We Are The World

I spent the week-end mostly doom-scrolling. First, my bedroom's window faced the side of neighbour's house so it was usually dark inside. So I tended to forget that it was bright and sunny outdoors. But even with the good weather, my East End neighbourhood was quiet and there wasn't much pedestrian traffic. I wasn't a flaneur to wander about aimlessly. I was balking at going to the livelier West End due to a gut scare on Friday.

On Saturday, I briefly ventured to Huy Ky for a chicken banh mi and some glutinous rice. Sunday was laundry and then to No Frills and Dollarama to restock the kitchen. On the way back, congregants at the buddhist temple Hoa Nghiem were streaming out. When I was here during the pandemic, it was closed during my entire stay. These temples usually have a vegetarian lunch (with food prepared by the attendees) and privately distribute any leftovers within the community. I wished there was a way for a stranger like myself to buy some because the food was often delicious. So it was the remaining fried rice from Yummy House for me.

The highlight of the week-end was going to an "African Street Food" seller called Nganda. This restaurant has replaced the brief Nutmento. I suppose that similar to Drake (as a mural on its wall), the latter could not go toe-to-toe with The Real Jerk, the local Kendrick Lamar of Jamaican food, just a block away. Nganda has replaced Aubrey with prints of African art. Behind each table was the name of a major city on the continent. The owner was likely from one of the former French colonies since Lagos was the only English-speaking metropole. I sat in Dakar, Senegal.

The ginger taste of Stoney Tangawizi ($6), an African Coca-Cola product, was refreshing and reminded me a little bit of kombucha. The bottle-cap indicated that this version was imported from Uganda. The main was equally delicious: Zota ($25.95) was a bowl of char-grilled chicken (5 pieces), moyo sauce (a tangy tomato, green pepper, and onion mix), plaintain, and a lot of couscous. I ate my dinner with gusto and marveled at its similarities but also differences to Jamaican dishes like Jerk. It wasn't as rapturous as Afrobeat Kitchen (but that chef was professionally trained) but heads and shoulders above French-speaking, African spots in Ottawa. If a usual dish of this cuisine was executed this well, I'm hopeful that on my next visit, the vegan ones will be just as good. However, with the final tally of $41.46 (tax + tip), I'm not sure how Nganda will fare on this (still) working class stretch of Gerrard.

What, Me Worry?

On Friday, I ate leftover injera and fried rice. They were perfectly fine on Thursday but caused some intestinal issues this time round. Of course, it had nothing to do with the food. The real issue was some sort of digestive problem. But I avoid that uncomfortable premise and will facetiously blame other factors. This time round, I pointed the finger at work.

I ate at home because I had no time to leave the apartment for lunch due to a deadline. Also, I reviewed the work of some co-workers and some frustrations leaked through. Not enough to get a write up from HR but I did leave some exasperated comments. Anyway, I need to find some equanimity because this job wasn't worth my health.

In in the evening, when I got on the College St streetcar heading to The Baby G ($20) in the West End, I was already feeling some gut pangs. But I blamed it on my widening mid-section pressing against my jeans. I didn't mind the slow trip as I watched people enjoying themselves at restaurants and patios. But the discomfort was worsening. By the time I got off at Brock an hour later and walked to Dundas, I was so certain that I needed to get home soon that I went to an ATM and got money for a taxi.

When I scanned my ticket inside, I headed straight to the washrooms in a small hallway next to the stage. They were empty because everyone was watching opener Sno Daze. I have abandoned concerts plenty of time before for stomach problems but usually while still at home. I only recalled 2 occasions when I was already out. Once at the Phoenix Concert Theatre but I don't have any memories of using their decrepit facilities. So I must have flagged down a taxi. I did have to use the washroom at The Mod Club. That time, I "blamed" standing pressed against the bass speakers (those low frequencies vibrated my innards!) and never did it again at any other concerts.

The bad news: it took 5 rounds of flushing before I felt more composed. The good news: it never got to the liquid stage like it often does. I was impressed that despite the graffiti the washroom was quite clean. Lee's Palace could never. In any case, I only caught the last two songs from Sno Daze so they sounded very much like other indie bands to my ears.

Though worrywart was the headliner, they were up next. This Toronto gig was 5 weeks into a 7 weeks tour which will end in their hometown of Vancouver. I liked the combination of cacophonous guitar and 3 part harmony. Combined that with a 34-city work ethos (most small bands might do 10 cities), which reminded me of Bright Light Social Hour 15 years ago, and they got $35 from me for a tour t-shirt. When I asked where they played in Ottawa a few nights prior, it was at House of Targ. In Ottawa South on a Wednesday, that was probably a sparse gig. I wasn't surprised that they were looking into Rainbow Bistro in the Byward Market for the next time.

