9th Stop: The Drake Hotel

IMG_7778Again Sully?

Actually, if I’m being honest this comes as little surprise.

Just last night I was asked, “brunch tomorrow with Sully?” to which I responded thoughtfully with, “if he’s out . . . probably not.”  Well, he was out.  I agree to have brunch at Barque next Sunday (which was our revised plan) so that he doesn’t miss out.  The original plan had been to check out The Drake, but Sully’s roommate had seen a tv show featuring eggs benedict at Barque, and after looking up the brunch menu I couldn’t blame him.  Smoked brisket–gah.  Like Pavlov’s dog, it rings my bell.  But, that’ll just have to wait until next Sunday.  Here’s hoping Sully wakes up for that one–or I could just take his roommate, I’m sure he likes to eat.

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8th Stop: The 3 Speed

Oh Summer, as lovely as you are, I’m truly looking forward to Fall.

Summer’s last weekend is considerably warmer than any of the days leading up to it, and I plan on taking full advantage.  Last night’s events consisted of a CANFAR benefit to end AIDS, a trip to 416 Snack Bar, and the Thompson Hotel rooftop (which really does have a stunning view of the city if you can get past the douchiness).  Quite the random collection of places, I know.  But, it’s Summer.

The trek to Dufferin and Bloor isn’t all that arduous, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find that The Three Speed is only half full in the main room upon entering.  I recall what Kate had mentioned about the patio, and I make my way through the dimly lit dining room and out the backdoors.  Why waste such a great day patio day?  There will be enough inside time for the Green Bay game.

Excellent-the patio is completely empty.  I feel as if I’m standing on the threshold of someone’s backyard.  With a stone fireplace, wooden benches, a picnic table and old patio furniture that looks oddly familiar, it’s just asking to be occupied.  The bench upon which I choose to seat my keister feels so nice, I’m tempted to have a lay down as I wait for Sully to arrive.

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7th Stop: The Bristol

He’s going to kill me.  It doesn’t matter how many times he’s been late, this is so much more worse.

You know when you’re running late and no matter how much you will the streetcar to move faster, or focus all your energy into slowing the minutes on your watch, it always feels as if time continues to race by at the speed of light.  Sweat has beaded along my hairline, and my body is hot in the already stuffy streetcar when I hear the driver announce, “this streetcar will be turning at Bathurst.”  WHAT?!  That’s not the meaning of ‘Long Branch!’

Along with several other disgruntled people who appear just as frazzled and rushed as I (I wonder if they’re also late for brunch), we climb down off the streetcar and wait for the next one which is within sight.  Oh thank you.  I’m only 15 minutes late now.  As the doors open and the other tardy brunch goers approach the car, I hear the driver announce “this streetcar will be turning at Shaw.”  I’ve come to the realization that I really don’t know the definition of ‘Long Branch’ at all.

At Shaw, I fly out of the doors and hit the pavement at a quasi-run.  Holy cripes it’s hot outside!  Why did I wear a hat?!  It isn’t actually all that warm outside, but after checking my watch, I estimate roughly that Sully will have been waiting for half an hour, and that is enough to make me sweat.


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6th Stop: Bonjour Brioche


How does a subtle little text tone still manage to slice through the silence of the morning like razor blades to my ear drums?

Sully can’t make it today.  This is a first, but to be completely honest I wasn’t entirely certain I’d be able to rise from my bed either.  That being said, I’m a trooper, and I mustered up whatever residual energy stores I possessed and sent out a text blast:

“Sully cancelled.  Brunch?”

Vanyel calls within 5 minutes of me pressing SEND, and I hear that all familiar groggy voice still drenched with sleep that mimics my own.  “I haven’t gotten up yet, brushed my teeth or anything . . .”

Good.  Neither have I and it’s almost 10.

“Where are we going?” she grumbles, and I imagine her speaking into her mobile with her face pressed into the pillows.  She’s not going to like my answer.

“East end.  Bonjour Brioche is on Queen, east of Broadview,” I tell her.

I hear her groan, “so far!” But despite her outcry, I know she’ll still come.

“It’s the next one on my list,” I explain, although I know an explanation wasn’t necessary from the moment she decided to respond to my text.

“Okay, I’ll get ready now.”  She hangs up, and I cringe inwardly as I realize that I too, must now get ready.

