Bar Raval

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Nicole and I went for dinner at Woodlot. They kicked us out at 8, cuz we didn't have a reservation and that's how provincial this town is, whereupon Nic suggested that we head next door to Bar Raval, latest plaything of uber chef Grant van Gameren (he of the Black Hoof). At first, the guy who guards the door (and I'm not overstating this) advised us that we could not enter. The wait time had been 2 hours, since 6 pm. But when we reacted with good-humour, he invited us in. Just remember Ladies, good manners will get you everywhere. Especially if you're wearing heels and you have boobs.

Lord, the crowd. You know I don't love crazy lights when mixed with noise and wall-to-wall people. I had to suck in my stomach just to avoid the guy next to on top of me. Oh, it's scenester in a way the 45 year old in me finds utterly hilarious. The bartenders are fucking serious. Like, performance art, waxed moustache/neck tattoos/top knot/ TO hipster serious. One doesn't sit at Bar Raval. That's so North American. No, here we stand - as if we're at a pintxo joint in Barcelona. Alas, the awesome food costs about 8000 times as much as it would there. The drinks are awesome. They have 12 kinds of vermouth. One of the cocktails is a mixup of gin and turmeric - a collusion of plant and dirt (according to my husband).

How does my husband know what the cocktails taste like? Well, I made him go there for dinner with me on Friday night. Spur of the moment-like. I arrived at 5:30 to secure our standing zone. By 6, I was a chic sardine. But I was also 2 drinks in, so I didn't much care.

The food is freakin' terrific. Little mini-plates of delicious beef tenderloin and whole peppers, classic ham and bechamel croquettes, shrimp prepared with roe (how I don't exactly know - it's inside the exoskeleton), "kitchen bread" (whatever the fuck that means), perfectly-rendered squid in pork fat. Let's just say the eating was easy.

After 75 minutes, I could no longer stand (the fullness of my tummy might have had something to do with this) and we got the bill. In truth, I couldn't stand the crowd any longer. (Crazily, an exhausted couple, no doubt still in parenting denial, stood next to us with their infant in a carrier. They needed our square footage.) I knew it wouldn't be cheap - I mean, I'd read the menu and all of the reviews - but somehow I was still shocked that I'd spent 240 bucks on a meal for 2, that was gone in less than an hour and a half. (Yeah, half of it was the cost of the booze.)

I wish I could tell you I won't do it again. But there are some patio tables with chairs, peeps. I bet if I arrive at 5, I might just get one of those. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll stand.

The Way I See It

Remember that thing I said yesterday about looking leading to spending? Well how much more meta can you get than looking for glasses. I mean, Jesus, you can't even see what you're trying on!

But don't fear, it didn't stop me from finding my next pair:

You've got to appreciate glasses called Hellcat!

They're titanium and made in Japan but designed by a Danish company, Orgreen. The brand doesn't show a high-res photo on the website (from what I can tell). This pic isn't really the best...

How did it happen? Well, I took the day off and had lunch at food empire, Terroni. BTW, if you live in TO, the magazine they recently started publishing is irritatingly delicious and available to read online. Totally Queen Street. (Seriously, what self-respecting restaurant gets into publishing??)

At any rate, I've had the same glasses for 3 years and 2 months (I checked) and, though I've never loved a pair more - they're PINK people, I have to shake it up. I can't be that girl in pink glasses for the next 10 years.

Down the block from the restaurant is Spectacle, my go-to eyewear boutique. It is a delightful place with excellent client service, but man, that bill really hits you in the ass. Let's just say I probably shouldn't have spent quite so much money on lunch. (In full disclosure: My husband bought lunch.)

Totally off topic - my drink of the week is one the name of which I can't remember, sadly, but it's a composite of prosecco, gin and Campari (finished with a wedge of orange).

But how off topic is it, really? I mean the eyewear is orange, the drink is orange. Orange seems to be the name of the game today. You know I have no issues with the colour - see my handmade body of evidence. I wear orange tights, scarves. I even used to wear a bright orange plaid coat. (I loved that coat.) And, I'm kind of in a go loud or go home phase right now.

These look rather different than the current pair. They're not plastic. They're not pink. The shape is more rectangular than cat's eye (though not excessively so). They're vaguely more architectural (but not in that way one euphemistically refers to wacky, preciously-angular, embellished glasses). They're even a bit intellectual. Having said all this. I do not look like a librarian (sexy or otherwise). I polled everyone in the freakin' store to confirm this.

