Toronto Day 1: Reconnoitering

The WiFi does work even in our eyrie, but typing in the semi-dark was driving me mad, so I came down to the lounge and met one of our fellow inhabitants. He's a filmmaker (a claim I couldn't resist verifying with a quick IMDb lookup a moment ago) and a friend of the owners, so he hangs here when he's in town. I'm eager to get a bit more of their story. How do two young Turkish guys end up running a b&b on the rough side of Toronto together.

And make no mistake--this is not a good 'hood. The filmmaker called the corner a block to the west "the worst in Toronto" even while he called this place "the best deal in Toronto". Time will tell if we were pound foolish. So far, the main thing we're missing out on are amenities close at hand. When the GWO asked one half of our host team for a good local coffeeshop, he got walking directions to Cabbagetown. Yeah, not so much.

He seems like a good guy, so well-meaning I felt like I was putting him out rudely showing up exactly when we said we would to find him cleaning the halls. He hurried to bring us cushions for our private deck, but unfortunately no protection from the full sun--and of course neither of us thought to bring a hat. We had a nap and then decided to do some exploring. Finding a decent coffeeshop meant walking all the way to the Eaton Centre, buying tokens meant walking down to one end, and finding an LLBO (state-run liquor store) meant walking the back up to the other end. It was crazy with people; Dundas Square was almost unnavigable.

The place nitouche recommended for feijoada was on Queen St West, so after our drinks in the garden, we headed down to there to catch the streetcar. Not a good plan: you walk straight through the projects that give Moss Park its unsavoury rep. "We're not coming back this way," I told the Old Man, and we didn't. (We took the replacement bus service down Dundas until we could switch to the streetcar.)

Unfortunately, I thought the restaurant would be so easy to spot that I didn't bother to memorise the address. We must've gone right past it since we reached Dovercourt without seeing it and no one we asked had any idea what we were talking about. So it was back to Ossington, up to Dundas, and then into the heart of the Portuguese Village. Brazilian Star Bar was the first place I saw I recognised from Googling "feijoada", so in we went.

I won't say it was superior experience to caipirinhas at Caju, but it was definitely one we couldn't have gotten elsewhere. For starters, we were the only non-Portuguese-speakers in the entire joint. Our vinho verde was inoffensive and refreshing, the Old Man's halibut was tasty and had great texture, and I was in heaven with one bite of the feijoada. I have never eaten pork fat that flavourful before in my life. Such a shame to have to leave any of it behind!

I thought I couldn't eat another bite; I was wrong. At the counter, they had pão de queijo for sale, so I bought one "for tomorrow morning". Then I noticed it was warm. On our way back to the corner, the Old Man spied another LLBO and suggested we pop inside for "a small bottle of something we could sip on the deck." Which is how we found ourselves a half-hour later having a nightcap of sambuca glace on our now-comfortable deck.

I think we're going to make out just fine.

A little night reading

Lines from Guy Vanderhaeghe's short story "King Walsh" that made me laugh out loud

1. "Myra is Sonny's second wife and has a tight little mouth that looks like a cigarette burn on a plastic car seat cover."
2. "Ruby tried, after a fashion, to make herself attractive. Unfortunately her home dye jobs came out the colour of one of those creosote-treated railroad ties, a streaky, oily, rusty-black."
3. "'His father threatened to sue, didn't he? For chipping the kid's tooth?'
   'Jesus, can you believe it? I'm supposed to pay for the milk he didn't buy the kid?'"

Toronto Day 2: Guided By Vices

I really only had one proper meal today, but it was a doozy: smoked meat poutine at Caplansky's. Once again, this was not the restaurant we originally aimed to end up at, and once again there was not a thing to regret about that. (Plan A was Prague Deli on Queen St, closed for the holiday weekend.)

Breakfast was a l'allemande (assuming dulce de leche has reached Deutschland). Our Turkish host came in to tidy, and a simple question about his town of origin ended up in an hour-long disquisition on Turkish politics. monshu had to nudge me to remind me we were due to meet up with power couple danthered and bitterlawngnome in less than an hour.

Fortunately getting to Moonbean at Kensington Market was as simple as hopping a streetcar at the next corner and then walking two blocks. (The neighbourhood's greatest asset is how easy it is to escape.) After much strategising over a quiet table in the back, the boys settled on giving us a grand tour of the market and then taking us down to Queen St for an early dinner.

It's yuppifying around the edges ("Indian Tapas", anyone?) but the countercultural feel of the place is unmistakable. I deliberately took a heartburn pill before we set out so I wouldn't be tempted to buy anything I couldn't wait to devour later (so no feijoada from Segovia's or chorizo papusas for me). And a good thing, too, as not matter what I was admiring, B--- was always at my elbow urging me, "You should get it."

I finally gave in to his serpentine whispers at Caplansky's and I don't regret it. To my surprise, the "large" was actually a completely reasonable amount of gravy-smothered curds and fries instead of the monstrous portion I was expecting. I washed it down with a disappointingly mild pint of Denison's Dunkel, a local brew. (I could've had a manhattan--first deli I've ever been to with a full bar!)

By this time, the spitting rain of midday had long since vanished completely and the day was the equal of Saturday in gorgeousness (only less hot) so we decided to stroll down College to Dolce in Little Italy. Satan had strewn Balfour Books in our path and I was indulged once again. "More books for the pile in you bedroom," said the Bearded Satan. Pretty much!

It's always fascinating meeting people in person you've only ever communicated with before virtually. They were reversed from what I had imagined based on the perceptions I've formed of them on LJ. Dan is even cuter in real life and B---, even taller (if that can be believed). I won't jinx the shoot by telling you what we talked about it, but it was an exciting moment when the muse struck in the middle of the pavement.

I could've hung out with them for days more, but I could tell the Old Man was getting worn out. danthered graciously ferried us back to our house in the slums and an assortment from the Cheese House became our supper, chased by ginger and butterscotch-bacon cookies from Cora's as we sat out in the shade of the deck and I watched the contentment pool in monshu's eyes.