel into your lungs and brain, cause a pulmonary embolism and kill you. Just ask former Miss Argentina, Solange Magnano. Oh wait, you can’t because she’s dead.

Photo Credit: Matthew Filipowich//

Finding a good, reasonably priced chunk of cow in the downtown sprawl is no simple task. A couple of bars may have specific steak nights that allow for cheaper meat, combined with pitchers of cheap beer, but more often than not such events turn into drunken flops that end up serving rather lacklustre meat. And places that have customarily served the cheaper steaks in the city, notably a local favourite called D-Ganz, no longer exist, in this specific case replaced with a nondescript Indian restaurant.

There are tonnes of steakhouses around the city, and surely there are varying degrees of quality and service, but most of these steaks are certainly out of price range of any waning student wallet – you often have to give up an arm and a leg simply to get a piece of cow flank which, quite frankly, does not align with how the food chain works. In an attempt to restore the natural order of things, I have gone out to try and find the finest affordable beef in the city.

Czehoski (678 Queen St. W):

I walked into Czehoski on a cold night, the long narrow dining room quickly filling up during the dinner rush. I meet Franz Pökler in the front room and proceed to check out the digs, interesting to note the vestiges from the original tenant, a butcher shop back in the 1950s. A bar spans the front half of the restaurant, complete with espresso machines and a long old-fashioned refrigeration unit built in directly. The front dining section offers green plush booths for seating and strong butcher-block tables. At the end of the bar, the opening to the kitchen juts directly out of the wall, a chalkboard on the back displays all the daily specials. A fancier dining room at the back hides a small stage with a long black curtain, comfortable plush booths available for various performers and karaoke nights held at the restaurant. The original hardwood floors and ornate white ceilings are still in service and the walls are actually plain white, with no artwork hung whatsoever. Large disk lights hang from the ceiling, bolstered from small tea lights on every table.

A casually dressed waitress comes to take our orders, which is unanimously cow: steak frites, which includes a flatiron steak from Cumbrae farms soaked in red wine jus, hand cut russet potato fries and Roquefort (blue cheese) aioli, for the low price of twenty-five bones. There are no appetizers, but the steak arrives with fries fresh from the oil covering the plate. We have no need for a steak knife, as the steak has been pre-sliced and laid on top of the fries, the juices running out and adding flavour to all the surrounding fries.

The Roquefort aioli steals the focus of the meal; I take the fries soaked in steak juices and dip them in the aioli over and over again. The cooks spice the meat simply, the cow rubbed in salt pepper and olive oil and flipped about thirty times, a technique that works well because neither side has enough time to absorb too much heat when on the element, nor does it lose too much heat when facing away; the cook therefore achieves a more even, gradual spread of temperature throughout the meat.

Seniors Steakhouse (1397 Yonge St.)

I walk south down Yonge towards Seniors, a location accentuated by a large yellow cloth sign that spans the entire side of the vertically stacked restaurant. The downstairs entrance has more of the diner appeal, but I ascend the stairs to find the proper dining room: a dim, carpeted dining lounge with heavy red curtains. When I sit at my table, a lady immediately lights my candle as I disassemble the cloth napkin, folded into a cone, for more practical use. I have asked for a table for two, but am brought a stack of complimentary appetizers that could easily feed four, including bitter dill pickles, a basket of garlic bread, and small bowls of black olives and cottage cheese; I do not touch these bowls throughout the entire meal. Fabricated pink flowers are placed beside me in a skinny black vase. Bianca Erdmann arrives and we look at the menu, preparing to order the steak.

For a working definition of cheap steak, I specifically sought out steak that is priced in and around the $25 dollar mark, as I could not find a cheaper price for a proper steak dinner. However, my research failed after I find that the smallest steak on the menu, a mere ten-ouncer, comes to $29.95 before tax and tip! A little disappointing right from the start, but I swallow my misgivings along with another bitter dill, as the service and the atmosphere work well thus far – that is until Bianca realizes that the ear-grating Beyoncé single, “Single Girl,” plays in the background of an environment that noticeably caters to an older crowd through subdued, old-fashioned décor and an older waiter dressed up in a black vest and white collared shirt. When I heard a line of such intentionally youth attracting music, the entire atmosphere ceased to compute.

The server brings the garden salad first, but the lettuce has been over-soaked with dressing and I only pick a few choice leaves before putting the salad aside. The steaks arrive soon after, served on small wooden plates, which should absorb those flowing juices that might otherwise create an unwanted broth pool for the steak to swim in, a surrounding moat theoretically acting as a second line of defense. The steak has been served with grilled mushrooms scattered on top and rubbed with garlic, pepper and salt, and turns out to be a pleasant surprise in the end: the garlic was extremely prevalent and the mushrooms were well grilled, the steak cooked medium rare and with enough fat on the trimmings to bolster the flavour. The waiter then brings a baked potato, presented with small squares of butter and sour cream laced with green onions. I gladly accept both offerings, and the tender potato finishes the meal agreeably.

I had no real qualms with the meal itself beside a few minor letdowns, as the mushrooms and the garlic compliment each other well on the medium-rare steak, but the atmosphere and the peripherals at Seniors do not deliver. For the price of their steak, although still notably one of the cheaper steak dishes in town, a patron could easily spring the extra ten dollars to seek out a higher end restaurant.

The Tulip (1610 Queen St. E)

I enter the restaurant with Gryphon and a waiter greets us, motioning us to sit wherever we please, so we choose a woven leather booth on one side of the restaurant. Large mirrors line the walls of the Tulip, interspersed with hooked sconces, and framed photos of tulips and city of Toronto paraphernalia. One corner of the restaurant displays framed articles and other praise that the restaurant has received over the years, including a signed photo of the former east-ender Mike Myers, paying tribute to a restaurant that has resided at the Queen East location since 1929. Wooden gold-trimmed ceiling fans dot the ceiling and regulation square tables with a red chairs are scattered around the dining room. The light yellow walls contrast a general red-furnishing motif and warm wooden trimming; tall red plush chairs line a simple brown wooden bar, complete with a coffee section and an open faced dessert fridge.

Looking at the menu, Gryphon and I have a chuckle at the attempted linguistic flair of the restaurant (“Roasted Prime Rib of Beef, au Juice”), and as such have not decided upon which cut of steak to eat when the server arrives. He inquires if we have dined at the Tulip in the past, and when we inform him that we have not he immediately recommends the cheapest steak on the menu (what a champ!). The small sirloin, a popular top cut, is twelve ounces of meat for only $16.95! We are both immediately sold, and order the steak served with a garden salad, mashed potatoes (baked and fries are also options), and an order of grilled onions and mushrooms for the steak, the extra three dollar charge a trifle considering how little the Tulip charges for steak.

The salad arrives first with four slices of pre-buttered bread. Soon after finishing, we are served a solid rectangle of cow about an inch thick, served with two scoops of mashed potato and gravy, with a side of broccoli. We are also given a circle of raw onion topped with a tomato, which I can only assume was added for some colour. I munch on some of my steamed broccoli as I stack as many fried mushrooms and caramelized onions on my steak that it can possibly hold. The pepper and salt are seared directly onto the surface of the sirloin, and a crispy outer edge juxtaposed with the soft interior does the trick, the steak turning out to be one of the best that I have eaten in quite some time.

Well folks, the Tulip has done it for me, delivering a gorgeous slice of sirloin for the cheapest price in the city. The server was beyond helpful, and the only complaint I reserve for the food would be the lumps I discovered in my mashed potatoes, but if that bothers you order fries or the baked potato instead.

Czehoski has been one of the more interesting restaurants I’ve visited recently, the appealing layout of the restaurant spacing the tables nicely, which allows the background noises to disperse and creates a welcome ambiance in a narrow space. I was unable to access the upper levels due to a private party, but the weather may be getting too cold for a garden patio anyway. The service was friendly, the quality of Cumbrae farms comes through and the aioli was one of the more unique dips I have ever encountered. Check out this well designed website for more information: http://www.czehoski.com/

Seniors steakhouse is a bit of an anomaly for me. While I complain about the pricing because of the strict eye I keep on my bank account these days, the quality of the meat still came through. But for all you north-of-Bloor-phobes out there, there is no reason to head to midtown to get a good cheap steak; if you spring the extra cash there are better high end steak places to go to in the city and surely better, cheaper places to go along Queen street.

Comments

• November 18, 2009, Kimberley writes: This is brilliant. You are brilliant.
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Photos by Madd Hattere //

Are You Man Enough? - Phil McAndrew

I sure hope so. This 18-page mini-comic by Syracuse, NY-based illustrator Phil McAndrew is quite possibly - and I am pointedly not one for hyperbole - the funniest thing I've ever read. This is the sort of silly absurdism that holds up to multiple, multiple readings and, after showing this thing to almost everyone that has crossed my path while I had the book handy, is not looking to get old any time soon. The story here, spoiler free, revolves around a young artist who seeks the permission of his sweetheart's burly alpha-male father to marry the aforementioned generic love interest. After that, the title pretty much speaks for itself.

McAndrew's illustrations here are fantastic and perfectly compliment the story with his old-timey vaudeville-esque characters being mixed in with a grungy, Ralph Steadman sort of aesthetic. Of course, the added touch of the book itself having a mustache is very good and indeed, that little strip of fuzz protruding out of the otherwise nondescript red Xeroxed book only contributes to the charm of this hilarious, well-made little comic.

Check out Phil's website here.

-Curran Folkers

The Gladstone at Canzine Photo/Madd Hattere

I'm Crazy - Adam Bourret

Discomfort is a concept to rest on here. Especially after meeting the author, who really is a pleasant guy, reading what is a rather vivid diagram of his personal issues can leave you a little shaky. Even if you haven't met mister Bourret in person, many of us know a few people who share his problems. The title covers the contents within, Bourret has constructed not an apology but sort of a manual to his disturbances. His handle on reality, his connections to friends, strangers, partners and family and his fear of losing his morality to chemical imbalances. If this sounds too much of a publicized confession, and if that bugs you, Bourret does introduce the series of tales in a clever moment where his boyfriend simply asks him talk about himself, so he does. I liked that. I like that Bourret also balances the woes of his problems with the celebratory moments of overcoming him. He has some very dark thoughts, but you still like him because you know that's not what he wants to become.

I think what impressed me most about the book is how clearly he can describe what I'm sure are dense, difficult and lucid concepts. There is a chapter that is just a guide for others on how OCD feels, and it's discussed in such a way that anyone can easily relate and sympathise. What impressed me the least was the art, which felt rigid too often in my eyes, but to focus on that aspect would be me missing the point. This book is personal, deeply so, and you'll feel the connection. If you are the type who enjoyed graphic novels about the dysfunctional lifestyles of fictional characters, I openly suggest you try your hand at an existing person.

- King Frankenstein

Take Away It's Wings and Force It To Fly and Logo/Schema/Centric - Mark Laliberte

Mark Laliberte has created some my favourite possessions. Last year, at Canzine 2008, I bought a very unique red necktie, designed with the graphic of a skull and its descending spinal cord, a scientific drawing labeled “Fig. 3.” Over the course of the year the tie proceeded to make repeated social appearances, spurring both praise and uncomfortable glances wherever I went. This year, at Canzine 2009, I found myself back at the same booth, and lo and behold my tie was once again on display with a few other interesting designs.

Mark Laliberte is a working artist in several fields and, according to the lady watching his booth, the survivor of a civil suit against the explicit content of his first independent zines that he produced out of his parent’s basement. He continues to produce zines to this day, working as the managing editor of Carousel magazine, but also create his own graphic art, a few items of which I snagged from the booth. TAKE AWAY ITS WINGS AND FORCE IT TO FLY is a graphic novella in which a perspective of time becomes hard to confer to the piece. Fractured, microsecond frames pass quickly with minute image changes that often jumble with little to no explanation; the only dialogue is disjointed and confused, the characters themselves unsure of the action in the continuous, snap changes of intrusive imagery. The other item I pick is LOGO | SCHEMA | CENTRIC, a collection of graphic collages that are diagrams of disconnected, strange machines. The gathered images loosely conform to an anthropomorphic theme, and the disconnected body parts are scientifically labeled in a similar fashion to my necktie. This collage work is incredibly detailed, and has been published in Carousel, Broken Pencil, Descant and Wegway.

Mark Laliberte continues to create exciting images and emotive writing, so check out his zine and his bio.

-Ted Killin

Kids are just growing up too quickly these days. Maybe I spent my high school years with blinders on but I can scarcely recall anyone with a drug problem. This is certainly not the case for a high school in Doylestown, Pennsylvania where the vice-president of the school board was recently pressured to scrap plans of subjecting random students to drug tests. Originally, students who tested positive for drugs could continue attending class but could not participate in extracurricular activities or use on-campus parking. I am sceptical of plans like this. While it is admirable that a school is taking initiative to reduce a growing problem among young adults, I doubt that drug tests would reduce the number of students who use. And to refuse their participation in extracurricular activities sounds like a great way to socially isolate students who already have a problem. Then, there’s the issue of privacy. Students go to school to learn, not to have to randomly pee in a cup. Like in almost every other situation involving minors, I blame the parents.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from fifth grade, it’s that schools really like banning things. My school banned pogs, yoyos, crazy bones, Pokemon cards, regular cards, Tamagotchi pets, laser pointers, and probably a host of other things that I didn’t notice. Danvers High School took it up a notch and banned a four-letter word that anyone who watches a certain cartoon would be familiar with: meep. No, it doesn’t mean anything new now. Teachers at Danvers High felt threatened by the repeated use of the word and the principal eventually banned the word, stating that any student who utters it will be suspended. I say that the students should replace meep with a word like “read” so that when the principal tries to ban that, they can get teachers in trouble for inevitably saying it at some point.

Granted, riding a bike in the city, especially when it’s your primary means of transportation is pretty tough; and yes, potholes suck and most people in cars are douche-bags, that’s all very true and well and good, et cetera and so forth. However, while it is one thing to merely complain about the reasons why riding a bike in the city is a pain in the ass, what is really important is why the reasons are reasons to begin with. In other words: yes, the government has not generally been overly supportive of bicycle initiatives and yes, a lot of motorists do little else but complain about those crazy cyclists – but why is this? In all simplicity, the way our culture is designed and the way our modern cities have been built is centered around the automobile.

Vast networks of highways cleaving neighborhoods into pieces, apartment buildings divided from each other from pedestrian-unfriendly roadways and a relatively non-existent bicycle system: pretty much, right? Even the way that roads themselves are arranged are extremely disadvantageous to bicycles, with the bicycle lanes - if they are there are all - sandwiched between the rush of the traffic and the ever-present possibility of getting blind-sided by a car door. Often bicycle lanes are built as an afterthought -  a crude concession, tacked on roads that have more room than is necessary for cars to operate functionally, and even then, there's very little to stop automobiles from swerving into the bike lanes.

I only caught one event at this year's International Festival of Authors and it wasn't even a reading. It was a panel discussion between David Byrne, Jack Layton, the president of the Toronto Cyclist Union Yvonne Bambrick, as well as architect, urban designer and theorist Ken Greenberg. The event was titled Cities, Bicycles & the Future of Getting Around and it turned out to be extremely insightful and illuminating.

I found out much later that Cities, Bicycles & the Future of Getting Around is actually an event that Mr. Byrne has been touring around North America with a rotating cast of local panelists (the template calls for a civic leader, a cycling advocate and an urban theorist). Each speaker does a fifteen minute individual presentation followed by a group discussion.

Unfortunately for Mr. Byrne, however, while his piece was pretty interesting, he was largely overshadowed in his own event. Bambrick was really good and Uncle Jack can always counted on to be Uncle Jack, but it was Ken Greenberg who stole the show and ran away with it. Greenberg, of Greenberg Consultants, is a fiercely accomplished urban designer who has been at the forefront of many fascinating developments all over the world and through his presentation I learned quite a lot about (even in fifteen minutes) just how auto-centric our cities truly are and the ways in which many cities are becoming more bike-friendly.

Recognizing that at some point the oil upon which we so heavily rely is going to run out, cities are being forced to acknowledge that the automobile may not be the dominant form of transportation for much longer. From eliminating street level parking spaces in favor of bike racks, to creating bike-specific street lights, cycling is becoming a much safer practice all over the world. Many cities such as Copenhagen are implementing meridians to separate bike lanes from car traffic, with some going to even bigger extremes and making three-lane roads that are not three lanes strictly devoted to cars, but three meridian-divided lanes: one lane for cars, one for bicycles and one for public transit.

In Toronto, the opposite seems to be the case. While Montreal has been praised for its bicycle-friendly initiatives, Toronto has been fairly resistant to the bicycle in general. Over one hundred kilometers of bicycles lanes were supposed to have been in place all over the city something like by right now, but as of this writing barely a fraction of that has occurred.

Furthermore, as Vit Wagner in his interview with Byrne for the Toronto Star points out, Toronto City Council is becoming increasingly backward with regard to bicycle legislation. Councilor Michael Walker is proposing increased strictness with bicycle helmet and gear laws and motioning that cyclists should be licensed. While helmets are certainly useful and indeed a much safer choice than nothing at all, forcing people to wear heavy-duty protection is somewhat beside the point.

As Byrne points out in Wagner's article, "'Instead of the city making biking safer, cyclists are being told to armour up,' he says. 'That's the wrong approach. If you're expected to wear a helmet, let's at least have a trade-off of more security to protect bicyclists from motorists.'"

And that is really the entire point of bicycle advocacy in the first place: making people and local governments aware that bicycles are just as valid a mode of transit as anything else and as such - especially with the automobile on its steady decline - the people who choose to ride bikes are entitled to the safety and space as any other mode of transit.

• Click here to read the Toronto Star article.

• Click here to check out the Toronto Cyclists Union.

• Click here to check out the work of Ken Greenberg.

Saving Gigi

895 Bloor St. W @ Ossington

I walk into Saving Gigi and sit at a small table at the side to plug into an available outlet. I find that the wireless signal is so omnipresent and not password protected that I can actually feel it crawling up my spine.

I approach the counter, order a medium latte and snag the last muffin of the day, strawberry banana coconut, an extremely moist muffin with the coconut baked right into the surface; a goddamn fantastic muffin! I nibble on the muffin, waiting for my coffee to arrive, and gaze at a single oscillating fan and the large domed paper lights that dangle from the ceiling. One framed chalkboard contains the drink menu, and the sandwiches, smoothies and bottled drinks are posted on the opposite wall. There is one long table in the middle (with no charger access), and several tables set up against the walls. A nook at the front of the restaurant contains two more tables, and a long bench that surrounds the tables.

The barista apologizes for the wait, which was non-existent. I look behind the counter and bear witness to a series of narrow shelves, where products, mugs, cups and necessary ingredients are stacked in a controlled jumble that allows the workers to quickly fulfill any order that comes their way, more than happy to deliver the product to the table and have you pay on the way out. The employees have an ample stack of vinyls on hand beside the counter, ready to be busted out at all times. The medium latte is a light blend that I bolster with the natural cane sugar on the table. Upon finishing my latte, the barista offers me water, which he serves in a personal, tiny green bottle, and hands me a small glass. Enough said, go to Saving Gigi.

Once the baby’s born, you’ve got to worry about it being healthy and stuff. For example, if it has a foot, hand, thigh, and intestinal pieces in its brain, you’ve got to get on that and have it taken care of. Doctors first thought that 3-day-old Sam Esquibel was born with a brain tumour but turns out it was just (just?) some random body parts. (Here is a gross picture that doesn’t necessarily relate to this story) They’re not quite sure why that happened but one theory is Fetus in Fetu which occurs when a fetal twin grows within a developing fetus. This was probably the case with a baby boy born at Tianjin’s Children Hospital in China who had a second penis in the middle of his back. (I know someone’s about to crack a joke about Asians and penises but come on, no one wants a penis on their back of any size.) There was also a baby born in South Africa with three extra limbs – two extra legs and a third arm.

In Paraguay, a baby born 16 weeks premature was pronounced dead by doctors. Dead babies are equal parts tragic and creepy but this one takes the cake. He must have been some sort of Jesus baby because he woke up during his funeral and is now in stable condition. A similar situation happened in Israel except this time Jesus dies twice. A stillborn baby girl spends six hours in the morgue, wakes up for a day, and dies again. I don’t suspect the devil was involved but there is one Texas mom who definitely would have jumped to that conclusion. Otty Sanchez stabbed and decapitated her 3 ½ week old infant claiming that the devil made her do it. I would argue that if she were to take a religious standpoint, it was God who asked Abraham to kill his son, not the devil. The devil was too busy advising John Milton on a poem.

Am I being too hard on babies and childbirth? There must be something good about pregnancy. Well, for one thing, you can eat placenta. Here are two recipes from the September 1983 issue of Mothering Magazine:

Well, that makes me want to avoid cocktails and lasagne for the rest of my life. But wait, there are other uses for your baby’s placenta. How about a nice teddy bear? Designer Alex Green cured placenta with sea salt, treated it with a mixture of tannin and egg yolk, and crafted it into a hideous teddy bear that I hope no baby will ever have to play with, touch, or look at.

Happy Halloween!

Comments

• October 24, 2009, Wellsomeonehadtopost writes: Jesus babies nowadays are all imitators. 3 days is the standard, hear? 3 days!

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! IT’S HORRIBLE!”

Other customers enter the restaurant, looking quizzically at the man as he flails around, disoriented and trying to find an explanation for such a sudden exposure to this massacre, or at the very least a sympathetic ear.

“WHY?! WHY?!”

It’s at this point the man who has the battered and flayed remains on his plate looks over his shoulders, sees the man stuck in the doorway in an effort to flee the scene, walks forward and slaps the man full out in the face.

“Relax you fucking philistine, haven’t you ever seen Ethiopian food before?”

For this jabbering ape has prescribed to one of many ignorant misconceptions that plague new comers to cultural dishes: other cultures are willing to eat food that does not contain sharp corners and boundaries, an alternative visual array that serves an important cultural function; other cultures eat communally, unafraid to eat off the same plate; or perhaps, to address the tasteless Western joke, the man assumed that the Ethiopian culture has no food to eat, expecting to be presented with an empty plate after which he turns to his family and says “well that was fun, now let’s all go to Mickey Ds!”

I’ll take a moment to beseech the first-time Ethiopian diner not to blanch at a finished plate of Ethiopian food at the restaurant, which can look quite messy and may put the squeamish off the meal entirely.

Don't let the gruesome aftermath throw you!

Ethiopian tradition places importance on a unique eating experience, notably separated from Western cuisine by a lack of utensils; the diner tears pieces of spongy pita called injera into a manageable strip to pinch victuals off a single plate, an action that places focus on the communal experience. As I learned from my meal at Rendez-vous, an Ethiopian eatery on the Danforth strip: “Breaking the same bread and eating from the same plate has social significance in Ethiopian culture, strengthening bonds of loyalty and friendship; it is said that people who eat from the same plate will never betray each other.”

Rendez-vous:

I exit Greenwood station and head east on the Danforth, making a beeline to the Ethiopian eatery nearby. Inside, woven canopies hang over a few of the tables, which consist of traditional tables, the circular woven mesob, and tables with a black and orange tablecloth underneath thick sheets of glass. Plush black chairs are set up all over the restaurant and a few white plush booths line up against the wall next to an ample bar. The dark maroon walls are interrupted by woven runners that run the expanse of the restaurant, as well as beautiful ink drawings that are scattered on the walls and over the top of the bar. Oddly enough, I notice a few of the fake plants actually encroach on some of the chairs, so I choose my table accordingly.

I feel as though I’m in more of a lounge bar than a restaurant, particularly when the water I’ve ordered takes a while to process and I register a large flat screen television in the top corner near the entrance, but I notice elaborate ornamental coffee sets behind my table, which are used an important cultural process that involves three rounds of coffee served from a jebena, the Ethiopian clay coffee pot. The menu contains a large lamb section and after asking for a recommendation from the server I decide upon the second option, Ye’Beg Tibs: “Cubs” of tender lamb, which I assume arises from a complex crossbreed of lambs and bears, sautéed with onions, garlic, green pepper and awaze, a paste made from small hot red peppers, cardamon, and cloves.

My lamb cub(e)s take a while to cook but eventually arrive steaming from the kitchen. Since I’ve asked for spicy as opposed to mild, my server warns me to avoid the large chunks of jalapeño, which proves to be difficult in the dim, red tinted light. My lamb rests on a large oval of injera, sitting in an ample amount of sauce with a salad balanced on the edge of the plate. My personal supply of injera is served on a separate plate, folded into a triangle, ready to be torn into. Every foray into the pile of lamb procures tendrils of onions wrapped around every bite and the jalapeno gives these lamb cubs a serious kick in the proverbial ass.

M&B Yummy:

M&B Yummy is the only completely vegetarian Ethiopian restaurant in Canada. I enter to a red walled interior with wooden slats that rise beside some of the tables. The walls are adorned with still life depictions of Ethiopian culture, a revered Eye Weekly article plaqued onto a map of Ethiopia and two crudely cut, large wooden murals: one depicts rain descending into steaming coffee mugs that are filled from a jebena placed on a narrow ledge, the other depicts a larger than life krar, the Ethiopian stringed instrument. All the tables are wrapped in plastic that cover the red and white table clothes, where a water-filled vial containing a healthy coral-hued flower sits. Vegan-friendly desserts are served from the front counter, in front of which a small white-skinned orange-haired heavily-mustached mannequin smiles widely, wearing an apron that holds the to-go menus and raising one hand in the air in a suspicious salute, his presence a little out of place in the surrounding atmosphere.

The woman that owns M&B is a delight, attentive as soon as I enter the restaurant, answering each question diligently and openly offering information regarding her cooking techniques: she receives her soy and seitan materials from a special shop, then flavours and slow cooks as if it were true meat. She recommends the chicken platter, containing an ample portion of seitan chicken as well as a smattering of all the vegetarian dishes the establishment has to offer. When my meal arrives I am given both a napkin and a wet nap, both of which I will surely need.

All the dishes are arranged around a small salad splashed with onion vinaigrette in the center of the plate, but I am also given a fork, a very uncommon gesture and I do not plan on using it. The thick injera has been rolled for me and separated from the rest of the dishes, predominately served as wot: soft stews that are slow cooked with a large amount of chopped red onions and, in the case of vegan dishes, vegetable oil instead of spiced butter. Each vegetable has its own particular strong point: the gomen (collard greens) tastes of strong, delicious garlic; the fasolia (string beans and carrots in tomato sauce) and the cabbage and carrots are the only two dishes not served as wot, which help temper the strong spices infused into the other dishes; the missir wot (red lentils) contains the strongest flavour on the plate, the strong berbere (dry, pepper powder) liberally added; the shrio wot (chickpeas) turn a light red due to the spices and became soft and pleasant, but the true highlight turns out to be the yellow beans (split peas served with onions and garlic) which hold a slightly bumpy texture until pinched in between injera, when they relent, containing a subtle flavour that dissolves on the tongue as my teeth penetrates the spongy pita.

I save the seitan chicken until last, but that turns out to be a mistake when I am already slowing down from the large portions of vegetables. However, I man up and rip off another piece of injera, only to be mystified by the curious taste and texture that I’ve encountered: the chicken becomes soft from the slow cooking technique, yet has an underlying spring due to the seitan. The chicken is spicy in a way that is not immediately apparent, and only becomes more prominent as I chew the chicken into a paste. However, I cannot shake the fact that the seitan does not actually taste like chicken; the chunks of wheat gluten simply take the flavour of the spices offered, yet cannot compare to the actual taste of a fresh breast of chicken.