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5th Stop: Farmhouse Tavern

Did you press PLAY?  You should.  To get a better idea of how the day went (from my point of view anyway) allowing the playlist to run through in the background while you read will provide the most optimal experience.

The light of the sun continues to shine through my eyelids as I sit on the streetcar with my face turned up towards the window.  I slowly open them, and marvel at the sight before me.  The sky is so blue.  The sun is so warm.  I close my eyelids once again, and a release a slow sigh of contentment.  I don’t even notice how long I’ve been sitting on the streetcar as I head to the Junction.  I am well rested, my head is clear, and it is a marvellous day.

It occurred to me a couple hours earlier to give Sully a wakeup call.  But he’s done that to me, and I wore cranky pants for a while afterwards and thought better of it.  He’s a grown man, he can handle himself just fine.

The PleaOr not.

I glance at the time.  Almost 11.  I shake my head and tell sloppy-pants-McGee to get a move on.  The answer is no.  Now, I wasn’t being a hard-ass for the sheer joy of it, because if you’ll all recall, Sully has pushed the time every single week and I’ve been most agreeable.  But this stop is different.

Weeks ago, an acquaintance of mine had thoughtfully suggested the Farmhouse Tavern, and since I hold her opinion of all things delicious and notable in high regard, I made a mental note to book a visit.  After Rock Lobster last Sunday, I sent out a tweet and Darcy (owner of Farmhouse Tavern) responded immediately inquiring whether I’d booked a table.  There are only 2 reasons why a restaurant would take reservations several days beforehand.

1.  The extreme popularity makes for busy mornings, and no one wants to be disappointed and hungry upon discovering that there aren’t any tables available (lining up to watch people eat can be quite torturous);

2.  Someone has severe OCD, and reservations are the easiest method of ensuring order.

I was going to assume a little bit of both, and was grateful to Darcy for taking the time and initiative to book a table for me, for it would not have occurred to me to do so.


If Sully wants to eat an hour later, then he’s going to do the leg work and make another reservation.  I tell him so.  Ten minutes later, Sully is out the door and on his way.

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4th Stop: Rock Lobster

“This just saved my soul.”

It’s so bright.

Alive?My phone rings.  It’s so loud.

“Of course I’m alive!  I’m Sully!  What kind of question is that?”

He’s so loud.

I’m operating on limited system functionality this morning.  My sunnies are a comforting buffer for my retinas, and Broods is playing in my ears, as befitting a soundtrack as any for the part of the book that I’m currently at (Note:  I would never give away parts of Game of Thrones…that would be terribly horrible of me, and I’m not cut from the same cloth as that guy who sent spoilers to girls on Tinder).  As I walk, fully engrossed in what are the last few chapters, I suddenly pitch forward, stumbling as the toe of my shoe catches the raised edge on a bit of concrete.  Falling, you’re falling!  My reflexes are slow, but I manage to regain my balance to avoid plummeting face first into the sidewalk because like the fool that I am, self-preservation failed to activate, and my hands don’t release my book to save myself as they should.  I’m going to fall and break my teeth one day, I just know it.  Irrational fear #3.

A few seconds later I look up from my book only to realize that I’ve passed Rock Lobster.  As I backtrack and chastise myself for not having the sense to close my book after almost smashing my face into the ground, Sully is standing before me locking up his bike.  “Good timing!” he says as we enter the restaurant.

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3rd Stop: Union Restaurant

“We don’t make friends with BBQ.”

I really must choose a less grating alert for my alarm.  Rising to the sound of “Night Owl,” I’m suddenly struck by a bout of self-reflection:  Getting home at 4am does not bode well for an 11am breakfast.  I had ambitiously set my alarm for 8am.  Fool.  Snoozed until 9…then 10, and miraculously by the grace of magical snooze fairies everywhere, Sully pushes breakfast to 11:30.  Perfect.  Face plant back into the pillows until 10:15.

I was struck with nostalgia as I took the subway and streetcar over to Ossington and Queen, musing to myself that it’s been less than 8 hours since I was here.  Should have just made camp to save myself travel time.  As I walk along Ossington with my nose pressed into my book (this is not safe-do not attempt, especially for those who are accident prone), I glance up to check whether I’ve passed Union and find myself standing at the threshold of the restaurant door.  As I enter, I notice the bar to the left with a sweeping marble countertop where a barista is busy working away, people chatting in a corner along the end, and whatever sleep had been lingering in my brain immediately dissipated.  It’s Benny time. Continue reading