I was preparing to leave when I saw that Blosum had 4 female members and a male drummer. This was an inversion of the typically band. I was intrigued and stayed for most of their set. It wasn't quite shoe-gaze (not enough knob fiddling) but there were some catchy numbers. But I hung around 1 song too many. Missing a streetcar heading East by literally 30 seconds cascaded into a 2.5 hour return trip due to a combination of traffic, being stuck on the tracks (and waiting too long due to my indecisiveness), and finding alternate routes. I couldn't even grab a taxi, because since the arrival of the pandemic and Uber, I don't see idle ones patrolling Toronto streets anymore.

Rice Is Nice

There was a follow-up personal practice on Tuesday, but I still felt sore from my Monday Yoga class. So I decided to do a morning run on Wednesday to bring blood flow and movement into my muscles. I headed East toward Gerrard Mall and up on the pedestrian bridge. This gave me a chance to look at the construction for the new subway station at Pape. They have demolished the old building and dug up the parking lot and surrounding land. But for a surface-only stop, there hasn't been much work. I continued on Pape and turned on Frizzelle. There was a trail that eventually connected with Kempton Howard Park and the old cemetery on Blake St. Then it was home via Myrtle and Harriett.

Wary of uncooked dough, I stuck to good old rice for the next few days. Samosa and Chaat was unexpectedly closed on Wednesday so I ate a Salmon Bento Box ($15.95) at Gerrard Sushi. It was a full lunch though you got bigger portions and more variety at defunct Mazz Sushi. For Thursday's lunch, I stopped off again at Yummy House for egg fried rice ($10) (fortune cookie: "You have common sense and a lot of charm"). I asked the owner's son about Yummy's age and was told it was 23 years old. He was probably around that age, too. I saw a pinned Toronto Star article about students at the local high school visiting this venerable and cheap establishment. It made sense that they got some business from the teens. But whenever I was out at noon, I usually see them at the 241 Pizza or the various fast-food places at Gerrard Mall (Popeye's, Tim Horton's, Little Caesar's). Some older ones might sit on the patio at Dineen Cafe.

In the evening, I headed up to The Danforth via Prust and other side streets for an Ethiopian dinner at Abugida. The vegetarian platter ($17) was delicious as usual. They provided more injera bread than other places so I packed up a large doggie bag with leftovers. Danforth was hopping in the warm weather with folks sitting on the patio at The Wren and other spots. I took a chance walking home despite the full meal. But in case things acted up, it was by the most direct route along Greenwood Ave.

The Body Knows

A few months ago, a friend recommended a Monday evening Yoga class at the same Coxwell studio where I have practiced a few times. I never found the time during my winter sublet but I finally booked a spot now that I was closer. It also gave me a chance to walk through a few neighbours East of Coxwell. The houses along Hanson were interesting. The North side looked organic and part of the neighbourhood. The South side were more cookie-cutter and though I thought they were recent builds, they have been there since at least 2007 (via Google Streetview). The homes on Hillington heading up to Danforth were more modest.

My friend was there and we chatted briefly. They were doing a driving tour around Iceland next week while their unemployed child will be home pet-sitting the animals. The instructor for this class was older but the attendees were uniformly younger than my previous classes. My friend and I probably had at least 30 years on them and I found out why. Teachers here seem to like doing a lot of lunges and twists. But this one also loved toe raises and generally making her Somatic Flow harder. Back when I practiced vigorous Yoga, I would have found it satisfying. Now that I only do gentle morning self-practice (and a bit of running now and then), it was punishing. I sweated buckets, my legs turned to jelly, and over the next two days, my thighs were sore and aching. The only downside to this style was no time for proper alignment.

With my t-shirt soaked through, I abandoned plans to have dinner at Abugida for a quick pizza slice from Pizzaiolo. They didn't have my go-to Bianca so I opted for a Capri. At first, I loved the pesto, feta cheese, and sun-dried tomatoes. Then I discovered the slices toward the centre were spongy and semi-translucent. Fearing uncooked dough, I ditched the remaining slice. I made my way gingerly to Monarch Park, through the pedestrian tunnel, and then down to Little India. There were no intestinal rumblings for this walk home but plenty of propellant. Luckily, no other consequences occurred through the night.

On Tuesday, aggravated at my lost pizza slice, I went to 241 Pizza near Gerrard Mall. Despite what the other 241 pizza's owner said about corporate requirements, this one still had printed signs. At first, the slices tasted great as I sat and watched passer-by. But then I noticed the same spongy feel if not quite as much as Pizzaiolo's. Maybe all pizzas were like this and I never noticed? But I don't recall this mouth-feel at the good 241 Pizza and Fresca. A quick research at home turned up the phenomenon of pizza gum line. No, I wasn't oblivious before; bad pizza makers created this layer of grey, undercooked dough. I won't be back at either businesses any time soon.