Queen of Sheba:

Approaching Queen of Sheba on Bloor West, Jessica Swanlake and I enter the main room and are led through a red brick arch into the back dining room after a brief delay. Small Ethiopian ornaments adorn the wall and beds of replica vegetation are set up near the entrance; a fake rose, complete with fabricated water droplets, are set on every table. A tropical bead curtain depicting a scene on the coast with palm trees and wooden huts separates the back kitchen from the dining room and appears to be waving back and forth occasionally, confusing in an indoor setting. Elaborately carved wooden-framed mirrors are set up above a few tables and traditional music plays in the background as Jessica and I peruse the menu.

I order fresh guava juice with my meal of special kitfo: a specialty of the Gurage people of central Ethiopia, consisting of minced, lean beef traditionally served raw or lebleb (very rare). The beef is mixed with keebe (spiced Ethiopian butter) and mitmita, a powder made from small hot red peppers, cardamon, and cloves or afrinji made from red pepper seeds, ginger, garlic, onions and black pepper. However, for a nearly raw dish the food takes a long time and I’ve nearly finished my entire guava juice before the meal arrives.

The meal is well spaced out on the underlying injera: the kitfo arrives as a loose pile of ground beef, served with a side of kale (green cabbage) and some extra mitmita on the side. The kale was extremely savoury and the kitfo very spicy, but when both are mixed together with a single pinch of mitmita they blend to prevent the spices from overpowering the experience.

Preferring the carnivorous aspect of life, the nearly raw meat certainly appealed to me, yet I cannot recommend Queen of Sheba without warning about the rather lackluster service. Although the server checked on the meal once, which is fairly standard, it took far too much time to place an order and receive the meal, particularly considering that we were the only two people eating at the time in the entire restaurant. Instead of waiting for the bill to arrive I ventured to the front counter to pay and was surprised to find that the woman who had just finished serving me did not remember who I was and attempted to seat me for a second time!

Ethiopian House:

I walk into the restaurant with Carroll Eventyr and am hit immediately by an intoxicating scent that wafts toward me. Fabricated potted plants hang in the ceiling corners of the orange and green walled dining room, and dark red, floral printed tables cloths are adorned with faded yellow napkins. Tall orange napkins erupt from wine glasses, which are swiftly replaced with our drinking water as soft Ethiopian tunes play in the background. Colourful Ethiopian still lifes hang on the wall, the highlight of which is a large mural over my shoulder that depicts beautiful waterfalls and thriving herds under a crescent moon on the left, and Ethiopian people and buildings under the sun on the right. Heading upstairs, strips of coloured lights lead the way accentuating pictures of Ethiopian people in cultural garb that stare out of the wall at anyone who passes, a theme that continues throughout the upstairs dining room.

Since Carroll doesn’t eat beef, she orders a round of lentils and I order pan-fried Beef Tibs, Tikil Gomon (cabbage and carrots) and Atakelet wot (string beans, potatoes and cottage cheese). Both dishes arrive in the standard communal dish, served with a large woven lid that the server removes dramatically as she places it on the table; the meat has been piled on my side of the plate mixed with peppers, onions and tomatoes, heavily spiced with mitmita. As I look at the mural behind me I mistake a big, green pepper for a zucchini that turns out to be hotter than the sun! Turns out that I’m scarfing a large jalapeño and am forced to quickly eat a large dollop of the crisp cabbage and carrots, which I quickly follow up with the potatoes, soft from the slow cook and lightly spiced in a way that allows me to comfortably recover.

The Ethiopian House, I must admit, turns out to be my favourite restaurant of the bunch. The scent marks the entrance to the restaurant, creating an instant immersion in the atmosphere of the dining room. After sitting down, I am given a menu that has an introduction page with punchy introductory lines such as “Cutlery? Look around you. There is none!” and wishes you a great meal in Ethiopian (“Melkam Megibz!”) and in French (“Bon Appetit!”). The meal is brought promptly and presented with a noticeable flourish, steaming hot and perfectly spiced. No other Ethiopian restaurant delivers such a flawless performance: Queen of Sheba delivers phenomenal food, but on their own time; M&B Yummy caters spectacularly to a vegetarian patron, but leaves meat eaters feeling more at home elsewhere; Rendez-vous serves a phenomenal lamb-bear anomaly, but the atmosphere, including the television, splits the emphasis of the establishment between food and entertainment. None of the restaurants particularly outshine the others in the quality of the food, but for a first-time Ethiopian eater tentatively testing a new cultural dish, the Ethiopian House delivers on every register, representing a delicious traditional cuisine that is certainly worth seeking out.

Comments

• October 15, 2009, Nancy writes: You've got to try Nazareth which is just down the street from Queen of Sheba. The place is tiny and there's often a line but the food is so good and it's the cheapest place to eat this side of the Prime Meridian.
• October 23, 2009, Steven Khor writes: Hi Ted: Would like to invite you to Nosh Bistro to experience our services, and most importantly our European fare cuisine. 2210 Dundas Street West, Toronto, On. (Dundas and Roncesvalles) Operation hour are 9 a.m.. to 3:30 p.m. Tuesday to Sunday. We welcome you!

Roncesvalles is littered with coffee joints, yet we’ve never ventured out there for our Caffeine-Buzzing purposes. What’s up with that? I don’t know, but it was something that needed to be rectified and rectified it certainly was. The Chief and I, we hopped on the 501 at Gladstone and got stuck in traffic. Shit, we could have walked to Roncesvalles in the time it took for that streetcar to lurch its way over there, and I can assure you that we were mighty surly when we finally made it. We walked into Tinto Coffee House and were delighted to find that this large, split-level café was not just one to be lost amongst the sea of like-minded small businesses along the quaint West End strip. Despite being only a few doors down from the more well-known-but-with-limited-seating-space, Cherry Bomb, Tinto manages to carve out a cool, DIY sort of niche in a heavily saturated area.

With ample seating space – including a few couches – readily available power outlets – thank Christ – and some fine eats and drinks, Tinto is a bright, warm and fuzzy kind of place that almost made me wish it was colder, so that I could justify getting a hot chocolate because it would be a great place to have one of those. But seriously folks, Tinto is great for hanging out and reading a book; it's inviting without being too overbearing (read, it has just the right amount of scuzz) and it has a real flavour of its own that keeps it from being like every other quaint and comfortable coffee shop. My favorite part was that on their fridge there was a sign that read "No Pop! Not Sorry!" - it made me chuckle something fierce, I can tell you.

My least favorite part about Tinto was that while WiFi is available, it is not the fastest or most reliable. It kept cutting out every few minutes, which ended up fucking some serious shit up on a couple of occasions. I still want to hang out there though, so I would suggest that if you make a special trip over to Tinto, be sure to bring a book and curl up in one of their sofas, rather than trying get any serious surfing done because that will not come easy for you as far as I can tell.

The layout of the place is great, I really dig the split-levels and the separate rooms with the bright red chairs and brick walls - it's all very lovely. The people that work there are super-nice and, most importantly, the coffee is pretty good. I didn't catch what they were packing, bean-wise, but I did enjoy it, in addition to my time there in general.

The Art in Slow Food | Photos brought to you by the Cheese Boutique

Cheese is simply the most versatile food I can think of, for the inclusion or exclusion in a dish often acts as the catalyst for the entire success of the meal. And one dish consisting entirely of Italian cheese has become one of the most unforgettable meals of my life.

I was presented with Pecorino cheese in three separate large slices: one was very young cheese, one was aged for about a year (described in broken English as a medium flavoured cheese) and the last was aged for several years. I was given three small vials of sweet jelly that was specifically meant for the cheese depending on age: the young cheese was complimented with a strawberry balsamic jelly, the medium cheese with eggplant jelly and the old cheese with a green tomato jelly. I can say with confidence that I have never been so impressed with cheese in my life. The young cheese was nearly as soft as a ricotta, the medium cheese had the stirrings of the older flavour in it while the old cheese was strong and ripe - obviously each of the jellies was painstakingly chosen.

But the truth is that I know nothing about how cheese is made and the process that goes into making such a luxurious gourmet product. But more importantly, I have no idea where cheese comes from in Toronto and remain unaware of the people behind the scenes that help put cheese on my table. My curiosity was piqued when a server at Fressen pointed me toward a special cheesery right in the city: “The best cheesery in town, one that has French distinction!”

Taking a bus from Runnymede, I ride south to a boutique situated by the Kingsway in a more residential area of Toronto. The old wrought iron doors are closed and guarded by a sharp-eared metal dog, so I walk in through automatic doors into a hallway filled with many shelves of gourmet products, already distracting me from the draw of the cheese to come. On the right of the hallway is a small terrace with an herb garden and flowers, particularly appealing in the good weather, but I linger as little as possible and make my way into the shop. A gust of cool air hits me as I enter and I’m greeted by Agim Pristine, son of the founder Fatos Pristine, who asks if I would like a latte before heading out to the terrace.

Agim works in the Cheese Boutique that Fatos Pristine developed, who has since been inducted into the Order of the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Taste Fromage de France for his contribution to cheese, something his son is all too aware of:

“My grandfather may have started the business, but my father built it. We’re the third generation and we’re trying not to screw it up – it’s the generation that things often seem to unravel, but we understand what it took to get to where we are and we respect that work.”

He tells me his father’s story: a man attending university while working at Ponderosa steakhouse and a Sobeys. His grandfather ran a local Becker’s convenience store on Bloor West, selling mainly cigarettes and milk. The previous tenants at the Bloor West location had failed to turn a profit, so the landlord gave the new tenants two thousand dollars, the monetary equivalent of one and a half months rent, to take over the lease. While the business was steady, it wasn’t until Fatos began thinking a little bigger did business truly take off; he fought with his father about the sale of cigarettes and instead began to import Brie and French truffles into the shop.

“And my father was a smoker! I remember seeing burns from cigarettes he left on the counter, back when it was ok to smoke at work, but my father understood that the opinion of smoking was changing and did not want business to be associated with them anymore, even if they were our top seller.”

Fatos Pristine is currently taking a short European vacation from the shop, but left the boutique in the capable hands of his offspring. His son Afrim has recently been named on the Ontario Hostelry Institute list of the top 30 young professionals under 30 working in hospitality and food, and Agim puts his share of work into the business as well: he was behind the move to import dried meats and helped bring other high-end groceries to add another facet to the shop, to entice customers to the new lower volume location.

“The best thing about being the third generation is that we get to work with passion. Not to say that my father didn’t, it’s just that things are more secure now. Last week Afrim took a one-kilo wheel of sheep milk cheese, threw it into a barrel of wine [Malivoire Old Vines Foch] and it will stay in there for the next year or more if something isn’t quite ready – we’ll see what happens.”

Even without financial security, the boutique has always risen above the societal mentality of unloading product to turn a quick profit; the Pristine family never compromise quality. Unlike the average supermarket, the added stress of selling new products has never stopped the boutique from holding onto cheese until the quality rises to a personally satisfying standard. Agim contrasts Brie sold at the boutique to the Brie at a supermarket, asserting that Brie only becomes unpleasantly chalky for three reasons: too young, no care and no love.

“Our society has an accessibility problem: we provide what we want whenever and wherever, as long as you pay for it. In Ontario, [the public] want strawberries in the middle of December, even though Ontario produces some of the best strawberries in North America during the spring and summer months. So why would you want strawberries in December? You eat much better if you eat in season.”

Inhabitants of many small European cities strictly eat in season, for the price of imports does not make economic sense. The cheese that comes from the Cheese Boutique reflects this base cultural perception; Agim constantly stresses the terroir of the product they import.

“The actual conditions of the materials is the most important part, because cheese itself is simple in the end: bacteria, salt and milk make 90% of the cheese. Here, we only want milk produced in June and August – well, July is ok too. But during these months the grass is green, flowers are out and cows are grazing properly. Between September and November the milk is still good, but the environment does not provide the best.”

The boutique prefers to buy cheeses from France and Italy due to the AOC and DOP, belonging to each nation respectively. These are governing boards that mark each cheese with their trademark symbol, which guarantees the products for buyers like the Cheese Boutique. These accreditations are similar to Ontario’s VQA, but are only generally accepted for cheese from these two European boards. While Agim agrees that not many groups can create such prestige, making it tough to create establish such a council, he believes official recognition is better. For a Parmigiano Reggiano to receive accreditation from the DOP, the cheese must be aged between sixteen months to three years at minimum, or it will not bear the name of Parmigiano Reggiano. To Agim, a non-accredited label could be any label: “No governing body can tell you for certain what the product is and what it isn’t and you can’t go back to the cow and ask. Once the product is pre-packaged you just don’t know”.

Agim has watched the interest vanish from trades such as the local tailor and shoemaker, a movement that has taken its toll on prepared foods as well: “These days, the only hands-on from a baker may be the actual scoring of a frozen loaf and while the product is still good, the art is gone.” A baker may need to freeze bread so that it keeps until the sale, but the Cheese Boutique has built its business on the aging process. More often than not cheese makers give a cheese wheel a ‘King’s Cut,’ which removes the center square of the cheese and leaves the edges of the wheel, and once the cut has been made the cheese is packaged and sent out. The vacuum packing preserves the product en route to its sale but cuts the cheese off from the all-important aging process, robbing the cheese of its potential. Contrarily, the Cheese Boutique ages and babies every cheese that passes through its doors, regardless of the inherent risk of such an extended turnaround time.

“Mr. Ericcio, an Italian cheese maker, attended a charity function of ours and proudly pointed out a 100 kilo provolone torpedo of his make to Afrim, who told him: 'You’ve never tasted your cheese as good as this.’ We had aged the cheese for 5 years and after having a taste he became very excited and called all of his friends over to try the cheese. He called my father the next day to thank him for the time and care on his provolone and told my father that if there was anything he could do at anytime that he would do it, to let him know. Well my father, never one to waste such a thing, proposed the cheese maker send a large 380-kilo monster of provolone he had seen displayed in similar shop in New York. He only ever makes two a year and agreed because a man in Japan had been interested too. So my father asked if he could have one every year.”

At this point I was led expectantly to the Cheese Cave, which I expect is an elaborate construct where Fatos has set up a lair to hide his secret identity as a Toronto cheese vigilante, but instead turns out to be a place where great cheeses hibernate, which is nearly as good; perhaps a venture into the private caves beyond would reveal more on the matter. The public cheese cave is only a sliver of the warehouse space dedicated to cheese, but I bear witness to the aforementioned torpedoes of provolone and the vat of wine containing a wheel of its own, in addition to other notables such as Spanish Manchego cheese, a highly recommended American cheese called ‘the Big Ed’, as well as a 500-pound Canadian cheddar in the corner.

“We put that cheese in here in 2004 and don’t plan on opening it until 2019 or 2020.”

I’m awe struck and it shows, so he drops another bomb on me.

“Two hundred pounds will be completely unusable,” and as my awe deepens he adds, “but the core will be perfect.”

The future of this business is secure in the third generation, but it wasn’t always planned. Afrim attended Wilfred Laurier in the interest of becoming a history teacher, yet Agim tells me that history and cheese are intrinsically linked; in Europe, certain cheeses were developed for certain families and those original cheeses are still crafted today. Afrim is certainly one that subscribes to the belief that when Napoleon reached into his jacket, it was to retrieve a piece of French Epoisse, his favourite cheese. Agim’s youngest brother also attended university, yet when I ask Agim if he ever harboured postsecondary aspirations, he tells me of his own childhood fantasies: a great love of sports led him into pursuing a scholarship to school for North American football.

“I was never pushed by my father to join the business, none of us were. But I was coming to the shop since I was five – I would stay at my grandparents place on the weekends so I could come in the morning, because their house was closer. By the age of nine I was coming after school to help out. I only wanted to go to school for sports, so when the scholarship fell through it was an easy decision. I ended up buying my grandparents house after they passed and I now have my family there.”

His own two children make appearances at the store, which elicits grins and jokes from the regular customers about the shop entering its fourth generation, but Agim doesn’t mind: “That feels good too, the recognition is a nice feeling. This is a family store, we have family customers and in my family, we place importance on what you put on the table, what you give to your guests. The kitchen has always been the most important room in the house.”

The Cheese Boutique has flourished since its move. A high traffic Bloor West location cannot compare to the new, larger location that has kept the boutique open for an additional nine years. The breadth of product is staggering and the welcoming environment keeps the customers coming. During the interview, I had a lady come up to Agim with a pamphlet for the Pilates program across the street. Another couple approached to show Agim a picture of a man they met in Holland making poffertjes that looks exactly like a younger Fatos, who they have known for years.

On my way out of the shop, Agim gives me a bag filled with a lump of Chabichou from the Loire Valley in France, a goat cheese aged 6 months, a log of Toscano salami made in house (also aged 6 months), and a fresh baguette. The goat cheese is best to eat in the summer because it is a lighter, fresher taste; richer, creamier cheeses can be overbearing in hot weather. The core of the Chabichou was soft and the edges ran slightly when cut, perfect on a baguette with the strong salami.

The Cheese Boutique is always finding new ways to serve their customers, recently manifesting in the arrival of a new Prosciutto slicer from Italy. Although it is an old machine that must be sliced without the aid of electricity, the boutique has spent over eight months transferring the machine for one simple reason: regular slicers move at too fast a speed and actually cook the meat slightly, while the new machine can never attain such a speed at which that will happen.

To slaver over future exploits at the Cheese Boutique, follow their personal blog: http://cheeseboutique.blogspot.com/

Comments

• September 15, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - The September Issue writes: [...] issue features a signature Curran Folkers interview with Great Lake Swimmers, Ted Killen does some cheese sluething and a few trendy downtown boutiques, a pomophobic book review by the Chief Lady herself, Karen Correia Da Silva, and an artist [...]
• January 9, 2010, antonio santoro writes: Caro Fatos e cara Modesta , quando verrete a trovarmi in Maremma vi farò fare un bel giro tra ''pecorini e caprini ''.Vi aspetto. Buon anno. Antonio

A few months ago in Rotterdam, The Netherlands, one motorist was surprised to see that the exterior of his car was completely covered in silk. I know what you’re thinking – art installation, right? No, not quite. Apparently, thousands of spindle ermine larvae (also known as caterpillars) mistook the Honda for food and encased it in silk webs. Pictures can be viewed here. Luckily, the webs won’t be too difficult to remove. Poor, misguided moth larvae though, they’re going to very disappointed to discover their hard work was for nothing.

The next bit is not so much weird as it is incredibly cool. The Gouldian finch female can control the sex of their offspring in order to maximize their chances for survival. Gouldian finches come in two head colours: black or red. It is advantageous for a bird to mate with another of the same colour. Chicks from mismatched couples, especially females, are often weaker and unlikely to make it to adulthood. In a study done by Sarah R. Pryke and Simon C. Griffith, it was discovered that females who mated with a male of a differently coloured head produced 82.1% males whereas females in matched pairs produced 45.9% males. To confirm that the female finches were deliberately creating more males when in mismatched pairs, Pryke and Griffith tricked the females by dying red-headed males black. When red-headed females mated with these poseur black-headed males, they produced 72% males despite being genetically compatible. In the same vein, when black-headed females mated with the pseudo blacks, only 55% of the brood were male. Researchers aren’t sure how exactly the female finches control the sex of their offspring but one theory is that their stress levels affect hormone production which interrupt the process of fertilization. The entire project can be accessed through sciencemag.org.

Not everyone who gets bitten by a spider develops a superpower but 48-year-old David Blancarte, a former paraplegic man, regained sensation in his legs after being gnawed on by the infamous Brown Recluse spider. Blancarte was up and about walking after being confined in a wheelchair for over two decades until he landed himself in jail from an outstanding domestic abuse case. Some people just don’t deserve a second chance.

Happy Days jumped the shark and stunt driver Louis Re almost jumped the crab. The Freedom Worship Baptist Church hosts what is claimed to be the world’s largest model of a horseshoe crab at 12 feet tall, 24 feet wide, and 68 feet long. Motorcyclists attempt to jump over the crab as part of Crabfest, a promotional event for the church. Re managed the jump last year but fell just short of the landing ramp this year. He sustained minor injuries and is recovering at the hospital.

The last creature to be mentioned this month is one that we’re not all familiar with. Japan’s First Lady Miyuki Hatoyama claims to have been abducted by aliens from Venus. She described the toxic planet as green and beautiful. She also said that we are all aliens (Invasion of the Body Snatchers, anyone?) and that she knew Tom Cruise in a past life when he was Japanese. I guess his appearance in The Last Samurai can be somewhat justified now.

Keep your eyes out for a verrrry spooooky weird news instalment next month! Till then.

Fortunately for those of us enjoying our neighbourhood in vogue for the surely very brief time being, we can bring the East Side to us. Yes indeed, if you too find it painfully difficult, despite your best efforts, to escape the Dufferin-College-Ossington-WQW bubble, you only have to travel a very short distance out of your comfort zone to hit one of Leslieville’s favourite spots that I’ve never been to because I am so rarely in Leslieville, because earlier this year they put a new one on Spadina. Nice!

Dark Horse Espresso Bar’s second location, set up just a little ways North of Queen, is pretty tops. As someone with not a lick of sleep in him for some very long time and a bloodstream boiling over with caffeine as it is, my Latte from Dark Horse earlier this afternoon was truly the best cup of coffee I’ve had in hours. Equally nice!

Regardless of how hopped up I may or may not currently be, I am totally down with this latte, for serious, heck yes and so forth. A lot sweeter than a lot of local espressos, but certainly amongst the more flavourful - the Dark Horse folk even do that funky-fresh milk-art stuff that makes you not want to drink your coffee because it looks like there was love just blasted all over that motherfucker. But then you kind of forget all about that nonsense once you start drinking it and subsequently forget that it ever looked kind of cool once not too long ago. Sure enough your cup just ends up looking like every other: a brown, flaky stain near the rim and a tiny pool congealing near the bottom.

But I digress. Dark Horse: totally cool layout (taking into account space and vibes) and bombass coffee. Check. Lame-O wireless – on account of it’s not actually their wireless you’re using, rather you have several options available to you for stealing – that craps out on you every eight fucking seconds or whatever. They played “15 Step”, which I can certainly appreciate and there’s at least a point there. This review was hardly a review at all, scarcely. Indeed it was entirely the madcap ramblings of a man in desperate need of a nap. Nice!

I'm totally down for more Dark Horse in my immediate future, and maybe someday I'll even man up and venture out East to see which of the two I like better.

The realization of this came shortly after visiting the facilities in Sneaky Dee’s at last month’s editorial meeting. It all started in the stall. Drawers dropped, pee flowing, it was business as usual, until she did the unthinkable. Over mutual tinkling, through thin metal barricades, she began talking to me.

She refers to the young woman I had met just outside of the washroom. With the proper amount of Canadian politeness, we began chatting. But as we entered the washroom the conversation continued and we found ourselves already in the stalls before the conversation had ended. And so came the daunting question: do we keep talking?  When do we stop talking? Is it awkward to talk to a stranger when you can hear each other pee? Should I wait for her to finish after I wash my hands so we can continue our discussion of what constitutes good graffiti?

Marveling at the strangeness of these queries and my possible obliviousness to public washroom etiquette, I began to do some research (clearly I need better Saturday night plans). I was worried, perhaps because I have never attended the washroom with a pack of girls, I was missing out on fundamental information. Information only privy to those in the privies.

I was shocked to discover that according to the Internet, my older female friends, Dear Abby, and 1950s social rules that seem to be still kicking around, I have been behaving like a barbarian! I was surprised at the millions of contemporary sources that discussed proper public washroom etiquette. And the number one rule? Don’t talk to people in the washroom unless absolutely necessary. While I can understand not talking on your cell phone, 'cause that just seems kind of strange and I’ve seen many a blackberry end up in the toilet bowl, not talking at all just seems awkward. No smiling, no “Hello”, just ignore people and crank your ipod. We aren’t isolated enough!

Other “rules” prevent atrocities such as: opening sanitary products with any rustling - it is suggested the offender flush, cough or rattle the toilet paper dispenser to mask the noise - and allowing oneself to sit on the toilet seat - it is recommended one squat, both to build thigh muscles and avoid VD. Though if you’re afraid of contracting VD from a toilet seat, that fear is the least of your issues!

Another ridiculous rule? Never poop in public. Granted, outside of a public washroom that rule is aces, but in a fully functional restroom facility? Holding it in is like holding onto an ex - painful, unnecessary, and really it’s healthier to just let it go.

On top of these well documented rules women also have to deal with the more subtle issues of attending the facilities with appropriate amount of people (going alone isn’t acceptable), adhering to proper stall behavior, not actually using the toilet and applying only makeup that is socially acceptable (lipstick? Yes, but cover-up? How unsightly!).

I was similarly surprised at the intensity of male bathroom etiquette. Admittedly, not being equipped with male genitalia means I have little to say about what happens in the guy’s washroom. I assumed the rules are basically keep your distance, don’t look, and never (ever) cross streams. Aside from that, they’re pretty much home free. I think I finally get penis envy. Though I suppose it’s a different kind of awkward talking at urinals instead of through stalls.

There really shouldn’t be politics in using the washroom, conversational or otherwise. I don’t have any qualms with bodily functions and I’m not terrified of people hearing me pee. Is that so rare? Without further ado I present the Post Modern Woman’s Washroom Manifesto (Or “6 Easy Steps to Peeing in Style”). Granted it’s not exactly a literary masterpiece, but it’s rather apt.

Kosher:

-actually using the washroom!
-chatting: human interaction is an endangered activity
-passing TP to stranded stall users

Not-So Kosher:

-failing to wash your hands
-dropping your phone in the toilet
-bitching about your fellow washroom users while they’re in the stall

Now I’m sure this entire article, in discussing the subject, is against proper washroom etiquette. Why can’t women talk about the bathroom? Men make jokes about farting, bowel movements and crossing swords, but women have none of that humour vested in their washroom experience. When quite frankly, it’s funny. Kinda gross sometimes, but funny nonetheless. Like the day I learned throwing up in an automatic flush toilet is the worst idea ever (it throws up back!). Or like last night when the drunk girl who dropped her cell phone into the toilet bowl and spent an hour poking at it with her eyeliner pencil before dropping that in too... they say bathroom humour is over-rated, but who gives a shit?

Comments

• September 15, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - The September Issue writes: [...] shoot as much as I would have liked this issue. Some of my photo ideas fell through, namely one for Sarah Beaudin’s article about female bathroom etiquette. I really wanted to shoot that one, but I couldn’t find any [...]
• September 22, 2009, KWSilk writes: Awesome column! Being of the Y-chromosome set, I had never fully appreciated the oppression felt by the fairer sex when it came to urinary freedom. To not have the option of letting flow in a back alley or against a tree is bad enough, but the excess of rules outlined here really fills the pot. The bathroom really is home to the final taboos, and a woman's right to poop in public ought to be be the first to be done away with. Finally, feminism I can get behind!

Expecting over one million attendees over the span of the weekend, a Taste of the Danforth has vastly exceeded its humble beginnings: starting as a mere response to Taste of Chicago, Toronto’s festival grew exponentially every year starting 1994 until the city was coerced into shutting down the stretch of the Danforth between Broadview and Pape to create a street festival to honour the benefits of the delicious dishes and culture that have migrated from the Mediterranean to find a grand reception in Toronto's Greek Town. Welcome one and all to the Taste of the Danforth, the largest Greek festival in North America!

Thursday: Let’s Launch Over It!

