When I arrived I felt lost. I had to ask Natalie, did we miss the event? After a (lack of) conversation with the help, grabbed ourselves a map and headed into the white.
I expected more. I expected spectacle wrapped in free samples of deliciousness. I expected diversity from the tired collection of outdoor open-kitchen vendors whose lines are too long and food too often leaves something to be longed for. There WAS a tent of hot sauce vendors, but how long ago did garnish over take the real estate of food? What's worse is that half of these vendors ran out (I wish I were joking) of anything more than a stick to sample their goods on. Shocked, I took extra samples from the cracker and pretzel rich stands to get the taste of wood chips of my precious taste buds.
It was not all for not though, some notables included the incredible friendly "Can-West"-ers a new start up who were experiencing their first run at a "festival." Despite a very unfortunate namesake, their sauce was not conglomerated, or full of second rate programming, but instead a mix of West-Indian peppers and homegrown Ontario goods. Shaun and Amy Worrell's sauce errs on the side of sweetness, and their graphics could use (a lot) of work, but all in all stand as worthy opponents in this battle of spice.On the opposite end of the spectrum rings in Susie's Hot Sauce, self-branded "the carribian taste" they claim to have won a series of awards I have never heard of. Their bottles tote the face of none other than Obama (go figure?) and their sauce is neither flavourful, nor spicy (though a middle-aged woman almost died) I waited around for a broken cracker, only to be disappointed by the Obama-sauce; and when I asked for something hotter the (awkward) vendor grabbed a bottle of the same sauce which he deemed the "burning desire." The very friendly woman (who I can only assume was Susie) seemed shocked at my lack of response to the supposed heat but perhaps it was all the splinters in my tongue at this point.
We moved across the (small and crowded) tent to a central table with tin signs. This stab at authenticity couldn't play down the seeming xenophobia of "The Joy of Harvest." After about 10 minutes of waiting in NO LINE they finally acknowledged us. When I didn't pass out or scream or whatever response they had been predicting after I tried their Scotch Bonnet sauce (they had crackers, but apparently saved them for other guests...questionable) which I pretty much drank from their little dixie cup, I suppose I earned their respect. That or it was the dollar bill in my hand.
The others were ok.
This is not me.
On the way home I was horrible accosted by a motor vehicle. Actually make that two.
#1: At the corner of Queen and Jarvis (there should SO be a bike lane on Jarvis) I was riding at a relatively slow speed while I waited for my girlfriend to catch up. As the light changed a (wonderful) human being drove up behind me, hand on horn. When I looked back to wave him past me, he starts the staggered honk (where true class comes out in the form of honk, delay, honk, honk, delay). It did not end here. Despite the fact that there was NO traffic blocking his use of the THREE lanes gifted to motorists, he wanted MY lane, because - presumably he is a pro-car, anti-bike "streets are for cars" enthusiast. At this point we've both noticeably stopped, and while every other normal(read: sane, reasonable) driver went in the clear lane, this guy blocked more traffic waiting for me. His girlfriend "threateningly" opens the door and screams at me to "get the fuck out of the road" or she will "call the cops." To which I reply "please, please call the cops, you psychopaths." Eventually they honkingly pass me, gunning it to about 90, before careening to a stop at the next light. Some people should not be allowed to drive in this city.
Which brings me to case #2: Mr. Cabalicious. This is a more of a reason why we desperately need bike lanes. With the exception of a few insane people, cab drivers are usually the most horrible motorists to share the road with. They are two on a license, two-to-a-car care free and driven by a burning desire to get to where they're going, fast. They get more of those $4 (rip-off) starting fees if they do.
So this wonderful piece of human trash does a similar thing to McScreamy, except a step in the direction of crazy comes in the form of him riding up on my back tire. He's so close when I turn to look back his headlights are near blinding (flashing his high beams at me). Again, I tell this guys to pass, but he wants to go through me. He keeps up this game of ass-riding for about three minutes, eventually realizing in the wake of car doorings and guilty politicians it just might be better to go around. A precession of horrible people then honked as they passed and cut me off without signaling. Something is boiling up in this city, and if things aren't amended in a huge way it is going to burn us all.
Lastly, Mirah, a female singer-songwriter hailing from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania is amazing. Her voice is angelic, and her songs are simple yet not plagued by the too easy that garners boredom. (Matt and Kim, I'm sorry..) She's collaborated with members of the Microphones, signed to K Records and has a remix album called joyride which is fun. Her most recent, a(spera), marks her thirteenth release, but 4th studio album and is a beautiful mix of chaotic lyrics over serene orchestral and guitar minimal melodies. This dichotomy, flipping as it does is exactly why a(spera) will not collect dust. Anyone that knows me is aware I've been a huge fan of beautiful women with beautiful voices from Sweden's Lykke Li to our own Casey Mecija, and Mirah has sunk her sweet soul into this list.
Best: Bones & Skin
That is all.
1 comment:
it was me who opened your ears to Mirah. Yes it was.
Post a Comment