Few Blocks Over. Different City
Had lunch at Queen and Parliament on Saturday in a place with "Diner" in the name.
I was called "Hun" and He Who Is Here Now was called "Sweetie" by the incredibly wonderful waitress who was likely 32 but looked 58. When I commented that my fried egg with cheddar sandwich was exactly what I'd needed, the waitress replied, "Yah don't they make good sandwiches here -- no hiding nothin' in them there's so much you can see it all!"
It's easy to forget that such refreshing non-sophisticated and warmly open personality exists outside of where I expect to find it, in the dwindling number of small towns. A young guy came in and sat near the door so he could watch his unlocked bike and the same waitress sent him outside to turn the bike upside down, "at least: There are some bad one's around here and bikes don't last too long -- least now you'll be out of the restaurant to catch 'em before they get your bike set up right to ride away," she said when he came back in, still a bit confused, I thought, as to why he'd just gone and done what she'd asked.
I don't mean to be condescending, for the experience was what I was used to for much of my life, and the taste of it (along with that glorious cholesterol sandwich) was sweet on the tongue indeed. Makes me nostalgic for beer-bar waitresses who keep the bills folded between their fingers and can bring a new round of drinks to a table of 10 people based simply on a nod across the bar. (I wonder how much Loonies and Toonies have fucked that cool bills wrapped around fingers thing?)
The home fries on Saturday were to die for too.
I was called "Hun" and He Who Is Here Now was called "Sweetie" by the incredibly wonderful waitress who was likely 32 but looked 58. When I commented that my fried egg with cheddar sandwich was exactly what I'd needed, the waitress replied, "Yah don't they make good sandwiches here -- no hiding nothin' in them there's so much you can see it all!"
It's easy to forget that such refreshing non-sophisticated and warmly open personality exists outside of where I expect to find it, in the dwindling number of small towns. A young guy came in and sat near the door so he could watch his unlocked bike and the same waitress sent him outside to turn the bike upside down, "at least: There are some bad one's around here and bikes don't last too long -- least now you'll be out of the restaurant to catch 'em before they get your bike set up right to ride away," she said when he came back in, still a bit confused, I thought, as to why he'd just gone and done what she'd asked.
I don't mean to be condescending, for the experience was what I was used to for much of my life, and the taste of it (along with that glorious cholesterol sandwich) was sweet on the tongue indeed. Makes me nostalgic for beer-bar waitresses who keep the bills folded between their fingers and can bring a new round of drinks to a table of 10 people based simply on a nod across the bar. (I wonder how much Loonies and Toonies have fucked that cool bills wrapped around fingers thing?)
The home fries on Saturday were to die for too.
posted by Heipel at
9:34 PM
4 Comments:
Well, I'll be in Toronto in November, so I definitely want to check this mysterious diner out. My local family-run diner here in Dublin, which was virtually unchanged since the 1940s, has gone to the dogs. It was given an expensive Celtic Tiger facelift: enlarged, the old formica counter and mish-mashed chairs are now brown wood and brown leather, offset by beige walls. It gets mostly tourists who are passing through, rather than the crowd of regulars and little old ladies in transparent plastic headscarves who'd sit at the counter and order a pot of tea, pot of hot water and a slice of bread and butter. It used to serve up simple, ordinary food done well. Now it's all fancified food done badly. Still, the guy who runs it is nice and chatty, and local places like that where you know folk does give a valuable sense of community (especially in the inner city where I live), so I keep going back to order something different, always hoping it will be different. ("Kick the ball, Charlie Brown! Try the linguini Charlie Brown") If any readers plan to visit Dublin, however, I recommend another diner called Gruel, which has held onto its independent spirit. The French woman there isn't overly nice or too impersonal. She has a kind of easy "ah, sure it's yourself again" natural manner and, after you've been there 20 million times she will briefly crack a smile. It's funny how we start describing people as "real" as some kind of unusual quality that deserves special recognition, a compliment, gold star and rosette. But, and I hate to say it, this woman in my all-new local diner is "real". :-) Anyway, now I'm just rambling... So, I'll stop. That just about does it. I feel like a chip butty myself now.
Quentin, hi.
I'll eventually post the name of the place, so you can visit when in Toronto -- I took some heat on another blog for not doing so :) -- the problem is I simply couldn't remember the name...
Ah, yes. In fact, I found your blog via Bert's comments on his. I'll ask him to bring me there in November as penance. :-)
yes..it was really good place to eat...
and that waitress was perfectly nice....haha..
wanna go there again..
and eat glorious cholesterol sandwich again..
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