I exit at Chester station to get as close as possible to the Local Company, the host of the illustrious launch of the Danforth Festival, starting the following day at 6pm. After checking in with the doorman, I enter an establishment classier than I had bargained for: tall black stools dominate the high table arrangements that impose upon the middle lane of the restaurant. One brick wall backs the bar and the opposing white wall backs more personal seating, fake trees embedded in front of the bathroom entrance. A series of closely cropped photographs that depict various elements of a bridge adorn the wall above plush black bench seating and large bulb lights dangle low above the bar as the bartenders whisk back and forth, quickly serving a packed dining room as the anticipation for the upcoming festivities flows though the crowd. Black curtains mask the front windows while white curtains are pulled aside at the back of the venue, revealing a raised level that contains a ring of freshly prepared Greek cuisine catered by none other than the surrounding restaurants of the festival!

Too excited to wait for my launch-mate, I join the ever-expanding line to a buffet-style arrangement and when I reach the front I can no longer contain my appetite, which I have purposely been withholding all day in preparation for this moment. I turn into a machine with far too few hands: greedily grabbing the largest plate I can find I go straight for the gusto, snatch two lamb and rosemary pies from Ouzeri immediately and snap up a pita, dip it into freshly strained tzatziki and practically throw it into my gaping mouth. While chewing I proceed to a corner table and place a wrapped dolmade on my plate while bolting down a few pieces of delicious calamari rings from Christina’s on the Danforth, so subtle light and crisp. I hasten to swallow in order to load a large chunk of juicy gyro from Messini Authentic Gyro onto my tongue while scooping large spoons of light souvlaki onto my plate from the same establishment, the gyro now delicately dribbling down my chin which I am reluctant to wipe. Instead, I scoop several spoonfuls of appetizing gnocchi from Trapezzi with spinach and red peppers in a cream sauce rife with olive oil that glistens throughout the dish. At this point I’ve already consumed the equivalent of a large appetizer with a stacked plate ahead of me; I do not know what the people behind me must think of the blur of food and limbs ahead of them, nor do I particularly care in the face of this superb spread!

No seats are available, so after securing a beer I stand below the raised level and begin to sample my main course voraciously to find the true protagonists of the evening:

I enjoy Christina’s on the Danforth other offering of the evening even more than the calamari: Dolmades (also known as dolmas) wrapped tightly in a grape leaf, the rice and beef easily succumb to my bite, the lemon sauce acting as a catalyst for the glossy, distinct taste that follows. But while both the tender, shaved souvlaki and the creamy yet olive-oil infused gnocchi are both great in their own right, nothing can prepare me for the lamb rosemary pie, my stand out dish of the evening: made with flakey phyllo pastry, the soft meat oozes out of the end of the nearly cylindrical pie as I bite down into it, the strong taste of rosemary permeating the entire pastry.

Far too full for dessert, I watch as a rather large cake is brought out for one of the sponsors of the event, secretly glad that his table receives and quickly covets the cake. As the Portuguese custard tarts and desserts are brought out, I make my last rounds around the Local Company, ready to depart with my festival appetite fully whetted.

If my stomach could smile, it would span from sphincter to sphincter after such a glorious pre-feast to the preeminent food festival of the city. I can’t wait for the Taste of the Danforth to officially begin!

Friday night:

I arrive at Broadview station on a teeming subway full of salmon, which swim up the stairs, bubbles streaming from their mouths as the excitement begins to flow upwards toward the Danforth festival happening on the streets above. As I exit the stairwell, I catch the tail end of “Dancing on the Danforth” featuring nothing less than the children giving something back to Michael Jackson through a choreographed dance tribute of the popular song “Beat it” while a crowd of crooning adults oooo and awww over a rather disjointed effort to emulate MJ’s moves. Potential child-molesting irony aside, I seriously want these children to beat it so that this hampering crowd will disperse and I can get to some food.

As I have already tasted a healthy smattering of Greek cuisine last night, I decide to peruse a few non-Greek venues to start. As I pass one crowded stand I notice some exotic meat on the menu, such as wild boar skewers and kangaroo burgers. A relative newcomer to the Danforth strip, the shop is none other than Blackstone Meat and the carnivore within stirs at the thought of kangaroo, a meat that I have never tried and as I cannot envision a scenario in the near future whatsoever in which I will have this chance again. I eagerly spring four dollars for a burger.

But at first I curse my keen meat cravings for the presentation is horrible! A noticeably small patty slapped onto a grocery store bleached-white bun that leaves several centimeters of bland bread before I even touch the meat; after adding a dribble of mango sauce I give the burger the biggest bite I can muster to avoid hitting only bun. At least the meat itself turns out to be well worth my time: a little more fibrous than a beef burger, the rich, dense meat falls apart easily against my canines and leaves a strong, lasting aftertaste. I leave the Blackstone storefront with mixed feelings, delighted to tear into a new animal, yet disheartened by a skewed price to meat ratio, particularly with the quality of bun I am forced to choke down.

I head further east along the strip until I hit a massive road block: a line that spans the Danforth and winds past the opposite Timothy’s stems from a booth set in front of “Taste of the Silk Road,” a Chinese café that has boasted the best calamari on the Danforth for the past fifteen years. Although rubbery food usually set my teeth on edge, I venture to be bold and test such a self-assured claim. So I stake my claim at the end of the line and buffeted by fellow festival-goers I stand my ground and wait to test this tentacular treat. Finally after holding my spot for a grueling fourty minutes I arrive at the front to receive my offering, a fry-sleeve filled to the brim with deep-fried tentacles; oh no, not your garden variety calamari rings but actual tentacles with ghostly white skin showing between the gaps in the crispy brown shell, drawing a definitive curl as each tentacle thins at the tip.

Upon first placing the appendage in my mouth, my tongue threatens me with total internal insurgency, but when I bite down the meat turns out to be incredible! Although you can never expect to fully escape the rubbery texture of calamari, the meat has been prepared as tender as possible and a flood of new taste rushes in, inflamed as I add a side of spicy Sambal sauce that forces me to quickly buy a can of coke to wash it all down. With so many people waiting in line for their own taste, I ask the chef how much calamari he had ordered in preparation of the festivities:

“2000 pounds!” he quickly spouts before turning back to the teeming, impatient line I have finally conquered.

Each new bite solidifies my newly found confidence but as I walk away from a Taste of the Silk Road, I see the Auld Spot Pub shucking fresh oysters for the public and although I have been meaning to try a fresh oyster for the first time, I am not sure my taste buds will allow another bold seafood venture, so although I pass this round I will try and gather the nerve to try this delicacy on Saturday.

But enough foreign food for now, as I gravitate toward more Greek-driven cuisine for a main entrée. I head further east toward Pape to find the Greek Grill beside Carlaw street, serving beautifully thin-shaved gyro on a pita with the classic peripherals of onion, tomato and tzatziki. I wait in line, staring at the men continually shaving meat until I reach the front of the line and receive my very own pita, which I prefer more than the thick chunks of gyro from the launch, the minimalist strips spiced to perfection on a fresh, tightly rolled pita.

As I walk towards the subway to exit the festival, I cannot wait for the morrow with a freshly filled wallet, as a beautiful night, crowded jammed streets and fantastic food are the mandates of the night. I realize I would even return solely to watch some cooks in action, flaunting their fare for all to see, enticing the public to their booths on skill alone.

Saturday:

Unfortunately, the all too prevalent summer rains decide to make another untimely appearance, yet the crowd seems almost more dense than the previous evening; I suppose at this point in the summer the masses have become accustomed to an inherent rainfall, so I toss on a hood and join the foray to continue the hunt for the greatest taste.

Exiting the subway from Pape station, I head west towards the restaurants, only to halt next to Athens Pastries when I smell the warm spanakopita, a small spinach pie complete with phyllo pastry and feta cheese, ready made to ward of the effects of the continuous drizzle from above. I relish each small bite of my appetizer until it fully disappears into my gullet, but I am continually on the search for more food, each morsel a temporary safe haven from the rain above.

Continuing west along the strip, my cohorts and I stop at a place called Kalyvia, but I cannot help feeling immediately skeptical: not only is the sign a surprisingly tacky, very off-putting purple and silver, but the catch phrase on the sign reads “a little taste of our village.” The man selling the pita begins to yell “I got what you need!” loudly and often to gather some revenue and I decide against my better judgment not to take the eatery at face value and try their wares; I order pork on a pita and brace myself for disappointment.

But the pita spites all my negativity: perhaps the wrap doesn’t contain as much meat as some other offerings, yet the pita itself has been lightly coated with olive oil and grilled for a light crisp, while the tomato, onions and an ample portion of tzatziki complete the meal. I’m not surprised when moments later, a Red Apple Jones Soda reads me the fortune “Don’t exceed your expectations,” which have been driven high for such an acclaimed festival, but perhaps I need a soda now and again to put me in my place for being excessively critical without any substantial evidence.

I continue to head west while the rain dies out until I finally wind up back in front of the Auld Spot. Now I have nowhere to run and no chance to hide, especially when the employees begin shouting:

“We shuck ‘em you suck ‘em!”

But before I can even mutter “Aw, fuck it,” Nuke yells out in a booming voice:

“Deece!” (as in the short, more badass form of decent).

Which seals my fate: oysters it is, from Malpeque Bay no less, internationally acclaimed oysters hailing from Prince Edward Island. I am passed a shell, shucked not a moment ago, which I am certainly not valiant enough to try without a garnish. Although I am not used to a shot of pure horseradish, I drop a spoonful onto the center of the oyster and before I have another second to think about it, I suck the hell out of that shell with as much vacuum as I’ve got. I find out that oysters are incredibly salty! The horseradish gives a kick to this gooey, gluey treat that has a few organic crunchy surprises through an eating process I can only call a half and half: half sucking and half chewing, certainly an odd experience, one that the Auld Spot will expand to a new location on College West this very fall.

But now, with an abnormal new aftertaste in my mouth that overpowers most of my other senses, I quicken my pace down the strip to find a dessert to close out the evening and eventually approach the Euro Crepe Café to find the employees heating up large crepes on traditional round elements. After a brief stop to cone some gelato, I arrive to purchase a crepe flowing with fresh fruit and topped with fluffy whipped cream, which banishes the lingering oyster once and for all and quite nearly fills me up for the night. But further along, once again closing in on Pape station, I make a final halt in front of Europa Fine Pastries that sells a myriad of baked treats for only three dollars each. I manage to get the utmost out of my cash, selecting a rather large slice of creamy chocolate cake fortified with a hard chocolate shell that slowly melts in my hand as I devour the offering before my stretched stomach decides it can hold no more.

As I slowly drag my bloated self towards the subway, I take a long lingering look behind me to see the Danforth saturated with bodies, as damp nights and dense crowds deter no one, for underneath the daily grind and the incessant reliance on autos the public loves nothing more than to reclaim the street for themselves and share in the collective experience of a festival. The Taste of the Danforth has opened the doors not only for Hellenic cuisine and culture to flourish on the east end, but has encouraged the participation of approximately one hundred and seventy five separate booths that unabashedly serve their own food and display their unique merchandise in the face of the massive Greek focus. If the subjective Danforth website can be trusted, Toronto’s overwhelmingly favourite festival spreads good cheer through the music, dancing, cuisine and the overarching atmosphere that purges the recently garbage ridden image of the city from my mind in place of this prospering culture that has carved its own hollow in the multicultural muddle that makes up our city.

Comments

• August 15, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - Steel Bananas: August 2009 writes: [...] Cover Story: Mediterranean Madness ’09, the Latest Chapter in Danforth history! [...]

Where is the best olive oil made, and how?

That’s easy, Greece! More specifically, Kalamata, Laconia and Crete. The excellent soil and climatic conditions influence to a great extent the quality of Greek olive oil. It is its high quality that is sought by large international companies every year in order to improve the quality of various kinds of other oils available in the market. In other words, other countries add Greek oil to flavor their own oils. In fact, Italy is Greece’s biggest client! Our very own extra virgin olive oil, SOLON received the “Superior Taste Award” by the International Taste and Quality Institute (ITQI) two years in a row.

What specifics go into cultivating the olives?

The process necessary to get the olive oil from the tree to the table is multi-faceted and requires great expenditure of effort. The whole procedure begins with the correct selection of the tree, and continues through planting, watering, weeding, the use of fertilizers (if any) and pruning to harvesting, transportation, crushing and storage. Olive oil is graded according to the levels of its acidity and whether or not it is a natural or refined product. And, there are different types of olive oil. Extra-virgin is the best because it is the first cold pressing.

What are the health benefits of olive oil?

There are so many. Research has shown that olive oil contributes to the good function of the heart, the prevention of cancer, the balance of metabolism, the proper growth of bones and the brain during youth, and even slows down the age process. It’s even great for your skin and hair!

Why olive oil as opposed to other oils, such as canola or vegetable oil?

Well, the tradition of producing olive oil has been around for over 4,000 years. Some of the healthiest people consume the highest percentages of olive oil (like the Cretans). There’re aren’t as many studies backing up the health benefits of canola oil since it really just came alive about 20 years ago. And before that, “rapeseed oil” (Canola’s original term) had many bad aspects until they had modified it in order to be consumable. As for vegetable oil, it’s usually a mixture of different oils. Olive oil has less saturated fats than vegetable oil and more Monounsaturated (the good fat). So, I would just stick to my olive oil.

Other than that, a few more personal questions:

Where do you currently reside? What is your nationality and where did you grow up?

Well, as I like to say, just like our olive oil, I was made in Greece but imported to Canada! Both of my parents are Greek and having grown up in Montreal exposed to the Greek culture, I consider myself to be 100% pure Greek. I still live in Montreal to this day.

How did you get so personally involved with olive oil?

Olive oil has always been a big part of my diet and a huge part of our culture. I grew up working for my father’s business so it’s something that comes naturally to me.

What is your favourite dish to make with olive oil as a key suppliment?

Pastitcio (pasta with meat and Bechamel sauce) and Greek potatoes!

Have you ever experienced an oilve oil related mishap? If so, was it major or minor?

I luckily never had a mishap with olive oil, but I could have. I used olive oil once as tanning oil. I got a golden tan in just 10 minutes! But it’s a good thing I first applied some sunscreen.

Comments

• August 15, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - Steel Bananas: August 2009 writes: [...] food critic Ted Killin samples some of Greek Town’s finest and learns something about olive oil. Also, an interview with Indie Rock Icon Joel Plaskett, an essay on elitism, Twilight, and an [...]

- Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation

I recently spent a month living in the south of France, sharing an apartment in Nice with a rotating cast of usually seven other people. Eight every other night, my Turkish Don Juan of a roommate brought home a new conquest. I slept on a couch in the kitchen on those nights, a couch no doubt as old as the considerably well-aged apartment: decaying, musty, missing one arm, and stained with the bodily fluids of I don't want to know how many past tenants. Naturally, I survived the month by chasing every glass of rosé with a mug of espresso. I won't spend too much time getting into details, but I will say that my life in France, as I have been telling everyone since I got back, unfolded much like the plot of a Woody Allen film: there was travel, trauma, alcohol, absurd romance, haunted ruins, encounters with the certifiably insane, an attempted mugging, a cast of excessively neurotic characters, and a lot of monologues addressed to an audience invisible to everyone but me.

While in France, I also attempted to write. In fact, I made several attempts at writing this very article, all of which ended in me throwing my impressively durable Dell laptop across the room. While I did manage to edit a short story and squeeze out a modest poem on one day, the writer in me decided to go into hiding for the bulk of my time abroad. A shame, I thought, because while planning my trip I had envisioned spending a number of lazy afternoons intellectually masturbating with a pen and pad at outdoor café tables, immersed in the quaint bustle of well-dressed madames and monsieurs, all with baguettes tucked under their arms, cigarettes dangling lazily between slender fingers as they strolled along oh-so-European cobblestone streets, where air conditioners jutted dripping out of shuttered windows, and people, shoeing away pigeons, hung their laundry out to dry on clotheslines strung between brightly coloured, peeling buildings that leaned conspiratorially together so that lovers on opposite sides of the street could hold whispered conversations from their narrow, iron-railed balconies. It didn't occur to me until just the other day, a week after returning to the gray, concrete reality of North American city life, that the reason I couldn't squeeze out this article while in France was… well… because I only wanted to write this article while in France in order to say that I had written it in France. It was the idea of France that enamored me.

The ideas we nurture of foreign places always seem to hold at least a tinge of romance, and the idea of Europe positively sweats "culture" from every Platonic pore. France especially is a place we esteem for its great minds, its great art, its great food and wine, etc. It's a place to which those with disposable incomes flock to find culture. This pilgrimage to find culture in other places has always fascinated me. I'm obviously a guilty party. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed my time in Nice, I plan to travel to Europe again in the future, and it was an experience. But there is something just a tad grim lurking beneath this particular notion of culture, which, ironically enough crosses cultures and fuels the global tourism market.

Take museums for instance. I visited a few while in France, mostly art museums. I saw exhibits of Matisse's work, Miró, Rodin, a little Giacometti, the obligatory Picasso, and a few others I might be able to remember if I concentrated hard enough. And while I did spend some time studying the art, I was more interested in watching the other visitors. I should mention now, just so you know what kind of freak I am, that it's a hobby of mine while travelling to take pictures not of the sights but of other tourists taking pictures of the sights. Unfortunately, there is no photography allowed in art museums and galleries.

As I was saying, what struck me about the other visitors was that few of them really seemed to give a shit about the art. I lost track of how many couples and families I saw rushing from painting to painting, sculpture to sculpture, wiping sweat from their brows, checking their watches and exclaiming, "On y va!  On y va!" There were a few who tried to fake it, stifling yawns as they wandered slowly about, always allotting equal spans of time and attention to each piece, and never allowing any outward display of awe, disgust, amusement, arousal, enjoyment, emotion of any sort. These, my fellow slow-walkers, who I dub "the connoisseurs," somehow maintained the same steadfast countenance of hard but purposeless concentration throughout their rounds. Never did they jerk to a sharp halt to reflect upon a particular piece that arrested them, hit them in the gut, compelled an emotional dialogue. They may as well have been scanning aisles of canned goods at a grocery store.

The one flash of humanity I witnessed was when one woman in the Matisse museum hesitantly approached a sculpture, looking around to see that no one was watching. (I pretended to be fascinated with some oil-on-canvas squiggles.) Once satisfied that she was unobserved, she quickly poked the sculpture, once, as if just to check that it was really there. She quickly retracted her finger, let out a breath when no alarms went off, and then moved on, seemingly satisfied.

So I find myself wondering, why do people go to museums? I mean, why do we really go to museums? Is it for the same reason that I wanted to write this article while in France? Do we visit museums only to say that we did?

At his melodramatic best, Jean Baudrillard tells us that "Within a museal scenario that only serves to keep up the humanist fiction of culture, it is a veritable fashioning of the death culture that takes place, and it is a veritable cultural mourning for which the masses are joyously gathered." According to Baudrillard, museum art is dead art and museal culture is dead culture, and we're glad it's dead. Extend this conceit a little further, as Baudrillard does, and our notion of contemporary culture is a notion of dead culture.  Global tourism turns the whole world into an exhibit, and once culture becomes a specimen for the voyeuristic gaze of the camera-touting tourist, once culture becomes an attraction seeking an audience, we come to take such dead culture to be just culture. We substitute dead culture for the absence of real culture until it's all we know and thus no longer a substitute.  Toronto's Nuit Blanche is a sad symptom of this.

In a bizarre way, this world-turned-museum/mausoleum explains why we feel the need to travel in order to find culture. It is also why we hold cultural "events," setting out specific days of the year to celebrate culture. We travel to culture, spatially and temporally, because there is no time or place for culture in our day to day lives. At least, we come to believe that culture is something separate from our everyday existence. It is precisely because culture is on display everywhere and everywhen that we feel the need to give culture a fictional place and time, in order to control it, to tame it, to put it in quarantine. What's more, the place we give culture is no place for "real" life to occur. Culture becomes a vacuum-sealed bubble. A great piece of art may move us, but that movement is wholly internal. We aren't allowed to act on it, because that would be a violation of quarantine procedure. Art may make us feel, but that feeling must be kept secret at all costs -- or rather at the particular cost of that art's life. I mean, if a painting in a gallery made you want to scream, would you? Would you even dare to cry? What if it made you want to rip that art off the wall and tear it apart with your bare hands? Try it sometime!

I did find some art that made me want to do something drastic. Among a number of lovely galleries I stumbled into was one in St. Paul de Vence. St. Paul de Vence itself is a sort of museum, a restored medieval hilltop town, quite picturesque. Like many such towns, one of its largest tourist attractions, apart from the galleries and splendid views, was a very large cemetery where Marc Chagall is buried. I saw his grave, itself a tourist attraction. As for the gallery in question, it featured the art of one Carl Dahl and another František Mertl a.k.a. Franta. The Franta stuff was what really grabbed me. Made me disgusted with the quaint beauty of the town that housed it. Made me want to rip the ivy off one of those well-preserved stone walls and scrawl something obscene. Made me want to rip out my hair. Made me at least want to swear out loud, spit and scream. I didn't, of course. I didn't do anything. I suppose I'm not nearly as brave as that woman in the Matisse museum.

Comments

• August 15, 2009, Curran Folkers writes: Very thoughtful and well-written article, Devon. You are a champ.
• August 25, 2009, Karen writes: "I should mention now, just so you know what kind of freak I am, that it's a hobby of mine while travelling to take pictures not of the sights but of other tourists taking pictures of the sights." Very meta.

The West End of town, beginning on Clinton with the Café Diplomatico

When I arrive inside, I am directed to a server named Danya to address my questions.

When did you first hear about the garbage strike?

“Immediately. The first day was brutal, because it was too late to get rid of the trash removal, but after that the restaurant wasn’t really effected.”

How did the mess get cleared every day?

“I’m not sure, the cook just told me not to worry about it and I didn’t ask any questions.”

Danya then procures Sofia the cook to come out to clear up the mystery:

“The café Diplomatico always uses private garbage collection, so we don’t rely on city workers, other than for the street bins out front. Everybody looks after themselves.”

I then ask both ladies if they bear any grudge against these civil servants:

Danya: “Well…”

Sofia: “Honest to God, I am just glad they are back and that is all I have to say for now.”

Which I take as both a defensive maneuver and a cue that she needs to get back to work, so I thank both women for their time and am in return warmly welcomed back to enjoy another meal at the Diplomatico anytime.

However, I find myself faced with similar aversion as a result of questioning a feeling of resentment towards these civil servants. I spoke to a manager at Sneaky Dees who had no comment on the issue and compensated during the strike with the use of a private company for six trash hauls a week; the manager of Lalibela, a restaurant named after a northern Ethiopian city that resides at Bloor and Ossington, seems reserved towards all of my questions and he too had hired private collection three times a week for his personal garbage. I travel further south on Ossington to BQM Burgershoppe only to receive a similar response from a waitress named Laura that tells me that the Burgershoppe has had multiple freelance propositions after already choosing their own service, but when I get around to the infamous grudge question, she slyly smiles and admits that “I may have some personal gratification now that they have to clean up all the garbage piles again, but I don’t really hold any grudge.”

Kensington Market:

Big Fat Burrito, located in the centre of Kensington market, serves arguably the best-rolled, crunchiest burrito in the downtown core. An employee named Meghan illuminates me on the situation in the market community during a prolonged strike.

How did the Big Fat Burrito handle the strike?

“Well at first one of the co-owners Mike, preoccupied with the new branch opening on Bloor and Bathurst, offhandedly told the management that we would be fine for the strike, which effectively left our manager Dave Clark in charge of our waste.”

So what did he do to clear the garbage?

“Well, lots of restaurants in the market, including the Moon Beam Café, the organic market across the street, the Kensington Grocery store and the owner of the Red Arrow bike shop got together every week and rented a large truck to take the garbage and organic waste and recycling to the Turtle Island Recycling Plant on Cherry Street. There may have been more contributors to the load but I’m not quite sure”

How did the system work? Did everyone lend a hand?

“Everyone sort of took turns. Paul from the Big Fat Burrito went every time, as did the owner of the Red Arrow, but the others were a revolving cast. I volunteered once as well because my coworkers were down on me for being a girl and not being able to take it, but it was fun to go on a paid field trip. The load really was gross though; the organic waste turns out to be pretty rancid!”

How much waste did that section of the market accumulate in one week?

“I went when we dropped off one and a half tonnes of organic waste. The truck drove on a scale loaded with the waste and people, was weighed, and then after we dumped the truck was weighed again, using the difference to calculate the charge.”

How much did the service cost in the end?

“Only around $150 when I went I think… definitely less than $200.”

I like that the market community seems to extend beyond the boundaries of every day business.

“Yeah, there is always a sense of community in the market, which really stood out during the strike. For example, we collaborated with Urban Herbivore and Wanda’s Pie in the Sky for trash storage: if we had more room at our place we would take some of their garbage and vice versa.”

Do you bear any sort of grudge towards the striking workers?

“They piss me off! I guess I hold a bit of a grudge, but not because of the strike. I just feel that the workers are so bitter about being off strike and being back to work that they aren't doing a very good job. I was woken up at 3am recently because garbage workers are picking up the garbage and actually tossing the large bins back at the houses. Why are you starting at 3am? They were so loud that I thought it was construction! And I’ve heard many stories of half garbage pickup, only taking one bin and not another, despite the city allowing unlimited pickup. I don’t feel as though they are happy to be back to work.”

Fran’s Diner:

On a particularly humid August afternoon, I bike east along College through some of the worst smells I have encountered during the strike; I end up behind an empty garbage truck and although it is empty and probably not recently used, the stench ahead increases tenfold. So when I arrive at Fran’s, I eagerly enter under the neon lights and am directed by a server to wait at the bar for Brian Morris, the manager of the College branch. When I sit down and tell him I would like to discuss the effect of the strike on the city restaurants, he says:

“I believe that this strike has had an effect on everyone, per se.”

Did the strike take you by surprise?

“No, I found out very quickly and had to arrange to have garbage pickup twice weekly; I considered clearing three times but found two to be satisfactory.”

Did any of your customers complain about the garbage?

“There was the inconvenience of the smell of garbage on the patio, which some customers did mention. I actually emailed Premier Dalton about the strike, because if you really want something, go right to the top.”

At what point of the strike was this?

“About three weeks in. I requested that he move to legislate the employees back to work.”

Did he even reply?

“Yes, I received a reply in a manner that implied that the province was ‘going to let this one play itself out.’ But there has really been fault on both sides of this debacle and this strike was mismanaged from start to finish.”

Do you know when the workers will start to pickup the city garbage? I saw a garbage truck outside but it was empty, so I’m unsure.

“I think they are starting curbside pickup today (August 4), but it will take a long time to clean up yet. The workers have to clean the pesticides used at garbage sites and power wash the streets at first, but there’s an entire process to go through and these are only the beginning steps to clearing away all the smell and clutter.”

The East End Danforth Strip, as represented by one Howard Lichtman.

I have been in fairly regular contact with Howard during the festival and asked him some similar questions in regards to the strike in the popular east-end strip. So, as any good media representative does, I am sent a very officious reply to all of my questioning, also disregarding any semblance of ill will:

“Throughout the garbage strike the Danforth was spotless. Dino the chair of the Greektown BIA and his committee acted immediately to ensure the streets were clean so it was a non issue. During the festival we use private garbage removal so again not an issue.”

No worries, no hassles, no problems at all for the Danforth strip, once again brought about through the privatization of garbage removal.