No Horsing Around

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.

Horse. Heart.

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.

The Times, They've Changed

Time was, I went to lots of concerts. Weekly concerts. Cool shows. But now, as I hang on the edge of 40, with my kid, and her homework, and my career and my householder responsibilities, well now, not so much. My husband is a musical guy. Truth be told, I’m a musical girl. He practices weekly and jams with a band a couple of times a month. I sing along with the iPod. We should be seeing the shows, no?

Which brings me to the point of this post: Last night Scott and I went out to see an actual live musical act – and to dinner - without the child (thank you Nicole!!). The last time we did this was 2 years ago. I can’t even remember who we saw.

Last night we saw The Album Leaf. The opening act was Sea Wolf – a winsome, competent, confident band. Thank goodness, because our headliner didn’t go on till 11:15 p.m. On a Wednesday?! Apparently, generation G hipsters don’t have day jobs that start before noon. They sport numerous variations on lank hair and poorly-fitting vintage shirts with holes at the seams. Don’t ask me how I could determine this in a black room.

For better or worse, I’m sure as hell no longer the target demographic. (Of course, these days, the only thing I’m the target demographic for is TV shows about Cougars…) In my day, we would have been enveloped in a grey fog of cigarette smoke embellished by the sweet, acrid hint of weed. The liquor would have been hard. The attendees louche. This group was cheerful and draught-drinking and there was nary a joint in sight. The scariest thing about this gig was the washroom, which truly did freak me out. I have it on good authority that it hasn't been cleaned since my last visit to the venue in 1989.

Fine, that last para was hyperbolic. It appears I’ve become one of those judgmental middle-aged sorts who bitches about the young 'uns.

But back to Sea Wolf: It wasn’t really my scene. A little too alt meets grunge with some questionable synth and a bit of under-mixed ‘cello. The crowd was very happy though. All things considered, I think Sea Wolf got a warm response.

Turns out that’s all we had to tide ourselves over (Sea Wolf, get it!) because – no joke – The Album Leaf didn’t arrive till 10:00 p.m. and, on arrival, set up in front of us for more than an hour. Given that they didn’t even have a chance to do a real sound check, the band was amazing. Man, did the audience go nuts. I’ll be honest, they lost me at 10:30, long before they started playing. I’d been standing around for 2 hours at that point. I had a big meeting this morning at 9:00 a.m. The whole loud ambient, glitch-hop meets analog thing bores me a bit. But I had to admire the musical chops. They held the audience’s rapt attention.

Why were they apologetically tardy? I left at 11:45 p.m. but my husband stayed until the “meet the band” conclusion of the event, long after midnight. Sometime after I went home, the front person advised publicly that the group was late (and incomplete) because they had been held up at the border – for the entire day. Apparently, and it’s likely more shocking to have never happened before – than that it happened yesterday – this is because three of them have records. Of the criminal variety. Two of them have gone to jail. Yesterday the Canadian customs people finally figured that out. And turned the “criminals” back.

But before you assume that the Canadians were hard ass meanies, turns out – at the US border – the Americans refused to grant them re-entry!

If I understand this correctly, those poor band members were stuck in the 6-foot wide limbo that is neither (both?) America nor (and?) Canada. Talk about a rock and a hard place. I don’t know what they did to land them in jail. I don’t really care – I’m not here to moralize. But it irritates me that my tired toes had to pay for it. (Old person moment again.)

One of the obstacles to expedient set-up was this whack “light stick” arrangement (part of the audio/visual part of the performance). Over the course of the show, these weird strings of LED lights would go on and off in time to the music, change colours and do strange, strobe-y things that put me in mind of epileptic seizures. I have to say, it didn’t add to the experience for me.

I wonder if anyone else was at Lee’s last night and saw the gig. Do you know the band, even if you weren’t there? BTW, were I to start a band, I'd call it Bias Cut and wear cool, mid-century American design, with an air of ennui. Have any band names up your sleeve? Let’s chat post-rock ‘n roll!

Just Desserts (And Dinner)

I wrote in my last post about Terroni, a place I've been going to for authentic southern Italian food for, oh, about 20 years now. (I know when to arrive so that there aren't any line-ups. And I only visit the one on Queen West. The other, newer locations are like ersatz wannabes IMO. Stupidly, they have line ups too.) Here are a couple of shots of yummy dolci...

