Sharon Bowman
Sharon Bowman
I had an interesting time in Toronto last week. I was meant to go up the CN Tower with my nephew and his friend Johnny, a smart boy with glasses (whereas nephew wears none). But the weather was horrendously inclement, and the tower had 0% visibility and risk of high winds, so I went with Johnny to the aquarium next door, and my sister took her son, my nephew, to a cafe for a serious talk-to (he'd been misbehaving).
After seeing amazing sharks with the delightful 11-year-old Johnny, sharks we were not allowed to pet, even in an open tank:
We then reconvened with my sister and nephew and drove to The Woodlot.
There was terrible, terrible road work on the way. I'd never been to the cussed city in my life, and my sister is unfortunately a bit... underskilled in the navigating by Google Maps category.
After valiant struggles, we arrived at said restaurant.
What a great evening we had. The two 11-year-old boys had their first dry-aged steaks and sides of rapini, along with house-made root beer, which they adored and all of which they scarfed down.
My sister had gnocchi treated as poutine and adored it, too, as I'd been scaring her with tales of the Canadian fare for days. I had lamb ragu on fettucine, after we'd had first courses of hen-of-the-woods and black walnuts (my first) and kale salad (really compelling for my sororal element).
The bread, made by this board's Jeff Connell, who was not in the house that evening, was also eaten with relish (OK, that's an old joke; it was much enjoyed and eaten with butter—three kinds of bread, and all scarfed).
We had a Marc Ollivier Briords and a Texier Vieille Roussette, and that was a really surprising and exciting outcome for a Canadian wine list.
The service and place were warm. They recharged my phone, much abused by my sister and nephew's social media needs.
And the boys ate the hell, too, out of chocolate cake desserts.
This meal was deemed the highlight of the trip; "finger in the nose," as the French and 11-year-old boys say.
After seeing amazing sharks with the delightful 11-year-old Johnny, sharks we were not allowed to pet, even in an open tank:
There was terrible, terrible road work on the way. I'd never been to the cussed city in my life, and my sister is unfortunately a bit... underskilled in the navigating by Google Maps category.
After valiant struggles, we arrived at said restaurant.
What a great evening we had. The two 11-year-old boys had their first dry-aged steaks and sides of rapini, along with house-made root beer, which they adored and all of which they scarfed down.
My sister had gnocchi treated as poutine and adored it, too, as I'd been scaring her with tales of the Canadian fare for days. I had lamb ragu on fettucine, after we'd had first courses of hen-of-the-woods and black walnuts (my first) and kale salad (really compelling for my sororal element).
The bread, made by this board's Jeff Connell, who was not in the house that evening, was also eaten with relish (OK, that's an old joke; it was much enjoyed and eaten with butter—three kinds of bread, and all scarfed).
We had a Marc Ollivier Briords and a Texier Vieille Roussette, and that was a really surprising and exciting outcome for a Canadian wine list.
The service and place were warm. They recharged my phone, much abused by my sister and nephew's social media needs.
And the boys ate the hell, too, out of chocolate cake desserts.
This meal was deemed the highlight of the trip; "finger in the nose," as the French and 11-year-old boys say.