I find myself hesitant to comment further on this article myself: without any predisposed purpose, this article has wended its way into an argument towards the privatization of garbage removal and I am not knowledgeable enough on the ramifications of such a bold move. The issue should not resurface during the new three-year contract that the union has agreed to, but what happens then? Dear SB readers, I call upon you to educate me further on this issue and give your solid opinion on whether or not garbage pickup should become privatized after the new contract expires. Hit the comments!

Check this out Toronto, worse than ousting a president and dengue fever combined!

Comments

• August 17, 2009, Patrick Grant writes: Humm. The idea of privatizing public services sets off alarms in my head. Restaurants and other comparable businesses create a far larger amount of garbage than citizen x, so using a private service to deal with that sort of output makes sense. Residential pickup should not be privatized, though. It's generally a bad call to put public services exclusively in the hands of businesses. Maybe if rich people want a two-tiered garbage system they should be allowed to opt out of public pickup, but I can't see privatization being a rational and viable option for the general populus. That being said, it's not really cool that public assets can be held hostage for weeks and months by unions who are pissed off about their sick days.
• September 5, 2009, big fat burrito | toronto | restaurant, retail, entertainment service review information writes: [...] - go here for what Meghan, one of the employees at Big Fat Burrito, had to say at Steel Bananas about the [...]

We headed out to Sneaky Dee’s for a few pitchers and some food first and then hopped on the TTC to hit up a dance club. After some wandering and disappointments, we ended up at Republik at 1:15am. And from the remnants of that night, I give you:

7 Reasons Why I Fucking Hate Nightclubs

1. $10 cover (at least), $8 beer and somehow no money to mop the beer/vomit off the floor.

We rolled up to the door (luckily no line – that would have been #1) and asked the burly/surly bouncer how much cover was. He said $10, which seems like a lot now but after checking out other places seemed cheap. Drink selection included such delish delights as Blue, Bud (and Light and Lime), Canadian, Black Ice, Smirnoff Ice and lots of tasty bar shots to get you nice and loaded. At $4 a pop, totally not worth it. Also the floor was sticky. Granted it was late, but seriously. A little class.

2. Dickhead bartenders that ignore you unless you've got tits, muscles or money.

I ventured to get Travis and I a beer, trying my best to shuffle past the hordes of people basically just standing around (though the music was pumping). I get to the bar (where there was no line) and still managed to wait 3 minutes before even getting acknowledged. I gave the obligatory ‘chin nod’ to the guy who showed up, who simply shook his head and walked away. I was kind of dumbfounded. Didn’t they want my money? Or did they just recognize that I was not the club-going type and labeled me as a ‘newby’? Finally a female bartender looks over, I nod at her and she begins to make her way over, but is intercepted by a ‘hot guy’ who sidles up beside me and gets his drinks first. I sigh, shake my head, and pull out a twenty, waving it at her as I would to a hooker out my driver’s side window. I choose Blue (as I see it the lesser of seven evils) and manage to only spill about half on my way back through the crowd.

3. Spill or be spilled.

On that note, spilling is almost a way of life in a nightclub. If you don’t spill your own expensive drink, effectively wasting it as some moron in a black wifebeater brushes past you with no regard for his surroundings, you are the person standing next to said person who is drenched in foul-smelling and lukewarm alcoholic beverage. By the time I made it back to my friends, as I have said, about half of the beer was gone from our cups. The other half of mine unfortunately ended up all over Alyksandra’s (female, as it always seems to be) leg when a little Latino guy with a pencil-thin beard and a ‘tude bumped into my arm. I looked at him in disbelief, he looked back, and said, “What?” Disbelief shifted to flabbergastation. He took no responsibility for his actions! And so off she went to the bathroom to wash the beer off her leg, leaving Travis and I staring at each other, shaking our heads.

4. Douchebags and the women who love them.

Taking Alyksandra’s bathroom trip as an opportunity to glance around, I took stock of my fellow patrons:

-The Club Changes, the Douches Don’t: I’ve been clubbing about six or seven times in my life, and I swear the same guys are in every club. They’re everywhere: Ed Hardy/Affliction shirts, ball caps with rims so straight you could balance a glass of water on them (but you can’t because they’re tilted), mandanas, pencil-thin beards, guy-liner, kissy faces, flexing their pectorals constantly. How much insecurity can one person have to have to wrap themselves up in this designer defensive shell? Of course there’s the ironic use of cowboy hats (excluding Alberta, where this is not ironic but sincere), the arm bands, the stupid tats, and the bizarre attitudes toward each other and the girls of the club.

-Tiny Outfits on Drunk Girls Who Have No Business Wearing Them: There are plenty of good looking women in clubs. By about 1:30 in the morning, however, there is no one good looking in a club. The people who were going to get laid are off doing it, and the rest are simply standing around, waiting for what I call the ‘Last Ditch Booty Call’ (more on that later). Drunk Girls are probably the biggest turn off in the world to me. At least when I’m sober. More than anything I pity them. Now I’m not a wet blanket or anything, and I drink a lot more than I probably should, but seriously. Drunk girls are not attractive. They stumble in high shoes, they dance badly, they lean on things they shouldn’t lean on (such as strangers). But the thing that strikes me most about girls in clubs is their need to dress like hookers. I don’t know about the other men out there but I don’t appreciate the idea of sleeping with a hooker (okay, but only when I’m desperate) and I don’t see the appeal there. Not all girls in clubs dress like this, but it is at least 75%, which is a big enough margin to make me question. Are these also self-esteem issues rearing their ugly heads in the form of belt-sized skirts, too much makeup, skin-tight dresses and showing one’s thong through one’s pants?

5. Someone told the DJ that he should be a DJ.

I assume that someone at some point in the life of every DJ encouraged said DJ to DJ. Then someone told them they were good at it. Then someone paid them for it. Sometimes I wonder why someone didn’t slap them in a face all those years ago and shout, “No! For the good of humanity, NO!” Alyksandra came back from the bathroom and we started to sort-of-dance while Travis went on an excursion to get us both another beer (and I didn’t expect him back any time soon). As we soon discovered, however, the DJ had a profound case of ADD and felt the need to change the song every 30 seconds. I’ve been in clubs where that has happened, and it usually draws cheers from the crowd as hit after hit is played – AT THE SAME TEMPO. The DJ this particular evening decided not only was it 1998 and he would only play music from before that year, but NONE of the songs had the same tempo making it impossible to dance. I like dancing like a fool just as much as the next guy, and grinding up on some girl (while not really my style) is extremely sexually satisfying. Alyksandra and I just got frustrated and gave up, electing to stand in the middle of the dance floor until Travis arrived with our beers so we could down them and go.

6. Just a case of history repeating.

The concept of every night being the same is one to which I can relate. I constantly have déjà vu while in a pub or bar, the nagging feeling that I am just going in circles. It rarely happens in the same night, however. Travis made his way back to Alyksandra and I with two more terrible beers and as I took my first sip I once again got knocked into and spilled all over Alyksandra. I apologized profusely and she said it’s fine, and she should stop standing on that side of me. She went to the bathroom and Travis and I stood near the door to get away from people and to complain about the general crappiness of the night (which would turn into the article you’re reading right now). Last Call had sounded and upon Alyksandra’s exit of the bathroom we decided to call it a night. Then something magical happened:

7 The Last-Ditch Booty Call

Upon entering the club, I would say that about 90% of people were standing around, shifting their weight and looking bored; 5% were drunk out of their minds and stumbling about the place; and a lucky 5% were actually having a good time. Why do they stay and stand around and look bored? Why do they not just leave and find something better to do? For an event that I like to call the Last-Ditch Booty Call. It is a wordless event in which the bored and horny guys in the club gravitate toward the drunk and horny girls for one more shot at getting laid. I cast my glance about and, without even speaking, pelvises from across the room were being drawn together as those with nothing left to lose tried to make the most of it. It really is something to see. Like a nature video. At this note, Travis an Alyksandra and I left Republik behind, chatted with a bouncer for a moment (who ruefully commented on the young girls dressing like sluts and dancing like strippers and then proceeded to hit on every drunk young girl who came out of the club. Go hypocrisy!) before heading off down the street.

The night had ended and I returned home, cracked a REAL beer (Ontario micro-brewed, not to sound snobbish at all) and mused over the events of the evening. Why do we do this to ourselves? Not for nothing, but does anyone actually enjoy doing this? Going out dancing is the least of what clubbing is; it is mostly a swirl of designer clothes, too much alcohol, social obligation, chauvinism, peer pressure and courage & cowardice. Yet thousands of people do it every weekend; why? Is it just ‘what we do’? Is it the over-romanticized idea of getting dressed up and going out? In my limited exposure, I have found that the idea often far outshines the experience itself.

It seems as though we are just going through the motions of a culture of social pressure to be quintessentially male and quintessentially female. I can get into a whole ‘sexual images in the media’ thing but I won’t – though it can’t be doubted that the number of hip-hop videos featuring idealized club scenes is an indication of the influence clubbing culture has on the overall youth culture. In a sense it brings together all social ‘cliques’ – nerds and jocks and arts kids and Goths and preppy kids – everyone goes clubbing. It is like a cross-section of youth today. But the overall picture from a bird’s eye-view is not a flattering one and to the casual observer our youth culture is only a few dry-humps away from a brothel. And now that I’ve completely established myself as a crotchety old man, anyone want to go to a pub and get shitfaced?

Comments

• August 17, 2009, Patrick Grant writes: Great article. I write this in my head every time I walk through the club district. I think people subject themselves to the club scene because it's like surrendering to an ideal...some glamourized, oversexed, hedonistic figurehead that appeals to a simplistic desire to be successful in a weirdly traditional gender affirming way. It's appeals to the conservative's desire to get hammered. I'm curious what being in a good club scene would be like. Going to see an incredible DJ who actually makes his own music and dancing in an immense crowd of people who are actually there for that purpose would probably be awesome.

Nancy always picks a theme for her column, so in keeping with that tradition, that is what I will do as well. This month’s theme is animals – ah, animals, how they mirror ourselves, how we inhibit them so, etc.

Residents of a village in Ireland are on the search for a goat with the intention of crowning it their King. As part of the annual Puck Fair, a goat is traditionally brought in from the mountains where is then declared King of Ireland for the weekend by festival-goers. Unfortunately, the lucky goat that the festival organizers had their eye on for this year lives in Northern Ireland and hasn’t been able to get the proper visa required to spend the weekend south of the border; a situation which is causing pandemonium amongst the Puck Fair community.

If any of our readers are goats and happen to live in the mountains of Ireland, Steel Bananas implores you to take it upon yourself and volunteer yourself for this noble cause. Who would like to be King of Ireland for the weekend? I know I would, were I a goat. Do your part: they are desperate for the leadership, courage and strength that only an Irish goat is capable of delivering.

In more heartwarming news, a family in Australia has been reunited with its dog that had been missing for over nine years last month. Muffy was found sleeping in a backyard in Melbourne, Victoria, over 2,000 kilometers from her former benefactor’s home in Brisbane, Queensland. This is all well and sweet and good and all, but what in god’s name was Muffy doing for nine years and how did she end up so far away from home? Furthermore, who says she wanted to be found? If she had run 2,000 km from home, it would stand to reason that either she’s below-breed-average in the navigation department, or she was going out of her way to not be found. Maybe she was trying to start a new life on the road, she needed to shake things up. Maybe even, she was on the lam or something. One can only imagine that the reunion between Muffy and her owners will be painfully awkward and will cause great strain on the family, as per what Hollywood has taught me.

This next story is not animal related at all, but I found it too funny not to mention. Pope Benedict XVI has been hard at work on his Macbook, pounding away countless hours (one would imagine) on Ableton Live, laying down all kinds of sweet tracks for what is to be the Pontiff’s debut album, to be released by Geffen in the fall. The album, entitled Ill Papa (actually, it’s called Alma Mater) drops November 30 and is a collection of hymns and chants backed by the Choir of the Philharmonic Academy of Rome and is not, as I had originally assumed a hip-hop record filled with dirty beats and collaborations with Rihanna and Bubba Sparxx. Nevertheless, Alma Mater is sure to be a chart-topping hit for Geffen, solidifying many of my fears about the age in which we live wherein the Pope is a major recording artist selling boatloads of records.

Finally, to end on an inspirational note, Lonesome George, the last of his species of Pinta Island Tortoise, a type of Giant Tortoise on the Galapagos Islands is going to be a father – at age ninety. Scientists found a clutch of eggs in George’s bachelor pen last month, the grisly result of George’s first sexual encounter in thirty-six years. Lonesome George himself was unavailable for comment, but it should be said that this turtle is truly an inspiration to all of us who might hope to someday enjoy a healthy, nonagenarian sex life.

The Communal Mule
984 Dundas St. West

After trudging through the summer heat in Trinity Bellwoods Park, the last refreshment you'd think I'd want would be a hot cup of Joe. Well, I just happen to be insane and there just happened to be, on the north side of Dundas Street, just east of the park, a new coffee shop - The Communal Mule.

I just love when things just work out so well. I walked up to the counter by the lacquered tables and kitschy found objects and was delighted to bump into a chalkboard sign reading "All Fair Trade and Direct Trade Coffee" before ordering my latte for $3.75 and retreating to sit by the fan and survey the space.

An undoubtedly retro dentist light hovered over my table and a gigantic industrial orange clock - straight out of the dump - sat idly, unticking, on white walls adorned with other bizarre curiosities. A large black and white photo of an enthusiastic carpenter, a poster for Tod Browning's Freaks, people with laptops and books chatting and laughing, a huge fan and good tunes, what more could I ask for in a place to escape the heat?

Badass coffee. Oh yes, my latte was definitely badass. Brewing Intelligentsia or 49th parallel -I'm not sure which one I had - organic milk perfectly steamed, a nice bold edge to the espresso, a clean, fresh aftertaste. My companion, Max, grabbed a coffee which was also very good, freshly ground, sweet enough without being overstated. We walked out into the sun, hot beverages in hand, and instead of melting into pavement, felt rather refreshed and jovial. For a coffee shop that has only been around for two months (a tidbit told to me by the super friendly barista/owner) The Communal Mule has the atmosphere and ambiance of a local staple, offering great quality beans traded fairly or directly and some fun arty stuff to look at while you sip.

I will definitely be a new regular!

Taste of Little Italy | Photos by Matthew Filipowich

A Taste of Little Italy: so easy to say that it rolls off the tongue, so enjoyable to taste that it rolls down the tongue and leaves me yearning for more. Luckily getting more is hardly a challenge as all food comes at low prices right off the cart!

With College shut off from traffic all the way from Ossington until Bathurst and with the MMVAs shutting off a chunk of Queen, all city drivers are left extremely pissed off, but I merely tie up my invisible bib, raring to chomp into some serious Italian cuisine for Toronto’s Taste of Little Italy. The festival ensures that the vast majority of restaurants have put some food a la carte for patrons to eat on the side of the road for anywhere between three and five dollars. Although some stores straddle the six-dollar mark, there are enough cheap options to keep me snacking throughout the day. The festival runs from Friday until Sunday, leaving me ample time to stop by each day to check out the eats and stuff my face as much as a waning wallet will allow.

FRIDAY

After stopping briefly for a free sample of vitamin water, I am able to weave my way successfully through the myriad of remaining midway activity on a beautiful Friday evening; amid the hustle and bustle, the promotions and the musicians, I need to focus for I am here for nothing less than a bellyful of Italian cuisine.

Emerging from the herd, I find myself in front of Vecchio Frak, a beautiful little place just east of the Mod Club with a small, upscale type dining room. Off the curb, a strategically cute lady is serving either a plateful of butternut squash ravioli or three logs of spinach and ricotta cannelloni, both served for five dollars each. Too much of a sucker for cannelloni to refuse, I order and pull up some curb to quickly maul the meal: a fantastic appetizer that only whets my appetite, which is excellent as each taste does not constitute a full meal, leaving me with room to try a few different venues each day without stuffing myself. As I walk further down the crowded street, the tendrils of sounds from many different bands reach out, including an Italian choir of sorts on Grace street that sports a slow, syrupy accordion with some older Italian vocalists, belting out some traditional Italian tunes in a rustic, brass tenor.

After standing to watch this lively orchestra, I cross the street to Marinella, hunting down some meat to supplement my vegetarian appetizer. Fortunately, Marinella turns out to be serving lamb inside an eggplant adorned with mozzarella and parmesan cheese for five dollars. I prove powerless to resist and when the server notices me writing in a notebook she passes me a free biscotti, thankful that someone is covering the festival, which I break up and split with my compatriots, regretting the decision only slightly when I discover how delectable this crumbly cookie really is.

Walking through the crowd, I am repeatedly accosted by marketing agencies and different promotions, but some are in good fun, such as the I HEART TORONTO people that give out free balloons and pins that are often worn, augmenting the already superb vibes the festival is cranking out in droves.

Saturday

Although a fairly abysmal day, overcast and raining for the majority, the rain clears up around four o’clock to allow vendors to comfortably operate the carnivals, promotions and most importantly, the food. Having tested the lamb yesterday, I cannot and do not wish to stop my feet from dragging me to Café Diplomatico to test out some lamb skewers, three sticks for four dollars!

When I ask for three the cashier unabashedly states that he thinks I need six, and to sell his point his cohort passes me three sticks hot off the grill wrapped in a napkin. I quickly spout that I do indeed need six, so quickly in fact that he gives me an extra skewer for my enthusiasm! Hot damn, I love the Diplomatico, a staple among the College street restaurants. Enjoy the festival he says as Jessica Swanlake and I pull up some curb to enjoy our treat.

The skewers are fairly thin, so while I’ve consumed a decent portion with seven, I still need some dessert. My companions on Friday had recommended I Feel Like Crepe down the street, which readily supplies Nutella crepes with my choice of banana or strawberries for five dollars. While Jessica looks at the menu, I stand with a stupid grin on my face as one of the duo makes the crepe, swirling the batter around and around with a flat edge, while the other folds the completed crepe onto another warm element, deftly adding the toppings and folding the pastry into a tantalizing triangle.

Although the crepe is extremely difficult to maneuver with a paper plate and plastic utensils on a curb, the slopfest that follows is well worth it; the warm toppings dribble down my chin, emphasizing the stupid of my grin for all to see.

Is it wrong to want to try literally ever morsel I see, waning wallet be damned?

Sunday

So I arrive once more on College street after the weather clears up to finish off a great weekend of fine Italian snacking. However, I’m with Katje who unbeknownst to me has other plans:

A panzerotti at her childhood pizzeria, Bitondo’s.

Well shit, now I have to deviate from the festival. Not my idea, but I cannot turn down a great panzo and I obviously have to tell you all about it.

Right on Clinton just south of College rests Bitondo’s, a tucked away small pizzeria that has served the neighbourhood for years upon years. Katje, to placate my concern of leaving College street, has assured me that in this small building are served rather large pockets of joy and since deep-fried joy is some of my favourite joy, I relent and walk inside to the heat of the oven and the smell of freshly made pizza.

The seating is fairly scant and the temperature makes the heat outside laughable, but I immediately gravitate to the ancient Ms. PacMan game available for only twenty-five cents a play! Oh, so many childhood memories come flooding back to me, but unfortunately I am starving and quarterless at the moment, but I will be back to take on that top score, count on it. So we all order and wait about ten minutes until served up a slab of dough, cheese and tomato sauce, made in house, fresh as can be. Alright, I am sufficiently impressed, but everyone agrees that we need to head back to College to avoid the risk of heatstroke from the ovens and away we go.

However, I underestimate the girth of the panzo that fills me up more than the mere tastes that I’ve become accustomed to, so with only a few dollars jangling in my pocket I walk down to Euclid to find that the main midway has parked itself here, including carnival games and a celebrity photo booth complete with cardboard cutouts of Obama and a particularly dazzling gold-suited Elvis. Yet what captures my attention most of all is the gambling game Crown and Anchor that my father allowed me to bet illegally for him in my youth, so to honour my father on his assigned day I toss down a few dollars to try and raise money for one last snack, but alas, my last three dollars are quickly drained and I head for home, fully satisfied with all the tastes I’ve received during this glorious weekend rife with the snacks of Italy.

A Taste of Little Italy has been one hell of a festial that truly outlines the hard work of the talented cooks along the College stretch, extending patios and accentuating the excellent dining rooms, yet I still find it infinitely more appealing to grab a bite and hunker down on a curb to snap up my meal before moving on with the neverending throng of people walking down the street in the failing light, enjoying not only the food but the atmosphere of a beautiful street in Toronto usually cut off by the streetcar and automobile traffic.

I bid the fondest of farewells to a festival that not only opens up the street for a superb sampling of all the kitchens, but an event that allows the people to reclaim the road for themselves, for there were nothing but excellent vibrations from the musicians, from the restaurants and from the people simply enjoying a casual stroll along College for as much Italian cuisine as anyone could handle. I can only wait impatiently for a Taste of the Danforth, a similar festival for the Greeks happening early August from the seventh until the ninth. If you missed Taste of Little Italy, make the extra effort to pop over to the east end for a feed that you won’t easily forget.

Comments

• July 15, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - Steel Bananas Issue 9 writes: [...] The Succulent Snackfest of Little Italy! [...]
• July 22, 2009, Curran Folkers writes: Those crepes, they're haunting my dreams.

Austrians Elisabeth and Josef Fritzl were the parents of seven children. One of them, Michael, died tragically three days after his birth from respiratory problems. When their oldest daughter, Kerstin fell ill, Elisabeth convinced Josef to arrange for an ambulance to take her to the hospital. Elisabeth was made to stay home while Josef drove to the hospital later, claiming to have read a note from Kerstin’s mother. Medical staff found his story suspicious and it was soon discovered that the 31-year age difference between Elisabeth and Josef is far creepier than the old “age is just a number” excuse. Elisabeth is actually Josef’s daughter whom he imprisoned in the basement when she turned 18. Josef told his wife, Rosemarie (Elisabeth’s mother) that she had run away and instructed them to leave her be. Meanwhile, he was repeatedly raping her and hiding their incest children in the basement. When there were too many of them to fit in the small space, he started “discovering” infants on his doorstep that were presumably his grandchildren.  All the while, his wife was completely oblivious to her missing daughter being literally under her nose, quietly raising three of her grandchildren for 25 years. Josef has been sentenced to life imprisonment for all the icky things that he did and his face now rivals Hitler’s when google image searching “evil man Europe”.

Now, don’t think that incest only happens in the other corners of the world. An unnamed 38-year-old and his sister got drunk off of alcohol-laced mouthwash in a park in Sarnia, Ontario. She passed out and he performed oral sex on her unconscious body. He doesn’t remember the incident at all but doesn’t deny that it happened. They were discovered by a family around 6:30 pm on a park bench. Is it wrong that I find this story three hundred times more fucked up than the last one? I just have so many questions. How much mouthwash do you have to drink to get unconscious-drunk off it? Or were they drinking something else before and then turned to mouthwash in drunken desperation? I’m also wondering whether “alcohol-laced” means that the mouthwash had alcohol content (don’t they all?) or if they deliberately added the alcohol. Why couldn’t they just drink the alcohol by itself? And how early did they start drinking that they were found semi-conscious at 6:30 pm?

This last story isn’t really about sex but it was too good to exclude. It’s about this woman who claims to be a hat and/or the reincarnation of Venus who’s suing Hugh Hefner for three billion dollars because he, along with a pedophile organization, has been after her since she was five. According to Sheri Allred, Hugh Hefner had an affair with her adopted mother and tried to pick her up when she was 15. The five page document is barely comprehensible. It reads like something that’s been translated from English to German to Spanish to Mandarin and then back to English. I sincerely doubt Ms Allred will be getting her three billion dollars but with the right editor, she can probably write some pretty serious fan-fiction.

Comments

• August 4, 2009, Alicia writes: ...and I'm celibate.

The Common
1071 College Street @ Gladstone

Just East of College and Dufferin resides the Common, which I have passed by many times in the morning to witness a teeming interior, but during the afternoon when things have calmed down I can stop in and claim a table for my own.

The Common is stamped on the front window in illustrious brown curves with thick panels of stained glass standing out above. I enter to find a fairly rustic, fairly worn down location: some old decaying signs adorn the walls, including an ancient “fresh home made Laura Secord Candies, for every occasion” and an old ice cream sign that may or may not have been salvaged from a garbage site. The old green counter is chipped and worn and the tattered, old red floor has certainly seen better days.

Behind the counter there are some antique one and two-dollar Canadian bills, some old postcards and photos, as well as some drawings obvious etched by children. Ivy has been artfully hung from nails attached by elastic bands and while there are not many seats, the one wall is lined with second hand wooden benches while small wooden chairs lie in every other space the shop has to offer. There are also four seats placed out front for customers to enjoy the summer air, sitting along College in the sunlight. The imperfect off-white walls seal the deal of the atmosphere, for therein lies the appeal of the Common: an authentic coffee shop that serves its customers faithfully, unabashed by the DIY shoddiness of the interior.

Behind the counter, above the tubs of coffee, children’s toys have been arranged for your viewing pleasure, a coffee shop that does not shy away from being playful. Along the front window some toys and books aimed at children are within reach, leading me to believe that the coffee shop is excessively child friendly.

Although the Common does not appear to have many victuals to offer, late in the day a cake and some cookies in jars on the counter are still available for your snacking needs. I order a latte that is served with water as opposed to milk, The lady serving it to me excessively friendly in an I LOVE NY t-shirt, allowing me to decide how high the water should rise to personalize the ratio of coffee to water. The dark roast, which I had black to be bold, was beautifully bitter, perking me up and dancing on the taste buds. The Wifi is plentiful, the atmosphere is excellent and I will surely return to replenish my caffeine stores when I get the chance

Comments

• July 16, 2009, Patrick Grant writes: ...isn't a latte with water just a cup of coffee? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills! Also, I want to visit this place. It sounds pretty wicked. Childrens toys and cookies are the way to my heart.

In high school, we learned that there are four purposes of prison: punishment, protection (of the society from the convicted and of the convicted from society), deterrence (from the general population and recidivism), and rehabilitation. Someone commits a crime, is convicted, and goes to jail for the above-mentioned reasons – it seems rather simple and sensible. But no, the criminal justice system is not just a place of deep corruption; it’s sometimes just plain weird.

Will jail for food. Photo/Matthew Filipowich

Think the recession is a huge bummer? So does the 45-year-old Taiwanese arsonist who asked for more prison time after serving his 10-year sentence. Unable to find employment, the starving man was on the street longing to return to life behind bars. These are hard economic times so before you start complaining about how difficult it is to find a summer job, be thankful that you’re not willing to forsake your freedom for a sandwich just yet.

Voluntary prison time isn’t just for poor arsonists and Michael Scofield, one very brave Illinois sheriff spent a week in jail to educate himself on prison life and recidivism programs. I know it’s only a week but he’s a sheriff and though I’m not an expert on the political viewpoints of inmates, I do think that it would be fair to assume that they probably really hate sheriffs. They would probably hate anyone who’s choosing to subject himself to prison life for a short amount of time with the intention of walking out “knowing” what serving prison time is like. It’s like when Tyra Banks pretended to be homeless for a day. I’m sure actual homeless people wanted to claw her famous face off.

For those interested in avoiding prison time whilst still enjoying the thrills of committing crime, one option is to increase your BMI ... by a whole lot. In 2008 alone, there were four news stories about convicts who were deemed too fat for jail. Mafiosi Salvatore Ferranti weighing in at 462 pounds did not fit in any the beds available at Italian prisons. Mayra Lizbeth Rosales, a woman convicted of murdering her two-year-old nephew, tips the scales at nearly 1000 lbs and can’t even get out her front door. I suppose morbid obesity is a prison in its own way.