Almond Tart with strawberries, floating in creme anglaise

Scottie's torta caldo on vanilla sauce with balsamic cream hearts

Aperitivo

A few weeks ago I tried a new drink at Terroni. I cannot remember the name but it's made of Aperol and prosecco, on ice, and it's a perfect combo of bitter, sweet and bubbly. The colour alone - the most amazing, neon shade of tangerine - makes it entirely worth ordering. I haven't seen this booze at the LCBO (it lives near the Campari) but I will snap it up as soon as I do.

Have any of you tried Aperol? Thoughts?

Long Weekend Living

My daughter went back to school Friday before last, after a week at home with some kind of childhood virus... As it marked the start of the May long weekend, work released me a couple of hours early - facilitating a pre-daycare-pick-up drink with Scott. Alas, the weather was drab, but nonetheless I was really in a mood to relax - so we went to the Park Hyatt Rooftop for an aperitif.

Cool Tonic Imported from India - and delicious edamame.
The Hyatt gives the best free snacks with drinks!

No one hates the Chin Crystal more than I do, but here's a cool perspective on it.

If ever you visit TO, this really is a great spot to take in the view - especially on a clear day. I only wish we'd brought the real camera...

Odd Fellows

So, my friends S and N told us about this new place (Odd Fellows) at Shaw and Queen that just opened last week. Maybe it's more correct to say it reopened, though the concept is changed and it's been redesigned, because the owner is the same.

It's all about communal eating, something apparently you either love or hate. I enjoy interrupting conversations with complete strangers all the time. So I say, bring it on. As the photos show, it's a long, thin room with one table and many chairs. Very Viking, actually. And it's so gorgeously designed I want to marry it.

There is an outside patio that's also banquette style. And I heard an (uncorroborated) rumour (more about this to follow) that they've applied for a license to add a sauna in the patio area. Like for communal "getting hot" in the middle of January. How Hipster Viking.

Anyway, take a look at the interiors...

Notice the incredible, suspended rotating fireplace:


How's about the magnetic wall paint and letters directing you to the toilettes:


Do you love the lighting? Those are old-style fluorescent tubes wrapped around compact fluorescent bulbs. Talk about recycle-power:


And how about the bar lighting:

Even puppies want in!:

And taxidermied beavers:


Gotta love a place with penis-shaped dutch ceramic salt and pepper shakers. Delicate and dirty:


But here's the best part. (Yulanda: Are you proud I didn't eat all of this before remembering to take the shot?):



This brownie is one of the best I've ever eaten. And the ice cream is organic and made on the premises. Calorie bargain, indeed!

PS: It's affordable.

Update: I went to this restaurant for dinner on Friday night and I have to say, while the service was excellent and the ambience awesome (to say nothing of the great company), something we ate really didn't agree with me or my husband. I don't know that I can recommend it for the food under the circumstances. Except the brownie, natch.

Buzzword: Staycation

You know how the NY Times (and every other media outlet) is all on about how oil prices and an American recession are sounding the death-knell of summer travel? You know how they're referring to that new trend, the staycation? (That's where you hang out in your own town, preferrably your uber-private landscaped backyard, and drink G&Ts flavoured with slow-food limes and spearmint while BBQing with your hepcat friends who are saving money in precisely the same, stylin' manner.)


Well, in the spirit of this - more in the spirit of having dispensed with all the away-cating I'm likely going to do for the foreseeable future - I decided to pretend TO is Mtl. And, then, when I realized that seemed pathetic, that it didn't quite do justice to this sophisticated city in which I live and which some people actually enjoy, I decided to pretend TO is fun. Not a word most people associate with this industrious bastien of commerce.


Cut to our Sunday lunch at Terroni on Queen St., a restaurant staple that is both uniquely TO and the real deal. 80-year old moms touch shoulders with tv personalities. First dates intermingle with harried (but hip) new parents and tiny tots.


And, though I didn't get a photo, we managed to dine today with the (not exactly warm and fuzzy) food-god himself, Susur Lee. Um, you know you're not eating crappy-style when Susur's at the table to your right.


Here are a few candid photos:




In case you're wondering if Mr. Lee was comped his meal en famille, the answer is a succinct "no". (I sneakily checked out the bill on his table as we were leaving. Don't judge: It was research.)