A couple of weeks ago, on the Friday of the May 2-4 long weekend, I got some good news followed by an invitation for my child to spend the night with a friend (more good news), so Scott and I decided to go out.
The decision about where was so intriguing as to border on onerous.
We started at Sotto Voce (before they opened, technically) for watery, unenthusiastic drinks. By 5:50 p.m. we were ready for dinner (yes, I know it's sad) and we decided to head over to the Black Hoof - one of Toronto's most popular spots. It has the dubious honour, amongst other things, of being the place where Measha Brueggergosman experienced the beginnings of her near fatal aortic dissection. (Note: She had not yet ordered...)
Now despite your assumptions that it's lame to eat dinner at 5:50 p.m. (I'm inferring), I'll have you know that there was a line down the block when we arrived. Charcuterie-crazed Torontonians observantly queued around the block - as only Torontonians can do, waiting politely, if impatiently, for the doors to open. Yes, a restaurant-worth of people were single-stacked, wilting in the drizzle, to get into a hole in the wall before it even opened at an embarrassing hour on a Friday evening.
Oh, who are we kidding, it was still afternoon.
And we were two of them.
All was uncomfortably well until I caught a glimpse of the menu-board in the front window. OK, peeps, amongst the charc and the sweetbreads and other braised organs, I was shocked to discover that horse heart was on the bill.
I realize I don't have a leg to stand on (as does anything else in the place!), but I was so repelled. I eat all kinds of dead animal. Hell, I wear fur. I know it's stupid to distinguish between the creatures you're willing to kill cuz you like them and those you won't touch because they are cute, but I was creeped and freaked and grossed out and amazed that a bunch of hipsters were waiting, vaguely like cows to the slaughter, to eat freakin' horse hearts.
We ended up at Libretto for pizza. On which we put lots of meat.