Another way to circumvent the law is to be dead. George Morales, who died of heart disease inside his minivan, went undiscovered for weeks as officers only paused to write him a new parking ticket. The body was finally found when a city marshal attempted to tow the vehicle from beneath the overpass where it was parked.

For anyone wondering how the criminal justice system is corrupt (oh, you naive schmucks), this is for you: In Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, two judges were discovered of being paid millions of dollars from privately owned youth detention centres to convict and sentence children for minor offences (I’m talking setting up a myspace page that makes fun of the vice-principal and writing a prank note). These detention centres are reliant on a steady stream of young offenders in order to make money, receive grants and justify costs – to stay in business, essentially.

To learn more about how the law can screw you over, go rent this movie:

http://www.mrbigthemovie.com/

Also, the following sites are very helpful:

http://www.reuters.com/article/oddlyEnoughNews/idUSTRE51N4SL20090224

http://uk.reuters.com/article/oddlyEnoughNews/idUKN2046426420080820

http://hotlist.uk.msn.com/hotlist/mafia-man-salvatore-ferranti-too-fat-for-jail.aspx

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,23562972-661,00.html

http://www.citynews.ca/news/news_29112.aspx

http://www.neatorama.com/2008/08/25/too-fat-for-jail/

http://www.komonews.com/news/national/47044742.html

http://www.winnipegsun.com/news/world/2009/02/11/8356176-ap.html

photo/Matthew Filipowich

I have undertaken, in these notes, the challenge that a vegetarian faces every day: not eating meat. I am skeptically hanging up my canines to embrace the molar action that I predominantly deem less important. Not that I am against the vegetarian movement in general – I mean hell, everyone has got to eat something. I simply cannot understand how a human being can willingly look at a monstrously over-sized steak and say: “Not for me.”

Or how anyone could possibly smell bacon sizzling and not sit erect at the table, eagerly awaiting the moment when it arrives, pancakes and syrup a pleasing afterthought. As a direct consequence of a thoroughly healthy suburban upbringing, I can certainly appreciate the inclusion of vegetables into a meal, but will never comprehend the decision to abandon that pure bliss of ripping into a hank of meat and picking the bone down to its last. In spite of this overwhelming condition, I have decided to provisionally pass up my established animal-driven food chain and settle down with some vegetarian and vegan Toronto alternatives.

Vegetarian Haven

I turn onto Baldwin street to enter Vegetarian Haven with Jessica Swanlake for the dinner menu. The dining room contains white tiled tables and while older red brick walls one side of the room, white-edged mirrors dominate the other. Although the Vegetarian Haven logo hangs dramatically alone in the dining room, independent art hangs further down the wall.

When the server comes to seat us he wears a large grin, thriving in the busy dinner rush. He then belts off a speech of such precision that I had to ask him to dictate back to me later:

“Alright everyone move in close, I’ll present the daily specials once for all of you! These are our amazing vegan sushi rolls with crispy seaweed wrapped around our chewy tofu skin center – it’s a light, flaky texture – which is drizzled with our house black bean sauce. The dish rests on a bed of Cantonese chow mein noodles with stir fried green beans, mushrooms and red peppers on the side.”

Yeah, I got that. I could barely even listen when he talked about the soup. When I sat at the table I mulled over a few other dishes, but I had to get that. And get this, I ordered Outrageous ginger ale with my meal based on name alone, supplied by an organic brand name “Real Brew.”

This version has less of a sugary bite than a commercial brand and the waiter pours it from the bottle into a glass for me. Jessica Swanlake has already eaten, but orders an appetizer for us to share, avocado rolls.

The avocado arrives in a light, paper-thin tortilla with sprouts, apple, tomatoes and lettuce. Loosely rolled, these cannons supply a shot of wasabi-mayo countered by the crisp apple strips and the avocado. My meal arrives shortly after, still steaming from the kitchen: lettuce, carrots and bean sprouts weave through the chow mein along with stir-fried vegetables, the black bean drizzle spreading from the tofu into the noodles to give the dish a consistent black-bean base. The dinner special changes every few days, so perhaps you’ll come in one day and they’ll make this again, but if not you’re fucked because it was delicious. But so were the avocado appetizers, demonstrating that there are many other Vegetarian Haven dishes to explore.

Hibiscus

I walk up to the crossroads of Augusta and Nassau in Kensington to reach a small vegan café named Hibiscus. As I enter to a fairly erratic seating arrangement, the oscillating fans spin lazily in the cool weather, swinging above as many tables and benches that can be crammed into the small dining space. At the back of the restaurant, an old Kensington station clock from London keeps accurate time above an assortment of tea that wraps around the wall. The kitchen is tucked away at the back of the café and the cashier’s counter is in front of my table below a wall unit that holds jars of spices and dry pasta. Some independent art on the wall includes local photography and craftwork.

After checking the menu I decide to try a “Mad Crepe,” which is a buckwheat crepe that contains no wheat flour, dairy or egg. From a menu of either sweet or savoury, I choose one of the “savoury gallettes,” consisting of vegan mozzarella cheese, spinach and mushrooms. The menu is fairly scant: with only soup, deserts, coffee and other drinks, the emphasis lays firmly on the crepes, but for good reason because my order arrives packed with basil, garlic, pepper, roasted eggplant paste, and pesto, which I am once more assured is entirely gluten free. The thin crepe is folded with one side open, mushrooms blooming out the top with a tuft of spinach applied for colour, mozzarella and spices generously applied throughout.

The meal was great for late morning –a substantial midday vegan portion to keep you going for awhile without any sluggish digestion resulting from meat consumption. The staff are friendly and diligent; they grin easily on my way out, thanking me for my patronage.

Get Real!

I approach another vegetarian café, Get Real!, heading south on Ossington below Dundas. Upon entering the small sitting room, I catch sight of very colourful abstract art on the wall and green leaf table clothes laid upon every table, all of which hold the smallest potted daisies I have ever seen. The counter at the front sells take-away treats while the cashier counter at the back serves coffee.

The waitress serves water with a single grape which, although I did not taste a difference, is a nice touch nonetheless. I order a crustini with arugula pesto spread, portobello mushrooms sautéed in rosemary, sliced tomatoes and brie cheese, garnished with fresh basil. After my Outrageous ginger ale experience, I decided to try some organic root beer, which is much less sweet than its commercial counterpart and turns out to be completely colourless.

My meal is served open faced directly off the press and the service is quite good, although my server is fairly reserved and does not stand out in the face of the extremely exuberant service I have received at the other vegetarian locations. A great up and coming location, I will return in the summer for lighter vegetarian portions.

Fressen

Under the red puck light of my small upstairs table, I check out the décor at Fressen, which is a large split level restaurant residing on Queen West. The lower level is a full dining room, while a large wooden bar splits the upper level; some trees bridge the gap between levels, creating a dark, subdued atmosphere in the restaurant.

A waitress hails me from the bar and when I cannot supply a satisfactory answer to a menu decision, she insists that I have the pan seared king shitake and honey mushrooms, served on cold spinach with lemon garlic sauce. She avows that she has eaten the dish every shift for the past two years and that the mushrooms are definitively the best meal on the menu. So, with my assent, she promptly submits my order to the kitchen only to return swiftly with three pieces of warm bread, served with an incredible bean dip made with white beans, dill, hemp butter, garlic, olive oil and lemon juice, which is so flavourful that I ask for a second order.

While waiting for my order I continue to peruse the menu, which I turn over to find that Fressen has posted the definition of sharing:

• To divide and parcel out in shares; apportion

• To participate in, use, enjoy, or experience, jointly or in turns

• To relate (a secret or experience, for example) to another or others

• To accord a share in (something) to another or others: shared her apple with a friend

But then my meal arrived and I forget everything I just learned about sharing, glad that I am eating alone because I definitely don’t want to give up a single mushroom. The bed of spinach is well dressed with lemon sauce, yet staving off any notion of sogginess. Garnished with thyme, garlic, leek, white wine and olive oil, the lemon sauce spreads flavour to the entire dish, the honey undercoat barely able to rise through to the surface; while the mushrooms are well cooked, the highlight of this dishes is the sauces. To finish the meal, the waitress brings me an apple ginger lemon juice that she informs me can be made into a great cocktail – the drink certainly has the edge to snuff the taste of the strongest of alcohols.

Perhaps simply because of the touching sentiment of the Fressen menu, I have to recommend checking out all of these locations: Vegetarian Haven or Fressen for a substantial meal and Hibiscus or Get Real! for a midday stop. I may have had a more personal experience with the servers at my dinner locations, yet the café environment has much quicker turnaround, which allots less time to establish even a temporary relationship. Each of these locations have delicious dishes to offer and all of them support the local arts; I cannot imagine not supporting them back. So while this jaunt into vegetarianism is in no way permanent, I actually have had no real problem without meat, although I still find it hard to believe that beans can supply an equal protein supplement to meat; somehow it just doesn’t seem proper. Call me a callous carnivore, or even a malicious meathead if you must, just don’t call me late for a steak dinner. Oh, and that ambiguously phrased bacon reference in my opening remarks can absolutely be taken sexually because that is one hell of a visual.

Linuxcafe
326 Harbord Street @ Grace

What the fuck is Linux anyway? I’ve had it (sort of) explained to me a number of times and I’m continually stalled by words that I don’t understand coupled with the speed at which they are delivered to me because everyone that’s into Linux is really, really excited about it. “Open Source,” “Kernel,” what the fuck is this jazz?

Whoa there, fella, I’m an English major: my knowledge of computers doesn’t go far beyond the fact that they compute things (or something to that extent). I can turn it on, I can browse with the best of them (or at least with the most decidedly mediocre of them) and I can sure as shit write up a mean Word document. Other than that, I would probably have better luck trying to read Ulysses while fucked out of my tree on mushrooms standing in the middle of the 401 than attempting to figure out even the most rudimentary computer-related procedures.

But I digress: what the fuck is Linux anyway?

These are the things I think of when I think of Linux: “DIY”, “They have a penguin for a mascot”, “It’s free” and to quote Alexander Keith’s ad men, “Those who like it, like it a lot.” That’s about it. Will I ever unearth the mysteries of the ethereal program (is it a program?) known as Linux? Dave, proprietor of the Linuxcafe on Harbord nearly burst blood vessels trying to drill it into my prose-padded skull, but oh reader, how I resisted! Poor man, I didn’t understand a darn word he said to me.

Ah, just as well. I suppose it is my fault for making a special trip to Grace and Harbord to check out a place called Linuxcafe. What could I possibly have expected, a passing relation to the kernel (nudge nudge, yeah?) and that would be about it? What I did stumble upon, according to Dave, is in fact the Linux collective’s North American headquarters. Alright!

Well, anyway, as an Operating System/Collective/Kernel/Program/Open Source Thingy (etc.), Linux escapes me like a pesky roadrunner, but as a coffee spot, Linuxcafe is damn charming. As the hub of operations for the Open Source Geek community of Toronto, and by extension, the universe, there are just as many glowing laptops presided over by as many geeks as you would expect, but oh, there’s so much more! In between the stacks and shelves of code books, toy penguins (plush and otherwise) and other assorted nerd paraphernalia, Harbord Street’s modest strip offers a fine little place for nerds and un-nerds alike to get together and share a latte with some interesting and cool people, while at once maybe learning a thing or two about Open Source. Brewing the Toronto staple, I Deal Coffee, which is now brewed, like, everywhere, Linuxcafe halts its trendy factor right there and goes into full gear with unbridled, spectacular kitsch that assaults you from all directions. In the fun, laidback sort of way you’d expect from a coffee shop with a computer theme.

I’m going to end this on a note that will sum up for you the vibe of Linuxcafe very cleanly and simply:

Ahem,

Linuxcafe serves a wide variety of cold cereal.

You see what I mean?

Bulldog Coffee
89 Granby Street @ Church

This coffee shop is actually really really close to my apartment. I heard about their pretty lattes and rad coffee a while ago, but was constantly put off by online reviews citing the terrible service and mean staff, leading me to take the streetcar all the way over to Zoots or set up shop at the beloved Jet Fuel. Who wants a java from a jerk?

I finally bit the proverbial bullet a week ago - remembering that the lovely Jet Fuel staff got shitty reviews from under-caffienated interweb stone-throwers - and hit up Bulldog for a latte and cookie, Mr. Associate in tow, expecting some cold shoulders and bad attitude. To my delight, there was none! This quaint little shop boasts an understated mod decor, cute bulldog pictures, big bright windows, and the nicest barrista I have ever met. When I approached the counter I was met with the most sincere smile ever from an undoubtedly teenaged youth and a stacked drink menu which sported all of the coffee lover's essentials. I ordered a latte, Mr. Associate grabbed a chai, and we picked out a chocolate chip cookie to share before sitting down beside a large window and critiquing the fare.

Steamed milk swirled to perfection

Man, the latte was so pretty I didn't even want to drink it! The steamed milk was swirled to perfection - something Bulldog Coffee touts as a standard of service. I was glad once I decided to deface the design, though - the coffee was just superb. It wasn't as light as a Jet Fuel latte, but it came pretty close; a subtle bitterness beneath perfectly steamed milk and a fresh, sweet earthiness to the grind. Paired with a badass chunky chocolate chip cookie that hailed back to Mom's kitchen, my tastebuds were overwhelmed with the refined homestyle flavour of Bulldog. It was fantastic! I also had the pleasure of sampling Mr. Associate's chai latte, which kicked the shit out of Starbucks' pre-packaged spiced tea, an extra hint of cinnamon (and nutmeg, I think, but I couldn't put my finger on it) gave it a unique and home-made flair which really impressed me.

The shop was a tad small, but they have a quaint little patio that opened up as we (and the rain) left for the afternoon. Sidestepping the kitsch, it's a sweet, simple little place to get a rad grind and enjoy some relaxed conversation. I'll definitely head back there soon to sit dumbly over the beautiful coffee-art until my latte gets cold.

Badass.

How did the thought process work?

“A monotonous green carpet would look great in front of my house… I’m so sick of these adorable yellow and purple flowers. I will stop at nothing to rid my yard of biodiversity.”

“Yes I agree. Clearly, dangerous chemicals are the best idea."

I bet it sounded better as an internal monologue.

Are you using your lawn to tee off when playing neighbourhood golf? If you are, you’ve probably got bigger problems than lawn care. For one, your neighbours hate you. Last year I got fliers in the mail. I saw the trucks skulking around my neighbourhood. The green and yellow monster sat across the street from my house, salivating, just wishing the hippies would move out and some respectable, lawn-loving individuals would move in. But we’re not going anywhere, and here’s why: I love my lawn, I love my natural ground cover, and by gum, I love the diverse little ecosystem that’s built up in my yard over the past 20 pesticide/herbicide-free years.

And guess what lawn jockeys! I WIN.

As of Earth Day, cosmetic pesticides and herbicides were officially made illegal in Ontario. Yes, the government has finally realized that hazardous chemicals are in fact... hazardous. It’s all part of McGuinty’s initiative to protect kids from toxic chemicals. Strangely, there had to be an initiative. Of course there’s been violent opposition to the crazy idea. I remember hearing a public service announcement on the radio a year or two ago, funded by outraged citizens who couldn’t believe that the government wanted to take away our right to blast the hell out of dandelions with near-nuclear force. It went something like “Pop... Pop... Pop. Pop. Poppopopopop. This is the sound a dandelion makes when it invades your yard. And you can expect to hear a lot more of it. The government wants to make using harmful chemicals illegal. Be afraid.” That might not be the exact phrasing, but I give them kudos for making full use of the common, deep seeded fear of cute sound effects. It was indeed terrifying. It almost made me run to the store and buy up all the chemicals I could before the government passed this ridiculous law.

But hilarious sarcasm aside, I am ecstatic. And even if you’re one of the die-hard “only one shade of green” lawn lovers, you should be too. There are about a million reasons (you heard me, a million) to consider embracing a natural lawn. Here are just a few:

#1: It’s pretty.

What we call “weeds” are just “plants” that “we” don’t want in our yards. In most cases, that means anything that’s not Kentucky bluegrass or some lovely perennial that your mom planted. Stop lynch-mobbing beautiful wildflowers into the weed category. Let them live on your property. They can’t afford to buy their own. Especially not in this economy.

Creeping buttercup, tall buttercup, wild violets, white clover, honeysuckle-- and, yes, dandelion are the kinds of flowers that make stepping outside all worthwhile. Pick some and put them in a vase. Your guests will find it quaint.

#2: Have allergies? Take a Claritin and stop whining.

It seems that allergy sufferers can save themselves some “untold grief” by using herbicides on their lawns. Because as we all know, one dandelion-free lawn keeps the rest of the world from pollinating. No one likes a whiner… This is a pointed comment towards Marni Soupcoff at the National Post. To hear her side of the argument, please look here.

#3: It’s better for our water supply.

Herbicides and fertilizers trickle down into groundwater aquifers which eventually empty into lakes and streams. Toronto gets its water from Lake Ontario so every chemical you don’t put on your lawn is a chemical that you won’t be drinking down your throat or bathing every inch of your body in later.

#4: Biodiversity.

Ground level systems are home to a huge number of species. Some of those species are endangered. Honey bees in particular have been having a tough time lately. The pesticide ban gives them one less thing to worry about. And the herbicide ban gives them more pollen and nectar options. Pretty bugs like dragonflies and butterflies love wildflowers too. If you see milkweed in your yard, do a monarch butterfly a favour and leave it there. It’s the only thing their kids will eat.

#5: It tastes good.

Lots of “weeds” are edible. If you don’t know much about telling the difference between edible and lethal, start small and throw some baby dandelion greens into your salad. It’s good for your liver. If you want to get really crazy pull the petals out of a handful of clover and honey suckle and toss that in there too.

Just don’t eat your weeds if they’ve been into the herbicide. It’s probably best to avoid eating harmful chemicals.

Thanks for the update, Dalton.

-Zoë Gardiner

I’ll start you off with one you’re probably familiar with. Let’s pretend that you’re 30-something year old man with a young daughter and a teenage stepson. One day, you come home and find your stepson brutally sodomising your daughter. You call the cops, of course, and he goes to jail. You tell your wife to not post bail for him, but she does anyway. Somehow, fate has arranged it so that you’re the one driving your little rapist of a stepson home from jail. Do you drive him home? Or do you take him to an abandoned house and sodomise him with a wrench? You know, to give him a taste of his own medicine. I mean, an eye for an eye is not a good policy but he raped your eight-year-old daughter. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who didn’t agree that the shithead deserved that wrench, and more.

Rape is a very serious matter. Don’t think for one minute that I’m making light of it. So please, imagine this next story being read to you in an extra stern, rape-is-a-bad-thing voice. Two months ago in the small Russian town of Meschovsk, a 32-year-old man entered and held up a beauty salon. Olga, the owner, a 28-year-old yellow belt in karate (yes, they mentioned this in the article as if my neighbour’s 7-year-old son didn’t have the same status) took him down while she was pretending to hand him money and subsequently locked him in the utility room. When everyone else left, assuming she was going to call the police, she ordered the robber to take off his underpants (and regular pants, I guess). I think you know where this is going: Olga raped her hostage for three days. Here is a direct quote from the source: “She chained Viktor to the radiator with pink furry handcuffs and fed him Viagra.” Pink furry handcuffs? How is this not a porno? Anyway, she let him go after the three days and the first place he went was to the hospital because his genitals were injured. Then, he went to the police to report Olga for rape. Her response? “Yes, we had sex a couple of times. But I’ve bought him new jeans, gave him food and even gave him 1.000 roubles when he left.” I’m not really an expert on courting rituals but somehow I think Olga might have missed the point here.

Okay, enough about rape. Let’s move on to a good ol’ fashioned beating. When a 17-year-old marching band member was approached by two muggers, she did what any well-behaved girl would do: she kicked the shit out of them. One of them was punched in the face, the other kneed in the groin. Then she finished them off with her band baton before calling it a day. I’m going to choose to believe that the reason her name isn’t published isn’t because she’s underage but because she’s actually Sailor Moon.

It’s been a tough day for muggers and robbers but nothing beats David’s story. David, a 59-year-old American, robbed a bank sometime at the end of January. He successfully escaped but crashed his getaway car so he had to take the bus, then the taxi, and finally had to call his sister to pick him up. When he finally arrived home to enjoy his measly $3750US that he stole from the bank, he discovered that his roommate had committed suicide. David quickly called the police who arrested him after spotting the stash of money. I’m picturing a bag of money with a dollar sign on it sitting in plain sight right next to his pantyhose mask. It’s kind of sad, right? He tried so hard.

For more WEIRD details, check out:

http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/248772/Stepfather_Rapes_Stepson_After_Stepson_Released_From_Jail_For_Raping_Stepsister
http://russiatoday.ru/Top_News/2009-04-14/Hairdresser_turns_robber_into_sex-slave.html?fullstory
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090430/ap_on_fe_st/odd_marching_band_beating;_ylt=ArE7R0zuakbFwAmk0ivZzsUDW7oF
http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,25244101-38198,00.html

Comments

• May 18, 2009, Curran Folkers writes: Nancy, this is great stuff. Keep it up, I implore you.

-    Convenience Store: specializes in selling basic food items, a variety of small non-food items and often includes movie rentals.
-    Convenience Store/Gas Station: a convenience store combined with a place for supplying motor vehicles with gasoline, motor oil, water, etc.
-    Franchise: the privilege, often exclusive, of selling the products of a manufacturer or providing a company's service in a given area.

While I remain unconvinced of this inherent privilege, most convenience stores are merely franchises of a bigger market, such as the all-powerful Seven-Eleven or Couche-Tard’s ever-growing Mac’s chain as the corporation in question covers the majority of the operation costs including all utilities, inventory and taxes, thus making it extremely easy for the continued popping-up of these outlets. The key to conceiving a profitable convenience store lies entirely in the location; nearby stores that could bring about downfall are known as “convenience goods stores,” which may include supermarkets, hardware stores, bakeries, package stores, and drug stores. If a shop is set up too close to an established goods store, people will be less willing to support the business, ultimately leading to the full-scale collapse of the new convenience store.

The Government suggests, to avoid such catastrophic ends, that the retailer offer a variety of goods to appeal to the average consumer. While each store must fine tune its inventory based on the wants of their consumers, blanket statistics provide a useful framework: “Groceries - 26%, Cookies/Snacks - 7%, Ice Cream - 4%, Candy - 3%, Soft Drinks - 12%, Frozen Snacks - 5%, Health/Beauty - 4%, Meat - 2%, Dairy - 10%, Non-foods - 5%, Produce - 3%, Tobacco - 2%, Deli Items - 7%, Magazines - 5%, Baked Goods - 3%, Other - 2%.” However, this breakdown divides food-based items into categories that could be easily lumped together. For taxation purposes, the government separates food sales into three separate categories – prepared, snacks and soft drinks:

“Prepared foods are ready-to-eat foods bought from an eating establishment, and include take-out and eat-in service. Examples of prepared foods are meals, pizzas, sandwiches, hand-scooped ice cream, five or fewer pastries, and non-alcoholic drinks such as coffee, tea, milk and juice. Snack foods include candies, gum, chips, pretzels, ice cream bars, and individual portions of prepackaged snack cakes or prepackaged pastries. Soft drinks are non-alcoholic drinks, such as pop, bottled water and fruit drinks with less than 25 per cent natural fruit juice.”

What a sad state of affairs when consumers recognize a drink as a fruit drink without much fruit juice used at all - give it up for synthetic fruit! Yet convenience has become a large part of everyday life. Grocery stores and large commercial outlets alienate us from our neighbourhoods, to the point that we now see Riverdale farm isolated in the east end of Toronto framed by the DVP; grocery stores carry inexpensive meat, directly affecting business of the local butcher; restaurants import cheaper produce rather than buying it from a local farmer, regardless of chemical additives that preserve food just long enough to serve. Convenience stores have become a capitalist staple – a retail market that profits via markups and the societal necessity to have snacks close at hand, no matter the cost. Eventually, all convenience stores begin to look the same and I had resigned myself to this actuality, until recently informed of a courageous spin on an Eglinton West convenience store from my friend Nuke Wasteland.

WTF?

Nuke owns Eglinton West like the Toronto Maple Leafs own a pronounced sense of failure: an unfathomable badass delivered inside a nuclear reactor by Mephistopheles and sired by a quark. Yeah, there’s really no reason to question his judgment whatsoever. So when Nuke boldly purports that the best sushi he’s ever tasted is at a crossroad a few blocks east of Eglinton West and Spadina, located in a convenience store run by a florist that employs a Sushi chef, I know it will make for a radioactively good time. We strut past rich high schools and lesser East-Asian restaurants until we reach our goal, an unassuming building that boldly displays its services, a myriad of fresh flowers flowing onto the sidewalk.

After a proud flourishing gesture and a photo-op of our destination, Nuke leads the way through the door into the cleanest, most neatly organized convenience store I have been to in my life; not one box of cookies out of place nor an errant chocolate bar to be seen. Nuke shows me through an aisle to the back room where the sushi and DVD rentals reside. The entrance to the dining room is flanked by a few standing spools of holiday cards on the right and a Haagen-Dazs freezer on the left, on which an old VCR-endowed TV displays an orchestra playing the gamut of royalty-free songs, including a medley of Scottish pipes, Happy New Year and an odd Brazilian rendition of Beethoven’s fifth. Nuke informs me that this tape runs consistently on repeat. Taking a step inside, a fridge filled exclusively with dairy products lines one wall while the movie rentals dominate the other. Unfortunately, the one available table is full; not to worry, they’re nearly finished and we can wait on the removed car seat doubling as a bench. The sushi is served from a single counter tucked into the back corner, adorned with the standard lucky hand-waving cat, a self-serve coffee jug, speakers for the enthusiastic European conductor and a sign on the wall displaying the specials: today they are serving “Salmon and Abocado” rolls. While waiting for our seat we each grab a drink from inside the convenience store, for we have the advantage of choosing from the large drink selection of the adjoining store. I casually glance over the menu options, but Nuke has already chosen our meal: the Black Dragon roll and the Spicy Salmon pizza, toppings served on a bed of deep-fried rice. We aren’t given personal plates, but a bouquet of fresh flowers sprout from a plastic water bottle, a welcome addition to the peculiar dining room. The zealous composer moves onto a Jewish Hava Nagila and the virtual audience rises to dance their appreciation.

When our meal arrives I am pleased to see I actually receive, instead of a chopped up roll of sushi, an actual black dragon, albeit a runty infant dragon. The Black Dragon is served as a cohesive whole: a tail of shrimp sticks playfully out the back of the roll, scales of black seaweed crisscross the back and the head is buried in a pile of ginger and parsley. The innards are composed of avocado, crab, cucumber, red tobiko, barbequed eel, shrimp and lettuce. The Spicy salmon pizza turns out to be a Spicy salmon mountain: the tempura-coated rice disk supports a pile of raw salmon, cucumber and crab, capped with red tobiko. Volcanic torrents of spicy orange sauce run down the sides and although Nuke warns me of the sauce-fury, I misjudge my bite and am forced to clamp my mouth firmly around my Snapple, washing away the severe edge of this antagonistic sauce, made primarily from Sriracha Hot Chili Sauce, that swiftly overwhelms my taste buds.

