Toronto the tiny

Just as her text message announces an early arrival at our reservations, his call inquires on appropriate attire. I’m half dressed in a jacket, tie and underpants, and say so to a whip-lash response: “Oh shut up, I’ll go put on nice clothes.” Click.

We’re easily the loudest, youngest table, all cozied into our booth, reaching over each other’s arms for the last bit of chicken liver mousse. Our waitress overhears, “I was having sex behind Hooligans…” and, of course, tells us she’s from Winnipeg, too.

In the next breath we discover she graduated with his brother and sigh, “Small world,” in unison; such is Toronto’s broken record. We assess the appetizers, down our drinks, and order one more at the pub down the street before departing with a promise to meet again here or there, knowing full well the homestead will soon stitch us back together.

Mr. Keith, meet Mr. Martin

photo by Jordan Chu

In my family, dinner means an agreeable location and four oversized entrees. My sister eats directly from my plate, which I rarely finish, and my mother sends back her dish with complaints to the chef. The entire ordeal lasts about an hour. 

In the Chu family, dinner is much more grandeur. There are countless courses, spinning table-tops, and an unlimited selection of liquor. Thirty-odd guests attended the graduation celebration of Mr. Jordan Chu, held in the banquet room of an uptown restaurant. Two tables hosted family, another grads, and a fourth was reserved for miscellaneous friends. 

There, I was treated to Korean vodka, Canadian beer, and constantly rotating culinary offerings. I learned never to assist the wait staff from your table seat, only to pour tea for others (never yourself), and an apparently ancient rule: when an elder pours you a drink, you must finish it. To that, I happily complied, as did the adorable blonde across the table, who I kept sneaking booze to after friends insisted she be cut off. 

I left with a stuffed stomach, and awoke still feeling full, which was likely better than how the blonde felt.

For that, thank you, Mr. Chu. 

(Also, Jordan Chu)

(Just me, sorry!)

Flowers and florals

When your native clan lives on the other side of the great lakes, things can get a little lonely. Holidays are the worst. As all the college kids pile into caravans and hop onto buses, migrating back to their suburban homesteads, I'm usually stuck in my concrete tower, complaining loudly to no one about outdated traditions.

Not this Easter. I awoke to a phone call Saturday morning, and on the other line Genna invited--no, demanded--that I schedule a trip to Chez Winnipeg, at Bathurst and Bloor, where three lovely ladies would be cooking me a holiday dinner.

Then on Sunday morning I pulled on my best Passover pants (there would be two Jews at the table, after all) and rounded up a bag of buns and a bouquet of flowers, eager to join my fellow family-less friends.

I was met with a full-scale Easter dinner, complete with three courses and the remnants of a morning egg hunt. The conversation was as good as the food, and just as we were ending a heated philosophical debate on whether full-grown men can deliver the same excitement as Josh Harnett in the Virgin Suicides, I excused myself to take a call.

It was my mother on the other line, calling to wish me a happy Easter. I may have no family in this city, but standing in the kitchen that night, it felt like I did.

And, I do.