Damn you, Friday the 13th

OK, it seems I haven’t blogged anything since Friday afternoon. Lots to catch up on.


Nellie, T-Bone and I had Friday evening reservations for The Strand, and were really looking forward to it: we’ve noticed it walking to our condo-in-progress, and T-Bone had it on her list of places to try. There was, however, a small hitch: a message waiting for me when I got home informing me that they were having some complications with their liquor license. I guess they were in the midst of removing some of the old brewpub gear (it used to be Growler’s); anyway, the manager informed us that he wouldn’t be able to serve us alcohol. Happy Friday the 13th. We hemmed and hawed for a while, considering other options, but decided to keep the reservation. We had a drink and made our way downtown.

Apparently not everyone was as flexible as we, since the place was empty. And I mean empty; save for one other couple, who didn’t end up sticking around to eat, we were the only customers in the place. There were no servers, only the manager. But he was nice — he even made a Shirley Temple for my giggling wife — and the food won us over. We all had steaks, and while nothing was mind-blowing or spectacular, it was a very good, very satisfying meal. We’ll definitely go back, especially once we’ve moved to the neighbourhood.

Still, we needed a drink to wash that down. We took a cab to College Street and ordered a bottle of wine at Sotto Voce; after many rounds of psycho gunman (it’s a curious feeling to find out that your wife thinks Chewbacca is sexy) and a final drink (Nellie: grenache; T-Bone: espresso martini; me: 12-year-old Macallan; Finchy: lager) we hopped into cabs and went home. Nellie and I couldn’t help ourselves, and watched another episode of Veronica Mars.


The warm weather we were having earlier in the week seems to have disappeared, replaced by chilly temperatures and arctic winds.


I heartily agree with much of what Ben Rayner said in yesterday’s Toronto Star (which I can’t seem to find online). I endorse his cries of death for:

  • Saturday Night Live (except for Tiny Fey and Amy Poehler)
  • David Jason Howie James John Jack Gray Mraz Day Blunt Mayer Johnson (or, put another way: “secretary rock”)
  • Pat Robertson
  • 50 Cent (BR: “C’mon, world. Wake the f— up.”)
  • The Arctic Monkeys
  • Radio, satellite or otherwise.


The Canadiens fired coach Claude Julien yesterday, then thumped the San Jose Sharks 6-2 last night. 4 points from defenseman Andrei Markov, including 2 short-handed points, helped bump me back into a slim lead for first in my hockey pool.


I watched Fubar (imdb | rotten tomatoes) piece by piece over the last week. It had some funny moments (“Woman is a danger cat” being one of the funniest sentences ever written/spoken/cast into HTML), some of which only because I recognized the behaviour of people we grew up around. Ah, skids. They’re a good time. Giv’er.


Last night friends of ours had us (and M2/H2) over for dinner. They made a fantastic meal (rare beef, two nights in a row…mmmmmm…), showed us their beautiful home (which we haven’t seen since they first moved in and there was a frog mirror in the upstairs bathroom) and let us hang out with their hilarious son. Now *that* was a happy kid! It was good to see them, and good to catch up and compare notes on former colleagues. It was also good to actually have a glass of wine with dinner.


The plan for today: Whole Foods, grocery store, laundry, Raptors game, economics textbook, The West Wing and the 24 premiere. Hopefully there’s time in there somewhere for eating and exercising.

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