Whether the sushi chef uses local ingredients I cannot say, as he does not speak enough English to properly inquire, but the sushi is incredible regardless. This convenience store has no need of a lucky hand-waving cat to convince me of the diversity of services they provide: I use the convenience store to purchase my drink, eat from the sushi counter at the back, and on the way out am able to purchase a bouquet of roses for Mother’s Day. This sushi diner is a gem hidden in a neighbourhood that caters staunchly to the middle class suburban wife; while downtown residents take the book, coffee and other various independent shops downtown for granted, those that live in midtown are lambasted with gaudy dress shops, pottery depots and lesser cuisine, all of which close early.

There are two outlooks on this convenience development as an influence on the neighbourhood. Obviously our culture has embraced these stores, regardless of their implications to local businesses, but this convenience store may have underlying advantages. If ingredients are purchased locally, the sushi depot supports local farmers and butchers, which is certainly admirable. In addition, the foreign chef has found a position to thrive in this neighbourhood and serves a quality meal, which I cannot begrudge him for – this joint business venture has many facets that appeal to the local consumer and will continue to do so for many years. However, although I myself frequent these stores to fuel my snacking addiction, I cannot shake the negative sensation I reserve for convenience retail. These stores, for the most part, truly subvert the efforts of other local locations: instead of sitting down to a meal with family and friends, enjoying the effort of an independent restaurant that undertakes something new, our culture accepts that which comes easily and quickly due to the encouraged reception of prepackaged cuisine, regardless of the corporate stronghold in production. I would never buy bread from a convenience store when, on Dundas street alone, several Portuguese bakers compete for clientele. Although there can be no proper solution to this issue, a good dichotomy can exist between local efforts and large corporations to sway the influence of these middle retailers that simply strive to find their own corner of the world from which to operate. Unfortunately, there is no universal ground that influences the incentive of these retailers outside of money, so I’ll lend my support to this Eglinton West branch that bends the strict parameters of the convenience market, allowing a successful sushi branch to grow from within and become a part of a fairly reserved capitalist neighbourhood.

Works Cited, peruse these links at your own convenience!

http://www.macs.ca/
http://vincentsushi.com/
http://www.conveniencestores.ca/
http://www.rev.gov.on.ca/english/guides/rst/910.html
http://www.canadabusiness.ca/servlet/ContentServer?cid=1085679426183&pagename=CBSC_ON%2Fdisplay&lang=en&c=GuideHowto

Ezra’s Pound
913 Dundas West @ Bellwoods

I have to say, I’ve never been totally convinced that Ezra Pound was all that messianic as he’s sometimes made out to be - fascism aside. Let’s be honest here, we all did some things we weren’t proud of during the war, but having made that clear, Ezra Pound always seemed like he’d be a pretty big douche even if he weren’t all up in Mussolini’s grill. I’m not sure if I was expecting to be treated to a cup of coffee with a side of Doom, or a room full of people speaking entirely in offhand Imagiste remarks in numerous languages, but I suppose it wasn’t that much of a surprise, now that I think of it, that all of the people at Ezra’s Pound were, like, the nicest people ever. Why shouldn’t they be? It is only a name after all and when asked, the owner, whose name happens to be Ezra, shrugged off my harsh line of questioning with a we-had-to-call-it-something chuckle and eye-roll.

It was almost overwhelming how abundantly nice everyone is at Ezra’s Pound; god damn. I ordered a latte and was in turn ordered to sit down only to have my coffee brought to me literally on a silver platter with a glass of water – charming! Actually it was kind of awkward, but I nevertheless appreciated the gesture. And the coffee itself was most delish; just the right amount of bitter and OH MY GOD THE GIRL JUST CAME BY AND TOPPED OFF MY WATER FROM A VINTAGE-LOOKING BOTTLE AND ASKED ME HOW MY COFFEE WAS, WILL THE QUAINTNESS NEVER END?!?!?!

“It was phenomenal,” I said, and she ambled off all smiley.

So according to the man Ezra, all of the countertops and tables and chairs and stuff are all made of recycled junk (I’m sitting on an old church pew right now, which is making me feel a little weird on account of being, you know, kind of a heathen and all – Ezra was all like JUSTTHINKOFIT-PEOPLEPRAYEDRIGHTWHEREYOU’RESITTING-PRAYED – weird) and there’s this naked mannequin in the corner that I guess is pretty cool. Also he was telling me about all of the organic milk and coffee that they use and his totally un-fascist approach to business and business ethics and if I hadn’t just met him half an hour ago, I would have probably given him a hug for being a friggin’ rad dude.

Anyway, Ezra’s Pound is a totally cool and highly recommended café where you can grab a badass cup of coffee on recycled furniture with some obscenely nice people and them head on over to Bellwoods park for a leisurely toss of the old Frisbee, which I know I could seriously go for right about now.

So go give Ezra a high-five and tell ‘em Curran sent ya.

Manic Coffee
426 College Street (College & Bathurst)

I must have seen this coffee shop from the streetcar window thousands of times before I actually ventured in - oddly, almost every time I ambled down to Sneak's for a heaping guilt-free platter of nachos, I eyed the dark closed shop and made disorganized mental notes to head over there for a latte. Heading back from work last week in the rain, I eyed the shop from a packed streetcar and finally made a point to hop off and stop in; burning out from my from my morning's large Americano and doused by a May storm.

Located across from Sneaky Dee's, Plaza Flamingo and one of the only goddamn Royal Banks close to my apartment, Manic Coffee has a sweet location and an even sweeter vibe, as I quickly learned upon entering. With mod decor that resists the we-want-to-be-indie-so-bad-we've-ended-up-looking-kitsch aesthetic, Manic's tasteful space sports natural palettes and an understated retro feel. With a totally stacked magazine rack at the front of the shop, exposed brick, soft music playing, and black and white framed photos adorning the walls, the whole vibe of the place is totally cool and relaxing, setting an inviting atmosphere that motivates patrons - new and regular - to the hit up the counter.

The staff was great - not too hip to be friendly, and ready to crack jokes and chat with the customers. I paid my $3.90, grabbed my latte (complete with beautiful steamed-milk design) and sat on the long bench at the front of the shop to sample their coffee. It was awesome. With a roast that was entirely full-bodied and bold without being bitter, the coffee had just the right amount of sweetness and a pleasantly bitter aftertaste. The milk was steamed to perfection, swirled into a perfectly symmetrical heart - a pretty drink for a stormy day.

At 5:00pm on Thursday when I hit up the shop, I was surprised to see that they still had an abundance of baked goodies, - muffins, croissants, sandwiches and wraps - as well as juices and water in a starbucks-esque case beside the counter. Considering that most independent coffee shops in Toronto only offer minimal snack-fare, if any, this shop is an awesome find for those of us who like juice with their java or a muffin with their mocha. Alright, I'll stop.

Manic has all the amenities of a chain coffee joint, but boasts the local feel and laid-back atmosphere of an indie op. I'd totally recommend checking it out.

Being at the top of the food chain doesn’t seem to exclude our species from ending up in absurdist “how did this even happen?!” situations. In fact, I think our superior cognitive abilities are sometimes the reason our lives are often so full of disappointment. How many times have you had a brilliant idea that, in hindsight, was executed terribly and really not a brilliant idea at all? How many times have you started to help an old lady across the street only to trip over your own feet and land in a puddle? Good intentions, poor results! This is the source of both comedy and tragedy.

Consider the young German couple who desperately wanted to conceive but the husband, Demetrius, was unfortunately found out to be sterile. To remedy this biological deficit, he hired his neighbour, Frank to impregnate his wife. Frank was married and already the father of two children so no problems were anticipated. This plan seemed foolproof. Demetrius paid Frank $2500 to sleep with his wife three times a week for the next six months. Let's do the math here: there are four weeks in a month so that's 24 weeks in six months, three times a week, 24x3=72. $2500 is actually not that much money when you consider that it's really only a little over $34 per "session". How much do male prostitutes make? Anyway, after 72 fruitless attempts, Demetrius insisted that Frank be examined by a doctor. It turned out that Frank was also sterile which came as a great surprise to everyone except Frank's wife who was outed as an adulterer. Now Demetrius is suing Frank for not holding up his end of the deal while Frank says that he put in an “honest effort”. Poor guy. Do they not have sperm banks in Germany?

I wonder if Frank and his wife sought a divorce after that. Or maybe they went for couples counselling. Couples counselling is a really great idea when you consider that the alternative can involve handcuffs and biting in the least kinky sense I can think of. In a desperate attempt to have a peaceful discussion about the state of their relationship, Helen handcuffed her husband, Robert, and her together. Apparently, he kept leaving when she wanted to talk so she decided to create a situation where he couldn’t walk away. Fine, that sort of follows some insane form of logic but when police found the two, Robert had bite marks on his body and arms. Helen was charged with assault and Robert is filing for divorce.

Maybe it's just as well that Demetrius and his wife were never granted a child and Robert and Helen's relationship fell apart before they could have children because parenting can be tricky. Parent-child bonding is an important part of raising an upstanding citizen and though I agree that learning to drive can be a great bonding experience, the surrounding circumstances do have to be taken into consideration. In other words, taking "liquid medicine" (read: whiskey) and then letting your 8-year-old son drive a van (he hit two trees and almost two people) is probably not the best way to facilitate father-son bonding. I’m not even sure if this was a good intentions, bad results story. Maybe it was just bad intentions, bad results but I’ll give Mr. Liquid Medicine benefit of the doubt for now.

But let's end this series of unfortunate incidents on a bittersweet, morbid but romantic note. True love is breaking your suicidal girlfriend's fall from a seventh floor apartment building with your own body and being killed by the impact of her landing. Oh, and she seemed confused about what happened on her way to the hospital. Which is good, right? This way she won’t be haunted by the horrible memory of crushing you to death. That has got to manifest some body image issues in a girl.

For more weird info, check out:

http://www.just-whatever.com/2009/03/30/paid-to-do-it-72-times/
http://cbs5.com/national/handcuffed.husband.911.2.966588.html
http://www.parentsbehavingbadly.com/2009/02/11/drunk-dad-lets-8-year-old-drive-van/
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/china/5054847/Chinese-man-dies-after-catching-girlfriend-in-suicide-attempt.html

ACME Burger Company

A little place called ACME Burger Company exists just west of Bathurst along Bloor street, and with thoughts of Road Runner and Coyote running through my head, I look above me to check for the requisite anvil drop. The coast looks clear so I stop to grab a burger.

An unusually peppy worker greets me, so I return her genuine smile and check out the menu. Looks like a fairly standard burger joint upon first glance, jazzing up their menu with salads, wraps and the always noticeable milkshake… oh so tempting, but with only ten dollars in my wallet I decide to get a bigger burger. I notice that my seating options include a comfortable booth with leather casing – the place may look verbatim to a fast food Harvey's, allowing you to add your own toppings from the counter, but shows extra effort through non-plastic seating and a higher happy worker to surly staff ratio. I maneuver myself into a booth and wait for my order: a six-ounce burger, pre-wrapped and pre-toothpicked for me, with an order of freshly cut fries and a Mug root beer. I am able to stay within my price range, the meal ringing in at $9.88.

I start blazing through the fries to ensure that I better savour my burger, but the fries are straight out of the oil and I nearly burn my mouth. I appreciate that the fries are freshly dipped all the same. I unwrap the burger and check it out: onions, lettuce, pickles and ACME Sauce, recommended by my bubbly cashier that consists chiefly of creamy garlic sauce. Sure, lather it on, I’ll give it a whirl.

The sauce ended up as nothing special but the burger was great: meat that tastes like a homemade piece of beef, cooked well done with toppings of my own choosing. The place shows me that for a small, hole-in-the-wall burger joint, ACME can outstrip any fast food market that comes around and I admire that tenacity.

Hero Certified Burger

From ACME, I head south along Bathurst and head west to Queen a few blocks to Hero Burger. Upon entering I take in the clean, polished environment and the sign on top of the fountain drinks that proudly displays Eye Weekly People’s Choice Award from 2008. Good credentials and a sparkling sitting room signify a great burger to come.

I check out the menu and settle on what they describe as their “Signature Burger,” consisting of the patty, a slice of cheddar, Hero’s certified sauce and tomatoes. The giant picture of the burger behind the cashier has a stamp that states each patty is made with 100% Angus Beef and the manifesto next to my table guarantees me that there are no additives or preservatives in said beef.

“Every HERO makes a difference.”

I can embrace that, yet when I ask the cashier what makes the sauce certified he declares that it is “ranchy.”

I get my burger, which sports an appealing poppy and sesame seed bun, but when I pop the top I have a single, tiny tomato plopped into a minimal smattering of sauce. The only place that Hero gets generous is in the cheese department; I admit that Hero gives this burger a rather large slice of cheddar.

The burger tastes irritatingly like a frozen burger that I frequently buy from the grocery store: the precisely shaped, straight edged burgers don’t ring true for a burger made in house. Oh, and the upstairs of Hero’s may seem polished, but take a gander at the ceiling, the theme continues down to the bathroom. I don’t usually nit pick about the lavatories, but the walk downstairs was inordinately sketchy after the facade upstairs.

The people may have spoken, but I’m not convinced. The hey-day of Hero Burger is certainly over.

Gourmet Burger Company

North of Carlton along Parliament is officially the place to be.

First off you have Jet Fuel, a coffee house hosting free wireless internet that serves pint glass full of latte for just three dollars. Positive vibes and a conducive work environment are both great things!

And now this: Gourmet Burger Co. I have had the privilege of eating at this location twice now and both burgers were fucking scrumptious.

The first time I went I tested their spicy Cajun burger: jalapeños and jalapeño-studded havarti headed the rush of flavour, tempered by tomatoes and avocado, ultimately necessary to deflect the clout of this burger. Refined with Cajun spice and honey mayo flavoured with chipotle, the price of the six-ounce burger was five ninety-five, the cheapest burger on their menu.

I’ve also sampled the smokey bacon burger: this six-ounce glorious slice of cow was improved with the addition of two little stripes of pig; smoked pig at that. Wide eyed I noticed the Gouda cheese... what burger place actually has Gouda on staff? Not to mention the extra cheeses you can add for a dollar, including some serious elites: herbed goat cheese and Brie. They mix the mayo with roasted garlic and Dijon mustard, adding some quality to an already thoroughly smoked burger. I was satisfied that the price sat at six ninety-five, the addition of bacon and Gouda only raising costs one dollar over the Spicy Cajun.

There isn't much room to sit, but when I had a spot at their counter a Toronto Star greeted me and moist towelettes saw me off, a huge help in my case of topping overflow. They have oodles of complimentary condiments, not all of which are easily thrown together: sautéed mushrooms, balsamic marinated caramelized onions and roasted red peppers are all offered freely. I need to restudy that menu; there are tonnes of delicious ideas bouncing around my head of what combination to try next. Definitely worth checking out.

BQM Burgershoppe, Quality Meats

But then I travel west and hit Mecca, burger-wise.

One long trestle bench lines a wall decked out with old books and photos. Large bulb lights hang periodically across the ceiling and a blackboard at the back outline a generous wine catalogue, which overhangs the large countered bar that dominates the back corner of the restaurant – coffee to order and good beer on tap. I sit along the opposite wall at a small two-seater and wait to see how this quaint Burgershoppe just south of Dundas along Ossington will treat me.

I’m brought the menu and immediately informed that the beef used in my burger is local, raised on grain and absolutely drug free, Rowe farms approved. I look at the menu and am presented front and center with the recommended burger, the Sirloin: “Naturally raised Ontario AAA sirloin steak ground in-house with horseradish, mayo, caramelized onions, greens and tomato – medium rare.” Twelve dollars.

So I’m not just getting a burger, but a steak on a bun. But as I am a lowly student, I cannot resist the lowered price of the Riverside burger to nine dollars, where they spread their own specially crafted barbecue sauce onto a bun topped with bacon, greens, tomato, mayo, mozzarella and a few onion rings. I replace the mozzarella with old white cheddar and ask for the burger to be cooked medium rare.

They serve the burger open face, a playful squiggle of mayo across the toppings laid out elegantly on both halves of the bun, the first truly artful display of a burger that I’ve ever come across in Toronto. Yeah, the Burgershoppe’s fairly pricey but, as at all times in capitalism, the labour that goes into the product becomes reflected in the price. They have one hell of a kitchen, a distinguished menu and use local ingredients; I’m impressed.

So when in the east end, check out Gourmet Burger Co., but if craving a truly well-crafted burger, journey to the west end and check out BQM. If stuck in the center, ACME will deliver well enough to warrant a visit, but Hero burger, alas, I cannot recommend.

Comments

• April 15, 2009, Brennan Maynard writes: Check out Dangerous Dan's. He even has a website I believe. Solid burger info, but I'd rather make my own.
• August 13, 2009, Kate writes: I am a food fanatic and I'm always searching the internet for food ideas. I love my hamburgers the most of course . Thank You for new suggestion http://www.originalmotorcycleburgers.com

White Squirrel
907 Queen Street West

Across the street from Trinity-Bellwoods, along one of the most happening strips of WQW - and for all your hipster needs in the same block as Type Books, Capsule Music, the only remotely trendy looking Fish and Chip joint I’ve ever seen and a dessert café whose name escapes me - White Squirrel keeps it real, for real. A split-level, starkly decorated Chillstravaganza with great tunes and even better cookies, this is far and away one of the better places in town to get your daily fill of good vibes. The simple and tasteful décor, featuring off-white walls almost entirely bare save for a gigantic vintage map of Toronto and an appropriately T-shaped communal table right bellow it, coupled with cool folks, free internet and great cookies, fosters positivity and creativity like Richmond fosters popped collars and crying girls. For me, there are few better environments in which to get my shit done than White Squirrel; their coffee is decent, but far from transcendent, but like I said, you’re going to go there for the Chillasuarus Rex of an atmosphere and the great cookies. If I could give a building a hug or a high-five, I would give white Squirrel a totally magnificent high-five or a pretty earth-shaking bearhug and I feel like if any building could reach out and give a person a hug or a high-five it would be White Squirrel. Plus, the big and aforementioned communal table pretty much forces you to talk to people, rendering the possibility of being an antisocial fuckwad null and void, which is nice, because I often feel like being an antisocial fuckwad and talking to some cool strangers always makes me feel like being less of one – bring forth the relaxing casual conversation! Bring forth the gingersnaps!

Editor's Note: They also have incredible brownies.

Mr. Stephen Harper was right (I’ll pause a moment to let you get over the shock…), apparently artists do throw galas, and do it quite well.  Mind you, this was a gala run by “ordinary folks”, and largely attended by those with “regular” jobs…

Saturday March 14^th, 2009, was the first ever Cuttin’ It For Cancer Benefit Gala at the Comedy Club.  Organized and run by a group of young Toronto artists, it was a celebration of life and strength, both of the individual and the community.  With the ambitious goals of raising $10,000 and collecting enough hair donations to build an entire wig, the night of art and entertainment brought members from all aspects of the community together in a fundraiser for the Canadian Cancer Society.

The evening was a casual and suave affair.  The moment you entered the venue, you were greeted with yellow ribbons and smooth tunes, sophisticated décor, and a ton of enthusiastic people.  It was surprisingly well attended in the face of a daunting economic recession; money wasn’t really on anyone’s mind.

Chantelle Lalibertie, a fellow gala-goer, pointed out the sentimental reason behind such a great turn out.  “Everyone knows someone”, she said, speaking of cancer’s unfortunate widespread influence.  There was not a person there who had not somehow been affected by the tragic disease, and it showed in their generosity - whether it was monetary or otherwise.  The CIFC committee - made up of Steph Law (co-chair), Meg Maguire (co-chair), Shera Everett Singh (treasurer), Erin Faye (artistic director), and Scarlet O’Neill (publications director) - certainly succeeded in their aspiration of creating an event rooted in the community.

The courteous bar staff of the Comedy Club catered the evening, while performances were made by local bands and a comedy troupe, and a silent auction was held throughout the event.  The smooth run of the event was aided by volunteers from the Winters College Council, the faculty at York University that most of the CIFC committee recently graduated from. 

Also among the special guests was Eliza Kelly, Senior Coordinator of special events for the Canadian Cancer Society.  She gave a short and uplifting speech about the constant development in finding a cure.  Out of every patient now diagnosed with cancer, 62% are surviving and living well.  While we’ve still got a long way to go before wiping out the disease, this is a promising number compared to the 30% survival rate just years ago.

Though they didn’t achieve their goal of raising $10,000 (yet!), the over $6000 that the CIFC did collect was a very promising number.  Keeping in mind that most young artists don’t earn enough wages to live on, a contribution of this size is quite significant. 

Most of the money was raised by their eager volunteers who donated their hair to the Pantene Pro V’s Beautiful Lengths program.  Their goal was to get enough pony tails to produce a wig- for the record it takes 12 full pony tails, each at least 8” long- and they surpassed that with 16 willing hair donators. 

Those who publicly chopped their locks were the stars of the night.  They kicked off the event by taking the stage after the Jazz Trio, and inviting loved ones (often those they were donating their hair in honour of) to cut their ponytails.  Not only were they making a donation to help support those living with hair loss due to chemotherapy, but they were also proudly making a visual statement; raising awareness for their cause.  At the end of the night they showed off their new do's, courtesy of the event hairstylists. 

The cocktail hour starred the James McEleny Jazz Trio, consisting of James himself, Rob Cappelletto, and Chris Chekan.  It was a relaxing introduction before the evening really picked up the pace.

Though rather small, the silent auction was a success.  With donations from Mac Cosmetics, Steamwhistle Brewery, and Second City Toronto, as well as jewelry, artwork, and photography from local (and often new) Toronto artists, there were plenty of unique purchases to be made.  From the beer fanatic to the stationary junkie, there was something for everyone.   

The Second City Alumni comedy troupe kept the crowd laughing, performing improve sketches and encouraging audience participation.  It was just the sort of light fare needed, keeping the spirits up of those dwelling on the sadder memories inevitably provoked by such an event.

Cool Man Cool took over after a short intermission, and rocked the club with a funk and reggae-inspired set.  This four-man ensemble - Josh Cook on keys, Craig Alexander on bass, Zac Forbes on drums, and Scott Bannister on guitar (and trumpet!) - played nine songs, mostly original work.  The band, who typically plays for a young adult crowd, did well catering to the vast range of ages and interests in the audience.  During the last song, beautifully dedicated to Josh’s late father, the sound system cut-out.  Still, the band persevered singing and clapping along, laughing at the paradox of loosing sound for a song titled “Praying for Power”. 

Their energy was contagious and as they cleared the stage there was an audible buzz as the audience waited excitedly for the reveal of the new hair cuts and the grand totaling.  By the time the ceremonies ended, it was clear the evening was a sensation, and everyone was having a good (and emotional) time.  Celebration was in full swing when DJ Gahleon and djh livened up the dance floor, it felt as though everyone had done their part and it was time to cut loose.

But what exactly prompts a group of recently graduated artists to devote their time and energy to a fundraiser instead of simply joining thousands of others just looking for work?  I spoke with Shera Everett-Singh, the CIFC committee’s PR rep to find some answers.  She leads me into the greenroom-turned-hair salon, and we chat amidst detached ponytails and hairspray.

Aside from the obvious, that cancer has influenced virtually everyone’s life and there is still no cure, she says that evening is about building and celebrating community.  She hopes the event “illustrates that money in the arts – funding, education, patronage, etc. – is important, useful, and benefits the public at large.  The arts produce aware, concerned citizens, on both a local and global level, who can do so much good with their talents.”

She also explains that they all felt the need to fight against the popular social view that “kids” from our generation don’t do anything, and don’t have a sense community or responsibility.  And, she adds sheepishly, they weren’t really doing much else.  Events like this tend to arise from “people who plan events, and are lacking real work”.

I ask her why they chose to hold a “gala” after all the (relatively) recent flack about artists and their prestigious galas; there is something of a stigma attached to the term.  She explains that it was a word tacked on at the end - what else would they call it?  Now its irony is laughable, and gives their project even more of an edge.

The resounding success of the event has proved that ordinary people care about the arts, and through use of the arts they are capable of doing extraordinary things.  No doubt the tenacious young women of the CIFC committee will be delving into more projects in the near future.  

As I walk in the front door, before I even have a chance to unzip my jacket, a gruff voice sounds:

-    Just one?

Without even waiting for a response she takes a menu and motions for me to follow her to a booth near the window. She is everything I hope to encounter in an experienced diner waitress: An overweight, stern mistress of her craft with hair pulled back as tightly as her follicles will allow. She even looks at me suspiciously as I stare at her to put together a profile. Perfect.

But wait a second; far from severe, as I would have thought, she stops by a moment later.

-    Hi love, can I get you something to drink before you get started?

I order a drink of water while I mull over the menu, which she hands over quickly,

-    Here you go honey.

served with a wedge that must be a quarter of the lemon. I squeeze the lemon into my glass and as I suck the juice off of my fingers a blue-collar worker comes in to eat. I am pleased to see he wears a large dusty salt-and-pepper moustache below his strong features. When asked how he’s doing he answers simply,

-    Hungry.

and smirks, ordering a burger with a coffee. When she finishes taking his order she returns to me and I take full advantage of an all-day breakfast menu by requesting an Herb & Cheese Omelette – a three egg affair that makes use of feta cheese to accompany the plethora of herbs: basil, dill, cilantro and parsley. She takes my order and after I thank her she says,

-    You’re welcome, sweetie!

effectively peppering me with three sweet pseudonyms without repeating herself once. She continues to dart up and down the aisles, appeasing all ten of her tables – it is the dinner rush and she has her hands full.

The entire restaurant is a tribute to the city, proudly showing scenes of Toronto on its walls with cheerful servers, old aluminum fans, big disk lights and comfy pastel-coloured booths, a glass display at the entrance containing old hats, fliers and memorabilia outlining the history of the diner, all creating an ambiance that’s about as honest as you can get.

As I finish taking in my surroundings, my omelette is placed delicately in front of me, handily beating the ten-minute mark – home fries and toast swarm the fat omelette that jockeys for space after a liberal stuffing of feta. I decide to order a beer with my meal because honestly, nothing beats eating breakfast with an oat soda at 6:30pm on a Monday. My waitress brings it to me in a chilled glass after warming up some coffees.

The omelette is incredible, but saturated with cilantro, so beware if that isn’t your particular herb. The semi-dry edges are also worth mentioning, a problem I constantly run up against in my experience with omelettes. Fear not Fran’s! I will one day come up with a solution and spread the word! Though I must say... dry edges aside, this is one of the best damn omelettes I’ve ever had in my life. The feta cheese beautifully compliments the herbs and the presentation is fantastic – a few slices of toast and the mountain of home fries tie the meal off nicely. Even the ketchup bottle I use has no corporate brand but proudly shows off the Fran’s logo instead, their tradition standing up against changing times.

As I wait for the bill to be rung through a woman with tightly coiled orange hair walks through the entrance accompanied by a shout from inside the restaurant. My waitress rushes forward to give this woman a warm welcome, complete with bone crushing hug and a kiss on the cheek. The orange haired woman bears the welcome well, grinning as she sits in her section and is brought a glass of red wine along with some conversation, catching up on what must have been a prolonged absence.

My bill arrives with a few mints, a slogan printed on them that sums up the diner in a way that I can’t do better myself: “Welcome Home to Fran’s”. I sign my cheque with a flourish, a smile and then begin packing up my things to be on my way, lingering to soak up as much of the room as humanly possible before leaving.

Fran’s Bill:

1 Herb and Cheese Omelette (with toast and home fries): $8.99
1 Bottle Molson Canadian: $4.55
TOTAL (tax included): $15.40

As I walk around the corner onto Yonge Street I see a few places that physically make me cringe: A Hoops sports bar and a McDonalds. I am not just asking but begging you that if you are in the area, spring the extra few dollars and go to Fran’s. Forego the fast food and go to a place that welcomes you with character and charisma. Seriously a good move.

...

Days later I force myself to wake up at a reasonable hour and get ready to leave, arriving at Queen’s Park Station before 11:30 and hoping that the Café la Gaffe serves breakfast until noon – I’ve already been to this place once before but brilliantly arrived for their dinner menu, ignoring the fact that unless specifically advertised a restaurant never hosts an all day breakfast. Trying to beat the clock I rush to the café and after a server greets me I ask if they are still serving breakfast, receiving a devastating headshake.

-    We don’t have breakfast, we serve lunch now.

So are you serving omelettes? My subtext is desperate – I can’t keep coming back to this place! – but this time mercifully they nod, narrowly averting an unnecessarily close call.

-    We have one omelette today: A western served with smoked salmon and vegetables.

Well that is what I’m here for, so I say sure, receiving a final nod. Did I just officially order? It would appear so as I am told to sit in any seat I wish without any motion towards a menu, so I choose a small window table. As I wait I am brought a glass of water and a basket of bread.

A large white, yet shallow bowl arrives with my omelette accompanied by a noticeably poor salad – I see that some of the leaves are quite brown. I take a tentative bite and although they’ve added just the right amount of olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette to veil the taste of dying leaves, they should not be serving dying lettuce at all. So I turn my attention to the omelette still steaming with heat and boy, it’s a monster – the height easily spans an inch when folded and these fluffy eggs smell excellent. I take my first forkful and perplexed, open the omelette to look for the cheese. Oh it’s there, the cheddar just added in minimal quantity and certainly nowhere near the edges. I take another forkful and salmon slaps my tongue, smoked but nowhere near fresh. The vegetables are well cooked – peppers, onions and scallions accompany the thoughtful addition of leeks, a vegetable I have had few previous encounters with, but I can’t even taste most of them! Even the green onion, a distinct favourite of mine, is effectively masked by the overwhelming presence of salmon. I am actually struggling to finish – the portion is large and overpowering and when I eat through the centre and look at my other edge I know I’ll be left without enough cheese to merit another bite.

The two servers at the café chat the whole time, alternatively refilling my water. The first is a tall, friendly student fretting about exams on the horizon, wearing a pink top and brown leather boots while her counterpart is older and thin featured, an overall disagreeable woman wearing a white apron over her jeans and a white top under an orange shirt, her lip upturned in constant irritation. As I look around the restaurant she aims a gaunt, angry scowl at the floor that causes me to avert my gaze in alarm, but she notices anyway and, covering her features with a look that appears to be agreeable, strolls over to ask if I’m finished my meal. I tell her I am and she walks away, sitting down in plain sight. Her eyes glaze over; she slumps down in her seat and utters a single syllable,

-    Oi..

officially giving up on her day.

I wait patiently for my orange shirted server to bring me the bill but she keeps her seat, unaffected by my inquisitive glances. Pink shirt comes forward and I am asked for a second time if I am finished – I bluntly say yes and that I want my bill. She seems to understand I haven’t had the best experience and cautiously answers,

-    Sure…

She takes my credit card and finally moves Orange shirt who rings it through, the bill clattering on the table when she thanks me with a pout. I sign the cheque and leave, even though I need to wait for Katje who’ll be arriving in ten minutes. I’d rather wait under some cover in the rain than stay in a small room packed with negative vibes.

Café la Gaffe bill:

1 Large Omelette: $9.75
TOTAL (tax included): $11.02

...I feel a little ripped off.

...

The next day I stay in and make my own omelette, which I am proud to say vastly exceeds Café la Gaffe’s offering and is at least comparable to Fran’s, without the appealing addition of feta that is. I have added as much mozzarella that can fit, making sure to include cheese in the edges. I have modest toppings, using only baby spinach and broccoli fried up with olive oil and a blend of spices I picked up from the grocery store –  Indian Masala, one step seasoning! My omelette falls apart slightly as I guide it off the pan but hey, I don’t need any fancy presentation for a meal of my own and I think in the process I’ve found the key to a successful omelette: more cheese than you know what to do with.

I am really disappointed in Café la Gaffe… while my first experience was great the subsequent one ruined it entirely. I will not officially give up as the soup was phenomenal on my first visit, exceeding Fran’s in that one respect alone, but I will surely not return before the summer – apparently their patio is worth it. The entire meal just felt like a lifeless contender trying to compete with the surrounding restaurants; the café just seems out of its element. Happier staff can turn a restaurant experience around completely, which is all I can hope for Café la Gaffe. On the other hand, Fran’s cannot do any more for me. The food at Fran’s is good but I’ll return for a piece of Toronto’s history, the ambiance and the good vibes more than anything; nothing that happens around my meal is overtly negative and the servers are really on the ball – definitely an eatery you can truly rely on in the years to come.

In Toronto if you ever have eye contact with a stranger on the street, the common logical ensuing action would be looking away. Unless you’re trying something, it’s just rude and uncalled for to stare. Flying back to Hong Kong for the first time in seven years last summer, it suddenly occurred to me that the whole city was in fact a mega fashion walkway. Where a brief and casual glance would simply be the beginning and end in random human encounters here, in Hong Kong you have just initiated a grueling fashion showdown. Of the seven million peeps scampering through the megatropolis, you have been chosen.  It’s on, bitch. The contending stranger promptly and eagerly halts all preoccupations in order to completely realize your externalized being from head to toe.

(Canto-Brito, if you will)
“Your entire existence and consciousness and identity is (un)fathomed by me”, he says.
“I now look away”, he says, “ for I am unimpressed”, he says.
“I am the victorious today.”

Most common known and reported side effects of having your identity misinterpreted:
Paranoia, tachycardia, decreased libido, elevation of blood pressure, dizziness, pupil dilation, teeth grinding, athetosis, psychomotor restlessness, and in extreme cases, a fatal event

My Canadian instincts made me a champion in these showdowns, leaving a couple dozen fashionistas profoundly bemused. People in Hong Kong spend so much time on their appearance, they will stop at nothing for their 15 seconds of fame. Their materialistic tendencies are hard to abide, but Jean-Paul Sartre once said that we are social creatures and that our external self is akin to our internal self. To be gazed upon is therefore akin to being perceived and prescribed an identity, albeit without consent. Fashionistas feel out of control and therefore attempt to buy what they cannot attain.

Beauty is in the eye of the Beholdian, Beholdians with handfed ideas from their tellys and zines and friends who watch their tellys. Beholdians love to judge and categorize based on what they presumably know. Beholdians love to tell you what is acceptable and what isn’t. They will stare you down. They are everywhere. You are what they see you as. Fashionistas believe they can alter how they are seen; they wish to be well received.

Sartre’s “bad faith”, is the conscious and/or subconscious decision to take on prescribed identity as your own and behaving accordingly as such identity should; an identity formed based on preexisting conventions and impressions. Bad faith is finally the desire to fix an identity to one and do what it means to be that identity. Prescription is therefore for the purpose of mass appeal. As one seemingly continues to view oneself and the world through a Beholdian point of view, one ultimately becomes a Beholdian of both oneself and other Beholdians.

“I’m fucking hardcore,” one says.

A high dosage of bad faith, the Beholdian beholds him/herself as a character of hardcoreness. Upon determining whether or not a dangerous feat should be attempted, amidst a crowd of voluptuous beasts, the individual under the influence of bad faith will be reminded that he/she is in fact hardcore, thus effectively ensuing in the Leap of … Faith. To the dogs.

Most common known and reported side effects of bad faith:
Predictability, one-dimensionality, robotic monotone speech, sheep-like appearance

2. I am choosing, therefore I am-ing.

Sheepism. Let us try elsething. “Existence precedes essence”, also by Sartre, meaning bad faith is bad, and instead of being something, we should be nothing (no-thing). We must create and recreate the self through our decisions and our decisions alone, forevermore. If at any moment do we discontinue self re-creation, we are effectively engaging in bad faith, announcing the completeness of identity and the self. To the dogs.

Okay let’s do this.

The surplus of possibilities has never been so clear and laid out as it is now in our pomo-globo-info-mego-capitalisto societio. All the better, no? After completing the course Existentialism, I noticed it became increasingly more difficult for me to make up my mind, even over stupid shit like over which can of pop to buy. Was I the only one to walk in circles in HMV going at it in my own head over what’s good and what’s even better and why in how many ways? Barry Schwartz’s Paradox of Choice told me why these mundane everyday decisions became such a hassle. In conjunction with existential philosophy, I was enlightened for the worse. Everything became a matter of life, death, and the universe. Why, you ask? Because this is it, it’s your call, the decisions you make define who you are: what you buy, what you eat, what you listen to, what you watch, what you do, what you don’t do. Make them choices and make them good, otherwise you’re nobody and everybody. And when you’re done, don’t forget to think it over, and over, and over andover andover. Choice is freedom, but an ultra-abundance of choice is instead the very opposite, paralysis. We cannot get ourselves to get the decision made because we can’t be certain it’s best, and we can’t afford to regret. Second-thoughts. Existpotentialism.

Taking into consideration the amplitude of social-cultural influences, genetic make-up, natural and inexplicable impulses, even our honestest choices should be doubted. “Is this really me?” An honest man asking himself the honest question whether his choice is honestly his, bravo! Going backwards through the infinite wormhole of causality to bring us finally to the front door of God Manor. Let’s not.

Most common known and reported side effects of not making any decisions:
Transformation into a steel banana

3. Fuck all, therefore I am.
…

INTRODUCING: MEDIA! TELEVISION! INTERNET! ALL YOU MUST KNOW KNOWN AND MORE! MORE THAN YOU NEED, ALL YOU CAN READ!

“Everyday everything I see and hear and feel
leads to
the abundance of "beliefs" (yours, his, hers, theirs, ours, and mine)

the result is a multiplex of infinitely-looped chaos and the complete absence of order
which in itself becomes a mirror of the world and humanity

looking into the mirror you recognize your FACE

…

Sheepism. Existpotentialism. Fuck it. To announce the complete devastation of the self, for heaping hopes of total freedom. To say you just doesn’t give a fuck any more, it’s too much and there’s too much, and all them Beholdians and Starbucks and businessmen and Wal-Marts and cars and hot/ugly people and magazines and newspapers and rebellious youths and doctors and dentists and McDonald’s and teachers and artists and religions and choices and people and (add/remove whatever you want here) and reflective surfaces fuck off and fuck off. To dress and act in any way desired, because everything is permissible and anyone’s judgment means fuck all.

Most common known and reported side effects of having your identity all messed up:
Personality change, psychotic break, mania, dissociation of self, externalized intrapersonal communication, visual and auditory hallucinations, unhinged behavior, and in austere cases, a second fatal event.

4. I am, therefore you’re not.

Sheepism: existence in accordance to prescription
Existpotentialism: the possibility of individualism
Amoralism: self-destruction, capricious innovation

The passerby comes to a halt and pauses in contemplation, assessing the possibility of transcendence. Sheepism is imitation, but how can art be possible if reproduction itself is not permitted? Amoralism is perilous freedom, but how can art be possible if experimentation and risk is condemned? Existpotentialism is the constant evisceration of the self, but how can art be possible if the canvas is thoroughly rinsed ad infinitum?

…

“Brilliant!” the onlooker shouts, before pacing onwards towards eternal awesomeness.

Achieving The Ultimate Divine, it is required that the individual observe both Beholdian sheep tastes and amoralist attitudes. BEHOLD, both that which is fashionable and that which is unorthodox. Being relevant, informed, and up to date in both respective spectrums of personality, at which point the individual may finally and appropriately utilize his/her existpotentialist skill: the ability to choose. At the apex of both extremes, the individual amalgamates elements he/she sees fit to conjure an identity so ultimately divine, elucidation is futile.  The Ultimate Divine is necessarily a step beyond the pre-identified Sheep, and a tad before the unidentifiable Amoralist.

Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren for example, at the inception of her fashion opened the shop Let It Rock, which eventually became SEX. At the time, circa 1971, their clothing was highly unfashionable and seemingly unwearable. Westwood said, “All the clothes I wore people would regard as shocking, I wore them because I just thought that I looked like a princess from another planet.” Their fashion was therefore highly Amoralist and not nearly Sheep enough. Within four years however, the Sex Pistols were born and soon punk was everywhere. THE ULTIMATE DIVINE. One’s task then, is to appropriately observe the trends at a constant basis in order to achieve and maintain Ultimate Divine status (starting off Amoralist reminiscent of Westwood is only recommended to individuals immune to ridicule and mockery). Friends and companions are necessarily disregarded, for Ultimate Divineness is not to be shared amongst petty Beholdians. This is rightfully the only path towards emancipation and awesomeness. No longer will you be recognized as Sheep, Amoral, or Existpotential. You have transcended the status of trifling boors and achieved what is known as EGO IN BOLD AND CAPITAL LETTERS. At this point in time, you may initiate/participate in as many fashion showdowns as you wish in all corners of our beloved Planet Earth.

Most common known and reported side effects of achieving Ultimate Divine:
I do not talk about her Majesty’s prowess.

Appendix.
For individuals who wish to partake in intergalactic showdowns, please refer to Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Zoots Cafe
1438 Dundas Street West

Zoots is a cool spot, to be sure; a small, twenty-seater café just outside of Portugal Village - they make easy work of achieving the clear goal of being a quaint and quiet neighborhood coffee shop. Cool antique furniture and décor adorn the place and I’ve never seen it overly busy, so it is a great place to get work done (see: free wifi – eat it, Starbucks) as the atmosphere is fantastically conducive to pounding out some freaky shit on your laptop. And if you get a little bit weary of work, why not take a break and play a board game? Zoots has got a big shelf of books and games that you might pass the time with on a rainy or otherwise day, which even if you have no interest in perusing extensively, is still pretty cool to look at and adds a lot to the joint’s homey-factor.

As for the coffee, Zoots makes a fierce latte, nothing out of this world in terms of being overly bold, but definitely worth the trip - and at $3.25, it’s about standard in that respect. They’ve also got a fairly large selection of tea, so when you ask for a green, they’ll usually ring off an extensive list of green teas to which I often find myself responding with an indifferent “Whatever. Sure.” The munchables are pretty champ too – I had this totally badass cookie there that was something like chocolate-chip-toffee-dried-cherry or what have you; anyway, it was a rad fucking cookie and they’ve got pretty kickin’ bagels as well.

Zoots Café has in the few weeks since I’ve first checked it out jumped pretty high up in my pantheon of sweet coffee spots in Toronto. My one gripe about it is fairly inconsequential, being that I personally don’t really have much reason to go out to that area too often and thus I consider it somewhat out of the way. However, the fact that I really dig the place is reason enough to make a special trip. Rockinjazztastic(asaurus) coffee, snacks and ambience as well as really nice people make Zoots one of my new favorite procrastination hangouts.

Jet Fuel Coffee Shop
519 Parliament Street

Nestled in Cabbagetown, just north of Carlton on Parliament, Jet Fuel Coffee Shop is a pillar of the neighbourhood, attracting mid-twenties hipsters, art types, families, and even, occasionally Michael Ondaatje. It's small (but recently extended) dual-leveled space, painted a warm red with an ever changing showcase of Toronto Visual Artists and photographers adorning the walls, is simple and modern; well designed to house the multitude of people who come trampling through each day. With tasteful tunes blaring incessantly, it's not always the best place to work, but with free Wifi and kickin' lattes, it's defintely a great place to hang.

The coffee itself is subdued, not overly assertive or bold, with an undeniable sweetness that demands no sugar. They totally nail the foam, too, showcasing their steamed-milk prowess with lattes in tall pint-glasses. Though they only have muffins for the first hour they're open, the coffee and laid back atmosphere is wicked enough to keep people coming in to work, read or hang.

Though the service is constantly criticized for being rude or full of attitude, I've found that the baristas at Jet Fuel are pretty nice. They're totally not the "Hey honey, how was your day" kind of crowd, but when you're totally burnt out, have miles to go before sleep, and just want to work in a space with free wifi and killer lattes, their relative anonymity is greatly appreciated. Jet Fuel is definitely a cool urban spot to sit on your laptop and do some work, or to read a book and admire Michael Ondaatje from afar.

What’s up with Man-Crushes? What is it that makes straight men fall into fits of uncontrolled, giddy hysteria over the mere mention of another straight man? I’ve seen many a Bro descend deep into the silly passions of Man-Crushdom and emerge mere shadows of their former selves- well, generally speaking, a Man-Crush is rarely particularly life changing, it’s just sort of ridiculous and funny more than anything. When you see a man paying a rather obscene amount of attention to another man when he’s around, attention that often includes a lot of back-slapping and complimenting, and outwardly gushing about said man when he is otherwise mentioned - phrases such as “I. Love. That man” or  “He’s like, the coolest guy I know” and “[Subject’s Crush’s name]… what a guy, what a champion” are common - that man is probably in the throes of an intense Man-Crush. Other symptoms many include excessive facebook creeping, unnecessary shyness and blushing and an unusually abnormal interest in their subject’s personal lives, in particular minute, mundane details.

A Man-Crush is something of an elusive beast, it is difficult to determine just how they are formed and why; a fully developed Man-Crush can last anywhere from a few weeks to several years and can range in severity from a mild interest to borderline obsession. A Man-Crush can occur instantly, perhaps even overnight, or it may be slowly brewed over a long period of time and the subject of such an odd sort of affection could be any man, be him a good friend or acquaintance, artist, celebrity or historical figure.

Essentially, this condition is merely a rather deep admiration and respect for another man that may be centered around any combination of the following traits: his physical prowess or appearance, athletic or artistic ability, style and/or image, personality or general awesomeness. This adoration is usually harmless (hence Man-Crush), however, depending on the man in question, it could be potentially irritating for the object. Generally speaking, Man-Crushes are not usually the product of jealousy, rather they are most commonly manifested in blatant displays of misplaced affection and one under the loose shackles of Man-Crushdom will often appear as a little kid being allowed to hang out with the big boys for the first time, bounding and bouncing around, agreeing with everything they say, talking very fast, etc. It’s all very positive and charming, although it may cause the object to become mildly uncomfortable at worst.

While the concept of the Man-Crush has only recently gained notoriety as an entity unto itself- its very title only surfacing a few years ago- the subject is a fairly well-documented one, making numerous appearances in literature and pop culture prior to the recent explosion of Bro-related material. For example, Jack Kerouac’s heralded 1957 novel, On The Road is an excellent early example of unrelenting Man-Crushdom, as it is essentially a proclamation by Kerouac (under the guise of his alter-ego Sal Paradise) of his undying Bro-Love for his good friend Neil Cassidy (Dean Moriarty) and as such, On The Road is quite possibly the quintessential Bro Novel. Throughout the book, Kerouac is forever praising the personality, attitude and prowess of Cassidy and professing his utter admiration and respect for the man as they bound around somewhat aimlessly around America searching for a mythical entity known only as the “It”.

“Yes, and it wasn’t only because I was a writer and needed new experiences that I wanted to know Dean more, and because my life hanging around the campus had reached the completion of its cycle and was stultified, but because somehow in spite of our difference in character, he reminded me of some long-lost brother; the sight of his suffering bony face with the long sideburns and his straining muscular sweating neck made me remember my boy-hood in those dying-dumps and swim-holes and riversides of Patterson and the Passaic. His dirty work clothes clung to him so gracefully, as though you couldn’t buy a better fit from a custom tailor but only earn it from the Natural Tailor of Natural Joy, as Dean had, in his stresses.” (Kerouac 7)

You just look me in the face, sir, and tell me that wasn’t a gush. Because it so was. Someone whom he appears to deeply admire, like a brother, who also just happens to be exceedingly physically attractive? That’s a Man-Crush. Congratulations, Sal, you’ve got a big, sticky, sweaty Big-Boy-Crush on your pal Dean. The doting, the fawning, the generous heaps of praise: sure signs of the condition, and this book is full of them cover to cover. Paradise holds an almost fanatical devotion to Moriarty throughout, rambling obscene, excessive rants on the towering virtue of his physical prowess, street-smarts and personal philosophy; the irony of this is that Moriarty is typically otherwise portrayed as being generally unemployed, nigh unemployable, potentially violent, erratic and perhaps somewhat unstable man that has a lot of ideas, but does very little.

Another notable pop-culture Man-Crush appears in the television series, Seinfeld, during the two-part episode entitled, “The Boyfriend”. In it, the titular comedian, Jerry Seinfeld develops an unusual friendship with professional baseball star Keith Hernandez founded on a bizarre mutual Man-Crush that ultimately leads to the duo’s friendship, mimicking the dynamic of a heterosexual sexual relationship - minus the sex - with Seinfeld taking the feminine role. As Hernandez is an athlete that Seinfeld holds in extremely high regard, the opportunity to develop a friendship becomes an overwhelmingly exciting, awkward and intimidating prospect that differs from the Man-Crush presented in On the Road because in that work, Paradise and Moriarty are friends on an equal level, with Paradise having a deep respect for various aspects of Moriarty’s character. In the Seinfeld episode, Hernandez’s myriad achievements, as well as likely a small amount of biographical information are known to Seinfeld well before the two actually become acquainted. This creates an imbalance in the relationship that is typical of a Man-Crush, in that Seinfeld clearly will feel himself inferior or unworthy of friendship despite that Hernandez holds him in equally high regard, causing Seinfeld to become neurotic and possessive.

In her book, Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire, Eve Kosophsky Sedgwick describes a condition she refers to as “Homosocial Behavior”, which involves “social bonds between persons of the same sex” (Sedgwick 1) that are not explicitly sexual in nature, but where the possibility of sexual proceedings exists – i.e. various male bonding scenarios. In general, this is the very foundation of the Man-Crush as there is always a sexual element to the relationship because inevitably, it is a one that is based on power. But that’s another story, for another day – maybe next month. In essence, the elusive Man-Crush is an inherently sexual state that hides behind a veil of socially imposed masculinity to mask clear-cut sexual tension.

Case in point:

How do you not fuck that? Right?
Right. If I were friends with Jake Gyllenhaal, I would be all like “Oh man, I’m totally bro-ing out with Jake Gyllenhall – awesome! We can go fishing, we can move a couch; perhaps I’ll purchase tickets for a local sports event!” But in the end, Jake Gyllenhaal is hot and awesome: if I were friends with Jake Gyllenhall, I would probably want to fuck Jake Gyllenhaal; however, I - like most - would probably not say anything to anyone and try as hard as possible to repress my dirty feelings.

Wait, what?

Comments

• February 15, 2009, Riaz writes: Hilarious article! I would have to say that my man crush is Barack Obama, with Coldplay's Chris Martin, a close second.
• February 15, 2009, Marshall writes: i like this. it explain(ed) things.
• February 16, 2009, Curran Folkers writes: There's also Jason Collett and Sufjan Stevens... and George Clooney... I've got a lot of misplaced Bro-Love.
• February 16, 2009, Marshall writes: Cillian Murphy. and Damon Albarn.
• February 16, 2009, King Frankenstein writes: Oh Danzig ~
• May 26, 2009, Audrey Alexis writes: I, unfortunately, can't really have "man-crushes" but an ex of mine had a terrible one on the front man of Coheed and Cambria, Claudio Sanchez. Who could blame him? After he shook Claudio's hand he confessed to me "I never questioned my sexuality until now." Jason Collett just came in to my work yesterday, I had the pleasure of serving him. As for Jake, after Donnie Darko, who wouldn't want him? And have you seen that SNL opener where he belts out a Dreamgirls tune?! Amazing. Amazing...

I had a dream like that the other day… except it wasn’t a dream.  I actually found myself riding the subway in my underwear.  It wasn’t nearly as scary as nightmares would have you believe, but that might be because 300 other people were also in their underwear.  We were rallying for a very important cause: pure harmless rebelliousness.

The “Pantless Subway Ride”, an event organized by Improv in Toronto, encouraged strangers to gather on a chilly Saturday in January and boycott their pants.  The rules were simple: 1) Show up in pants 2) Take pants off at a designated stop 3) Continue riding the subway 4) Let social chaos ensue.

Needless to say as we depantsed on the subway, we received many puzzled looks.  People were confused.  Was this an ad for boxers?  Were we part of a university group?  Were we protesting global warming?  Fellow TTC riders were torn between their natural curiosity and their polite Canadian “keep-to-ourselves” attitude.

As the old lady across the car stared at me in disgust (maybe she didn’t like my choice in lingerie?) I suddenly realized something amazing was happening- this “social experiment” was theatre!  Take off your pants in a public place and *poof* instant theatre.  We had performers and an (often unwilling) audience, and that’s all it takes to create theatre.  A script, lights, a stage and all that jazz help, but they aren’t integral to theatre.  This was theatre in the raw, this was 300 plus people experiencing, participating in theatre.

This was guerilla theatre (not to be confused with gorilla theatre, the act of pretending to be monkeys on stage) and it is the future of avant-garde performances.  In an age where theatre really is a dying art- no thanks to the increase of electronic media and the decrease of financial stability- it is projects like this that keep theatre alive.  Theatre from the traditional canon- ranging from Shakespeare to big American musicals will always have a place and a paying audience, but the less mainstream art, the truly interesting theatre loses viewership when the (economic) going gets rough.  But free events, improvised activities like a pantless subway ride, keep this nonconformist art going.

And we might be better for it.

More abstract or absurd types of theatre subvert the norms of reality, and challenge its audience to question the conventions we live with.  Maybe wearing pants is not a bad convention (especially on chillier days) but this simple movement is a start.  It sparks ideas that ignite into full scale debates; encouraging questions about traditional dress, body image, and freedom of speech (and costume).

And those of us participating in the event discovered that guerilla theatre can build a sense of community among virtual strangers.  Not knowing a soul, we banded together, becoming pantless comrades and automatic friends.  It actively engaged the audience and encouraged conversations among fellow riders.  People who normally sit silently for their commute, avoiding the gaze of strangers were suddenly connecting with people.  In a city as diverse as Toronto this is imperative to the development of future arts.

If you’re interested in becoming a part of this pop culture revolution, check out groups like Improv in Toronto (http://improvintoronto.com) and Newmindspace (http://www.newmindspace.com).  They organize a plethora of fun-filled events like protesting for dinosaur rights and massive public “lightsaber” battles… all the world’s a playground!

* * *

Come be a part of the Subway Dance Party, that’s right, dance party! (you can even keep your pants on…)  February 20th, 2009.

The dining room itself is pretty spectacular – for whatever reason the months of the early Roman calendar are displayed above an ornately carved door that sticks to the Roman theme. I begin to feel as though we’re stuck in an antique collector’s dream, chandeliers hung sparsely throughout the place, the walls adorned with two old wooden rimmed clocks, one placed above a large chalkboard displaying the specials of the day. Before I can even turn my head Katje is upon us! Smiling she sits down and the meal begins as the waitress brings her water and a green tea.

-    This place is perfect to bring a date.

she claims. Slothrop and I smile. He’s less convinced.

-    This place looks almost identical to my mother’s living room.

Katje looks taken aback at first, but not to be outdone fires back.

-    Well I would just love your mother, then.

While I deliberate the merits of bringing a date under the age of forty to Kalendar, they both scan their menus. Katje is ordering for me – to try more diverse foods I am now having my friends order my meal – but she immediately sets about telling Slothrop what he should be eating as well. At this point I haven’t even looked at the menu so I check out my waitress as they decide what to eat. I have a habit of romanticizing my waitresses and I perceive her to be a more shy and sensitive type, but not without her own quiet charm – she seems almost embarrassed to be bringing the water and averts her gaze when she notices you looking. She’s really quite cute: a petit brunette wearing jeans and a tight pink top overlaid with a long purple sweater, tying her hair up over her head so it cascades upwards and overbalances, loosely swaying as she walks.

Katje is a self-proclaimed cheese freak and now has a three-way race to decide on what to eat. Slothrop has decided on Scroll one, a dish that blends ricotta and harvarti cheese with pesto and vegetables: tomatoes, red peppers and spinach. I am given domain over scroll four – Katje knows that I am practically a carnivore and this scroll is stuffed with meat sauce and Italian sausages. She finally decides on the carrot and ginger soup so we place our orders.

-    Yay soup!

Katje cries as her carrot soup arrives ten minutes later, a healthy dollop of sour cream floating happily in the center. Slothrop and I sit with a crepe-like rotis in front of us, toppings spilling out in a childish attempt to escape their gruesome fate. If I’m not taking notes I would lunge at the meal, but Katje and Slothrop waste no time. Luckily dining with friends that understand my love for food means I usually eat a piece of their dish, so I wait patiently and sure enough both offer.

Scroll #4:

Good, but rushed.

Served with a salad grounded in Italian tradition – tomatoes and cucumbers thoroughly mixing with lettuce lightly dressed with olive oil, salt and pepper. A minimalist take on salad, I hope other restaurants choose this direction as salad smothered in dressing with a lack of vegetables creates an unhealthy, gross precedent.

The scroll itself is essentially a pile of toppings embedded in a roti wrap punched up with a rather large helping of parmesan – so much in fact that I have no choice but to enjoy it. The scroll was fiery throughout... inspired by the Italian sausage, no ingredient escaped a strong spice infusion. The scroll is vicious, incorporating spices that don’t meld but contradict and collide with each other, forcing me to deal with the fickle nature of the meal. Still a solid meal with generous portions, but I definitely prefer...

Scroll #1:

Nails the cheese.

A similar vegetable lineup to my own scroll I am not sure how this will turn out, particularly with the lack of meat. But after the first bite Slothrop cannot hold back a glowing report

- Cheese, spinach and peppers.. Oh my god how could you possibly go wrong?

forcing me to ponder the merits of his scroll. He presents me his plate and I take a mouthful of water, trying to wash out the afterglow from my scroll to properly taste his offering.

His roasted vegetables and pesto far outshine my dish. After the first bite I am now convinced that the combination of ricotta and havarti will one day save all food-kind; I would even eat something as famously horrific as Mee Krob with a generous spread of these cheeses. In short, I strongly recommend ordering this scroll.

Ginger and Carrot Soup:

Leaves you craving more.

The soup spoon is comically too big for Katje but she makes due, not allowing the silverware to dictate her level of enjoyment. The bowl was surrounded by tiny triangles of pita, complimenting a complex little soup – with one mouthful I can clearly taste the ginger that easily permeates through the solid foundation of carrot and pepper. A very light offering, this soup does everything I hope for a starter: whets the palette and sparks my interest in the potential of the main course.

The ambiance of Kalendar lends the place power – red walls juxtaposed with green mirrors, light bricks walls against dark wooden furniture. I want to return in the summer with I have a few hours to kill to properly enjoy this restaurant.. chat on a patio and let all my worries go, watching the College traffic pass while I enjoy the company of two of my favourite people. Not saying the experience wasn’t enjoyable – my waitress and host sincerely thanking us on our way out into the cold – but I feel with the coming of summer, a younger crowd will take over the neighbourhood and will inspire a more fulfilling dining experience. College Street and the Danforth will be sporting great summer fare and offer an atmosphere away from a breed that Katje affectionately refers to as “teeny boppers” – silly young girls that emit a piercing whistle as the wind passes quickly through the gaping space between their ears.

Kalendar Bills:

Slothrop paid for both himself and Katje, what a gentleman –
2 Green teas: $5.50
1 Orange & Ginger soup: $5.95
1 Scroll #1: 10.95
TOTAL (tax included): 25.31

My bill –
1 Scroll #4: $10.95
TOTAL (tax included): 12.38

A little on the pricey side for a student but hey, the food is worth it and that’s all I can really ask for.

He takes me in his arms and embraces me tenderly, yet firmly with one hand cradling the back of my skull and the other reaching across the plain of my back and he squeezes me and whispers something to me and I tell him I've missed him, where has he been, and he replies by kissing me softly and shamelessly on the cheek and I, with only a slight hesitation, kiss him back with stubble on my lips and we hold each other a while longer, holding on to this moment and he says he loves me and I believe him, I believe him without question or doubt as this feeling is radiated everywhere and I look over and around me with my hand unknowingly and loosely clasped in his and I see scenes such as this played out all around me; those on couches smiling and laughing contentedly passing between them a cherried joint, slapping each other's backs and loving each other; those standing around a table cheering triumphantly as though their flip-cup victory is akin to an olympic medal as they pump their fists and circle each other with arms linked and mouths open in huge, victorious 'O's, drawing together tight bundles of men like sticks and loving each other; and those who knit themselves into disjointed squares and circles around chairs and couches with how've you beens and where've you beens and why haven't we chilleds and we should chill soons and loving each other as a swirling, writhing haze wraps its smoky self around the room, coiling in endless loops and whorls and ensnaring the minds of these people and I let go of the hand once in mine and tell him I hope to see him again soon and he agrees and suddenly he is gone and I know that I undoubtedly will see him again and it will be no different than it was this time or any other time, there will always be the love and embraces and when he is gone, some other one will take his place in my arms and we'll hug endlessly and say we love each other and mean it and will never question the legitimacy of these statements because nothing is so unequivocally certain as this, and this warmth will be felt by everyone- they will absorb this feeling that is being projected from us just as we will absorb that coming from the countless others doing the same thing everywhere within eyeshot, as this haze is thick and inescapable, like drowning in an ocean of sweet maple syrup: Bro-Love is in the air.

This Bro is fucked beyond what is reasonable or realistic for a person to be, barely a shadow of himself pacing and stumbling and rambling, armed with a seemingly endless arsenal of hugs and high-fives that he conjures rapidly and unexpectedly as though drawing a gun from a holster on his hip, all do-you-feel-lucky-like. He can barely stand. I ask him what he's ingested and he says he doesn't know, but someone somewhere tells me he was drinking quote Vodka on the Rocks and this vodka turns out to be peach-flavored and I'm not really surprised. He's standing there in front of me, teetering precariously on the balls of his feet like he was standing on the edge of some cliff but he's not and he's grinning at me with some kind of grin that I want to say is that of an idiot but don't quite have the heart to go as far as to say; he's grinning like he's got some sort of fat, juicy secret that he's aching to tell you but he doesn't in fact, even know his name, he's just looking at me and grinning. At this point, I am so righteously high that I can't even read the stops upon the stolen subway map that adorns the wall of this small apartment, it is merely a black mass fixed with colorful bars that mean nothing to me and so I just watch the Bro curiously with my eyes surely as crimson as those of Cerebus and I don't know what to do with this guy, I'm just looking at him and probably grinning at him the same way as he is grinning at me and teetering; that great ship caught in a storm somewhere in the sea of vodka, rocking back and forth softly and soon he opens his mouth and utters something which I suppose is a sentence and he moves slowly closer to me with a mad look in his enormous pupils. He is walking towards me, but his body just cannot grasp the concept of walking so he is lunging and lurching toward me with his heavy head drooping at the floor and he's got one arm forward with fingers clenched into some vague semblance of a fist and he's coming right for me, this crazy fuck is coming right for me. Dear, sweet, zombie-jesus, what could this Adams Family reject want from me, can't a guy have an existential crisis in peace? I'm far too removed from any notions of plausible reality myself to go anywhere to avoid this trainwreck, but I have ample time to prepare myself for the collision and I tense up and I wait for it and it comes and it's a hug. He buries his face in the pit of my collarbone and mumbles something that I can't hear but I think I know what it is and I hug him back and he hangs there limp in my arms because his state won't allow him the strength to hold on for very long and I know this yahoo only wants the love that only a Bro can give. I can deal with this.

Sometimes, or sometimes all of the time, you just need a little Bro-Love.

He frees himself from my grasp, apparently satisfied and he stumbles off to whatever it is that a man in such a savage state does and I'm left to stare at some blur on the wall and it's good. Some or other of any number of Bros wanders over and grabs me in a backbreaking bearhug and he tells me he loves me and I know he means it. He wants me to meet this girl he's been seeing and so I do, and as it turns out, she's terrific and without warning he is gone off somewhere, probably to shower some other Bro with love. I am stranded somewhat apprehensively, speaking to this woman whom I've never met; I tell her that her new squeeze is the greatest guy in the world and she smiles and looks at the floor and I amble off, a feeling of awkward success carousing through me.

There is a crowd of Bros off in the distance and I find one and I slap him on the back with great conviction and he turns around and offers me his hand as though that is what we do, but I brush it off and throw my arms around him and he guffaws and pretends to be surprised by my outright affection as the other members of the crowd compensate for the loss of one of their number by encircling each other even more tightly than before. Like keeping a puppy in a cardboard box, the smiles cannot be contained; an abundance of Bro-Love is immediately felt by everyone and, as if by divine intervention, the room becomes louder and somehow warmer. He tells me a story and I'm more invested in it than I probably should be- I tell him I'm happy for him even though what he's telling me about isn't really that groundbreaking or life-changing, or even that memorable- but I don't care, I just want to be happy for him regardless. Soon, we are joined by the previous Bro, making his rounds, and I tell him that the girl is tremendous and he lights up with a spectacular grin that could power a flux capacitor and he hugs me again and says he really appreciates it, she's a great girl, and I feel good, knowing that I wasn't lying and with that, he leaves again. I find some Bros and Bro-sympathetic women smoking a generous bowl and I partake and I am past the point of knowing what I am doing, I am just blissfully being buried in Bro-Love.

If you're not a Bro, you've got to go.

This blur of bodies is flying in all colorful directions and I'm just rolling, rolling, rolling with it and I've got this tall motherfucker of a Bro looming at me, he must be at least nine foot and he is speaking to me in a tone that is more excited than I was originally prepared for, but while he is speaking I become distraught because my fingers are sticking together slightly with spilled beer. I begin to rub them together violently as though it will do something to alleviate the situation and I try to control myself and I try to listen to the Bro, but it is just bothering me so much, infuriating me, that I absolutely can not stop this, this shuffling of my fingers together so violently and for some reason, the thought of simply washing my hands never once occurs to me. I casually lean back and unwittingly place my other hand directly into another small puddle of brew that has pooled up on the table that has been designated specifically for flip-cup purposes and so my one dry hand is now covered; I look for a towel but there isn't one and I can't get away from this Bro that keeps talking to me so animatedly and so genuinely and I've got these sticky fingers and it's irritating me more than I ever would have previously thought possible but I'm not doing anything about it. These sticky fingers. This Bro is saying nice things to me, about me, almost to the point of excess and he's almost leaning over me he's so fucking tall, straining to make eye contact with my short self and I want to be flattered, I really do, but this image of him leering like this and the beer sticking to my fingers is making it oddly and abundantly difficult. I feel like I'm in some hall of mirrors, with this outrageously tall Bro looming at me and my peripherals flooded with Bros everywhere pouring obscene amounts of love all over each other and I'm being praised like everyone else around here is, which always makes me feel so awkward, and I thus do not know what to do with myself, so I keep shuffling my fingers and looking at the floor. I am seeing not people, but a mass everywhere that is some combination of the off-white standard apartment painting color and the immense conglomeration of garments that melt together so flawlessly and effortlessly and I don't know what else to do so I reach as high as I can and throw my arms around the shoulders of this giant and I am overcome. The Brozone layer is so thick and rich that I can barely breathe and I let him go and he looks almost morose but there is nothing I can do for him so I let him talk and lunge at him again.

When I am leaving and I have to make my rounds to see everyone again one more time, it is forever joyful with only a tinge of melancholy and we all tell each other we'll see each other soon and we hope we mean it, but it doesn't ever really happen and we feel genuinely bad for this. We want to be able to say that we'll be there all the time, I'm available whenever you want and such but it never happens, so we wait and wait and we do it all over again and it is usually glorious. I do the rounds amicably, but I really just want to leave so as not to spoil everything by overkilling it, so I rush out and I miss out on a few goodbyes and I am fine with this- I've had my fix of that intoxicating Bro-Love. So it ends- but this mass of Bromance is so all-consuming and powerful that we know always that only a tiny bit of Bro-Love goes an extremely long way and when it feels like it's been forever, all time is erased when you get another dose.

Comments

• January 22, 2009, Riaz writes: I understand the Bro Love.. I felt the anxiousness I felt the joy I felt the certainty I felt the uncertainty I felt bullets of sweat dripping down my forhead I felt the tears of joy dripping down my cheek I felt high fives, low fives, the moments of "bro, can you maybe, ummm, spot me a five?" I felt the, "dude you have something in your hair," and then the hesitation that follows when you reach for that piece of white fluff and ponder your move. I felt the sitting in shotgun as your buddy drives down the road, you're listening to Hall and Oates, and you understand, you understand. I felt the moment after that Hall and Oates song ends, something horrible comes on and you both reach for the stereo, hands touch...it's okay, it's okay. I felt the "hey, let's go to the park, push eachother on the swings" and then you say to your bro as he swings back and forth "close your eyes...feel the freedom...this is your moment, this is your life!" I understand. I understand.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and it sometimes necessary to give the stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.”

-Miss Piggy

Long before there were fashion magazines and prosti-tots on TV, the Ancient Greeks strove for and celebrated beauty.  Today’s aesthetic-crazed world isn’t any different than the previous eras; it’s just that what is considered “beautiful” has changed.  It used to be based on symmetrical shapes, harmony with nature, and the idealization of a healthy and physically fit body.  Now, it is based on whatever the current commercialized image is, complete with the latest fashion accessory from Paris.

Still, I can’t quite find fault in this idea of modern beauty.  It’s based on personal perception and the influences of the society it is encompassed in.  And I’m not one to go into a holier-than-thou bitchfest about what is or is not beautiful, after all, it’s personal opinion.  That being said, I do take issue with people being assumptive and using terms like “inner” beauty…    

I was walking downtown with many colleagues, introducing some new students to the lovely and “beautiful” city of Toronto when we came across a sign.  It was a Dove ad, a woman who was not what we have come to know as model-thin, but a more realistically (though still rather thin) shaped woman.  “Now that,” one of my colleagues happily announced, “That is real beauty.  Natural, it shows her true inner beauty.  Ironic placement of an ad though, don’t you think?”  The latter half of this comment referring to the fact that the poster was directly across from the local Hooters.  “Yeah,” came a few cheers of agreement, “I’m sick of people thinking that the skinny chicks with big tits are beautiful!”  Suddenly I found myself in the middle of a lets-pick-on-Hooters’-girls free-for-all.

And for the first time in a long time, I was genuinely insulted.  You see, I almost worked at Hooters last year (working timelines got in the way).  You see, some of us happen to be small in the hips and disproportionately well-endowed on top.  And it’s not our fault.  The way I look is just as natural as the woman on the Dove ad, so what’s the big fucking deal?  I can’t actually be beautiful because I accidentally fit into the societal standard for beauty?

  And inner beauty?  How does an advertisement displaying a half naked woman (no matter what fucking size she is!) show inner beauty?  And for that matter, what the hell good is inner beauty anyway? 

Inner beauty is great in theory, but what does it really mean?  That you have a pretty pancreas?  It’s ok that it looks like your face got hit by a bus, people will like you anyway, because of your not physically observable tenderness and sensitivity... Yeah, that’s it.  And maybe I’m a hell-bound heathen because I can’t see that inner beauty comes from the soul, and is our spiritual centre, but come on!

Eventually you have to admit that beauty is actually tangible.  Its something you can see.  And yes, it’s horrible, because beauty creates a standard of comparison that tends to harbor dissatisfaction and cruelty.  But it exists, and you can’t go around saying that inner beauty will get you by, because despite living in a post-postmodern world, we haven’t been able to get over past the physical.  Sure, the way you behave can seem to enhance beauty- in the way that a man with a cute baby or a puppy makes him suddenly more attractive- but it doesn’t make you beautiful.  Your appearance counts, it matters, it’s a cold fact that many things in your life are hinged on what you look like. 

I’m not discrediting the vast importance of personality- I’m just stating a fact.  Studies show that “pretty” people get the perks in life; they get better jobs, they make more money, they get laid more frequently… and if you’re that upset by it, the kicker is, you gave it to them!  What is considered beautiful varies, its cultural/species-specific, and is decided and maintained by the members of society, i.e. YOU. 

Yes, you.  Still want to whine about how important inner beauty is, that you would never be as shallow as to care about outer beauty?  Consider things as simple as do you brush your hair in the morning?  Or, where do you buy your clothes?  By making choices (and often conventional ones) you are adhering to the principles of modern beauty.  Outer beauty.

The ironic thing is that people who consciously avoid conventional practices of fashion, with their dreads that they pointedly don’t brush and their refusal to shop outside of Kensington Market, they’re making a statement with their appearance too.  It’s unavoidable.  You can’t avoid looking at someone, and automatically that visual stimulus connects with your brain and you think something of them, based on what they look like.  That’s not wrong, it’s natural.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and that beholder’s impression is important.

Beauty is tangible.  Deal with it.

Comments

• January 23, 2009, Wally Keeler writes: I have a photo of the people in this photo holding FREE SPEECH cards. My photo was not as well focused as this one here, but I did not take down the names of the individuals here. I would like to be able to attribute them in my photo. Can they or someone provide their names?
• January 23, 2009, Karen Correia Da Silva writes: Far left: Karen Correia Da Silva Centre: Sarah Beaudin :)
• October 23, 2009, Coder88 writes: The overall picture is that there is a substrate of conceptual structure in chimps, overlain by some uniquely human but not necessarily language-based subsystems, in turn overlain by subsystems that depend on the pre-existence of linguistic expression. ,

Earlier this summer I found myself complaining about the Sex and the City Movie being a travesty, infinitely inferior to the television series that I was often witnessed watching with my mother (a woman who also took me to see Brokeback Mountain). I bitched and wailed endlessly about what a pathetic cash grab the whole thing was, how poor Charlotte was given absolutely no storyline whatsoever other than crude comic relief and how the film showed barely a glimmer of the series' witty insights and emotional realism. Again, I ask: What's the deal?

Shouldn't I be fixing stuff or throwing a football around or hunting and/or gathering or something? Shouldn't I have my face buried under the hood of a car instead between some woman's legs? Shouldn't my rampant gushings about my respective loves for Leslie Feist and Bjork and my blatant general gayness earn me severe pummelings on an outrageously regular basis, or at the very least ensure that I never get any pussy ever? Once more, I implore you, reader: What's the deal?

The deal is that today's generation of young and enlightened men are embracing a new definition of masculinity: raised by our feminist mothers and frequently, yet willingly, emasculated fathers, we are the ultimate product of the feminist movements. After a lifetime of being leveled with inexplicable guilt trips daily about the oppressive nature of men and the ever-destructive cock, we have emerged thoughtful, sensitive and above all cool individuals, forever irritated by the feminist ramblings that are rammed down our clueless throats on a painfully regular basis. Perhaps we equate the seemingly angry feminism we are faced with in every class we attend and every magazine we pick up with the unnecessary naggings of out liberated mothers, or perhaps the changes that the feminists were looking for already happened and they were looking in the wrong place for the results. Gone is the ridiculous, stereotypical image of masculinity, the 1950s all-American macho stud, he of the hulking pectorals and shining, purring fiberglass dick of a convertible; the "Honey, I'm home, shut the fuck up and hand me my dinner" sort of chap.

We don't do that anymore: women's lib worked and men are better for it, but now it has become too much, we have reached saturation point; it's time for women to get on board with the Contemporary Male and what we're about, which is everything they're about. I'm not trying to say that because I like allegedly girly things like Jane Austen and Sex and the City that I'm somehow enlightened, rather it is the fact that the definition of what is acceptable behavior for males has shifted so that to be masculine is to embrace femininity. And it's making men significantly more awesome. Thusly, I present a brief manifesto of what we, the Contemporary Males have been up to in between bouts of penis-guilt:

1. That the Contemporary Males are enamored of the vagina:

Remember when the vag was a scary place to be? Remember when snatch was weird-looking and smelled unpleasant and was just generally gross? Blood comes out of there?! Monthly?! Blood not inflicted by mortal wound?! Disgusting! You all might not be comfortable with your bodies, but all of the Vagina Monologues and Love-Your-Cunt-Rah-Rah stuff going on for the past fifteen years or so sort of worked... on men! The Contemporary Male loves pussy, or at the very least, is willing to learn to love it. Increased sexual education has given men the tools and resources to (sort of) comprehend just what the fuck is going on down there and now we are hooked. We've done our homework: we can label the parts, we've got the physics and engineering down pat; we know what's up. Put us in the game, coach, we can do it, we are no longer afraid. The taste: delectable; the scent: intoxicating; please, for the love of god allow me to submerge myself for as long as my jaws will allow it. The male stigmas surrounding the vagina are steadily eroding leading to unprecedented amounts of orgasms nationwide. We, the Contemporary Males, are no Junior Sopranos, with the "If you suck pussy, you'll suck anything" mentality- we want to watch you writhe and twist and we want to feel you grinding yourself into our drenched faces; it's a veritable feast for the senses at every second. It is now conceivable that men are more comfortable with your vaginas than most of you are; we are pussy-hungry maniacs, raving lunatics, salivating dogs. The Contemporary Male gets off to you getting off: everybody wins!

2. That the Contemporary Male strives to break free of the oppressive Locker Room:

Everyone talks about sex with their friends, it is utterly inevitable; some are more modest than others, but men and women both do it, often to great excess. Most unfortunately for men, there are a strict set of rules that apparently must be adhered to under penalty of expulsion from the Locker Room and being branded some sort of deviant. The vehemently vanilla rules of masculinity state clearly that when discussing sex, there is only one plotline: "I railed the tits off of her in a standard position; she trembled and screamed in the presence of my mighty and gargantuan cock and pleaded vainly for me to be done with her. It was awesome!" Even paltry, harmless divergences from this formula is often looked upon with sideways glances and uncomfortable silences; rarely in the Locker Room are phrases such as "Bite", "Scratch", "Spank" or "Ate her pussy" (or variant) ever uttered without at least one male becoming noticeably uneasy, let alone the horrors that are sure to follow any discussion of fetish or kink. The Contemporary Male is sexually adventurous and unafraid of his desires or those of his partner, he is in tune with his own body and responsive to that of his ladyfriend; furthermore, he is oblivious to the uncomfortable squirms and groans of his sexually repressed fellow males; the Contemporary Male is aware that there is much more to sex than simply fucking for a while and falling asleep shortly afterward. Having said that, we are not whiny, overly emotional lightweights: we have no interest in "making love" or being gentle in any way. We rightly acknowledge that intimacy and connection can be best achieved with wild, outrageous fucking; with sweaty, kinky, animalistic sex. Psychoanalysis aside, we are the ones who never got any in high school and we are now taking sex back from the repressed zealots and the sexually conservative: we intend to liberate ourselves from the shackles of mindless constraints and arbitrary social constructions. We aim to make sex intelligent and people intelligent about sex.

3. That the Contemporary Male shall be deeply in tune with his body, its maintenance and its general upkeep:

Many of the apparently unfair standards set upon women have recently found themselves transported to the realm of the male and to be quite blunt, we are loving every second of it. As it turns out, being clean and stuff is pretty fucking great. Men everywhere are reveling endlessly in their newfound appreciation for expensive underwear and shaving their balls. Oh the utter thrill of buying nice, tightly-fitted boxer-briefs: they come in such cool colors and cradle your junk magnificently. The sheer excitement of buying one's own underwear, a task once taken on by our mothers (though they often still buy our socks), is absolutely breathtaking; nothing compares to the feeling of having spent way too much money on sperm-count-lowering, hyper-trendy short-shorts from H+M. We tremble with anticipation to wear them as soon as possible and nearly collapse in fits of joy when we realize how gloriously they shape our asses. While our Dads are more than happy to toil in the hopeless monotony of uninspired and dated undergarments, we, the Contemporary Males, can't get enough of this shit; it is both ludicrous and beautiful in equal measure. We go into great detail about them amongst ourselves and giggle incessantly and with as much glee as we might muster, not unlike the proverbial schoolgirls. We have learned to take care of our bodies and our appearances; we now take pride in our clothes and compliment each other's haircuts - the utilitarian male body is becoming obsolete, we are removing unwanted body hair and eating healthily. We will do everything within our powers to avoid the looming beer-gut that has plagued our forefathers; we are applying practices upon ourselves that would baffle them to hear of it. We will take a section of our ballsacks between our thumb and forefinger to pull the loose skin taut and then take a razor to the useless hairs upon it- shaving our balls smooth. The man-bush shall never have more than a month's growth and the mantra of hair removal will be stringently followed: "Back, sack and crack; back, sack and crack." We will apply the same care and attention to our bodies as women do and we will be better for it; the Contemporary Male does everything unto himself as he would expect of any woman.

4. That the Contemporary Male shall love and respect the women in his life in equal measure to his fellow males while at the same time, to never be afraid to tell angry feminists to fuck themselves:

The Contemporary Male is an individual that is a product of feminism and is thus deeply respectful of the women that inhabit his existence at all times. However, he believes that women that try to victimize themselves and slap feminist theory upon every facet of daily life are intensely annoying and that he is well within his rights to feel irritated by these delusional ramblings. To argue the sexist nature of the literary and political texts of centuries past is a pointless exercise and it has nothing to do with the present, it's just irrelevant: we know what used to go down and we're working on it with you. Why should we be made to feel guilty for things that are out of our control? It is not a sin to possess a dick. We are now in an age of enlightenment - we have access to boundless information with little restriction apart from arbitrary censorship - men are in the know, we demand nothing short of equality. However, we often now feel flaccid and useless. When one attempts to illustrate the dangers of aggressive and excessive feminism, if he happens to be a man, he is immediately labeled a misogynist and yet feminist theory is allowed to dominate academia without limit. The Contemporary Male is a proponent of equality and believes that gender lines are pointless. He does not think of the women in his life as being any different than the men, he has been raised surrounded by intelligent women, he knows the issues, he knows how shit works. However, he will believe that feminism has become a parody unto itself and will not let the barrage own him. He will acknowledge the struggle and be as supportive as possible, but he will not be afraid to tell anyone in his tutorials that to drag feminism into every subject is to be utterly redundant.

I am pretty hugely indebted to women's lib, the shifting images of masculinity as a result of the rise of feminism has been awesome for me: I would not be allowed to be able to express myself as I do, nor would I be nearly as well rounded or open-minded a person. If I were my age in the 1940s or 50s, I would probably still be a virgin, so that's super cool. I'm cartoonishly skinny, deathly pale and infinitely geeky - so completely unmasculine by traditional standards it's insane, and yet here I am steeped in culture and like-minded people that are all bound by the embracing of the feminine by the masculine. I owe much of my personal identity to the steady blurring of gender lines and I can't imagine myself being any other way. I am totally and absolutely comfortable with myself and my body, I don't have any penis issues whatsoever and am sexually liberal to the point of overkill. To be the Contemporary Male is to live in an exceptionally awesome universe.