Let’s go Blue Jays!

My brother Gareth arrived in town the other day, starting a two-week holiday in Canada. I’m aiming to show him as many sights as possible. Hopefully, I’ll get to see and experience a lot of new things as well. I’ve been living in a little bit of a bubble for a while now, working hard on a variety of projects to pay some of the bills. Still it’s much, much better (by which I mean by a factor of at least 15) than flogging across a sultry and dusty London to work in a stuffy office.

Anyway, our first big-ticket event was to watch the Blue Jays take on the New York Mets. The day was hot, bordering on scorching. Under a cyan (subtractive primary)-coloured sky we found the right seats, having first shambled into the wrong section. Gareth and I decided to immediately bag a couple of pints. I was asked for ID, which I found strange. Luckily my brother had his driving licence, although they remained wary of serving me. I can only presume the silly ID-everyone-rather-than-use-common-sense regime has fastened itself into Canadian culture as well as the UK. However, the rules became more stupid still when we both went to another pint in the eighth innings. We were told that serving alcohol comes to halt after the seventh innings! Who the hell came up with this bonkers scheme? Looking into it, the alcohol moratorium after the seventh inning appears to be yet another paroxysm of North American Puritanism about maintaining a ‘family atmosphere’ – despite the fact that it achieves exactly the opposite. It patronises, stomps on civic trust and, if anything, probably encourages binge drinking. Well I remember closing time in British pubs, when last orders were rung out at 10.45pm and two pints quickly purchased in order to keep the beer well and truly flowing for a mere half-an-hour. It’s human nature to gather as much ‘stuff’ as possible when a time limit is imposed. Why do you think the TV auction channels do so well?

Anyway, pop psychology aside, the game was immensely enjoyable but damned hot under the direct glare of the sun. We slathered ourselves in factor 45 lotion and I was very glad for it. The first innings (which we’d missed) was a bit of a disaster for the Blue Jays, with the Mets gaining three runs. A lady besides me kindly pointed out some of the most basic rules, although thought it hilarious that I had use cricket terminology in order to understand what she was saying. Still, I already knew that the various chaps chucking the white ball were called pitchers and not bowlers. She had no idea what I was talking about when I started to discuss the ‘batsman’.

‘You mean the batter right?’ she asked.

‘Yes the chap with the stick out there,’ I replied.

‘Well he’s just called a “batter”,’ she said.

Really I should be working on one of those sporting networks, where men have shiny bouffant hair and slabs of pristine marble instead of teeth. I could offer special insider knowledge, such as ‘he’s hit the ball’ or ‘he’s run to first base’. I could also throw out a few clichés if needed, although ‘a game of two halves’ doesn’t seem to apply in North America. Perhaps that’s why football never really took off.

I digress. The overpaid and pampered sportsmen seemed to be coping with the heat fairly well and the game soon got into its stride. The name on most people’s lips was a chap called José Bautista. Casually looking at his career on Wikipedia (fount of all knowledge both true and made up), it appears he was a late bloomer, but now delivers the goods – big time. For his skill in smacking ball with bat, he signed a five-year contract in 2011 for a cool US$64 million. Maria was asking if he was worth all the fuss when, I kid ye not, he hit a home run. In baseball terms, this chap is possibly worth his weight in gold.

The game was close: the Blue Jays had a chance to tie in the ninth innings and Bautista had managed to get to first base after a series of no-balls were thrown, while a colleague had already got to second. They still had two batters spare (if three batsmen are caught out or suffer three strikes [a strike is missing a good pitch], then the innings change or the match ends. There are nine innings and if the score is equal in the ninth they carry on going until someone wins – rather like the concept of a tie break in Wimbledon). At this point the Blue Jays choked and the Mets simply pitched the next two chaps out with strikes. And so that was that. The crowd, which had been very excited, now slowly turned to depart in peace. I have to say everyone was very relaxed during the game; even the insults being shouted at the pitcher during the game were quaint and harked back to a more innocent age: ‘You throw like a girl!’; ‘You throw like your mom!’; ‘Your mom throws like your grandmother!’

We ended the day with a post-match feast at a big sports bar that’s home to a 32ft – yes that’s 32ft – television set. Other smaller TVs were liberally positioned on any available wall space. Some were even positioned in the booths. The food was quite good, although not spectacular. Annoyingly they first served me with a club chicken when I wanted a BBQ chicken burger. An honest mistake, but one that left me stealing other people’s fries until my food eventually arrived. We were too tired and too dazed from the hot weather to do anything else after our meal. So we went home and crashed out. I think Gareth enjoyed himself immensely.

Yacht are you looking at?

Maria made a short stopover in London while on a business trip last week. Top on my list of things for her to bring back was Monster Munch flaming hot flavour crisps. Additionally, she found time to buy some double Gloucester cheese. Delicious! Maria also met many of our good friends in London and I must admit to being a little bit jealous that I wasn’t there. My social life isn’t so brilliant here; it’s partly my fault because I’ve not met that many locals – I was going to say natives, but I think that would have been tactless – since my arrival. I miss going down to the pub with friends and starting a conversation by complaining about transport/weather/government/government opposition/London (delete where appropriate).

Still, Maria and I had the pleasure of meeting up with our good friend Paddy last weekend. He was in town to take some provincial legal exams. We all ended up having a pint down by the harbour front, having a chat and talking about some of the old times. Before meeting Paddy, Maria and I visited the Bluejays baseball stadium to pick up some tickets. We’ll be taking my brother Gareth to see a game when he arrives here in a couple of days. The box offices were closed, forcing us to use the ticket machines. These infernal devices charged us a $2 surcharge per ticket for the privilege. It’s outrageous that they get away with this form of robbery, especially for what’s nothing more than a glorified game of rounders. Still, watching a baseball game when you visit Toronto is a must. It is a cheese feast par excellence; the poutine of team sports as it were.

We’ll be watching the Bluejays vs. the New York Mets. I tried to check how the Bluejays were doing but in typical North American fashion, the leader board was a series of overly-confusing mini-leagues that appear to end in a series of playoffs. It’s rather like the mini-leagues you have in world cups, except that the baseball teams play against each other several times. I’m sure that I’ve completely missed the point here and that several of my North American friends are now weeping at my European ignorance.

Next to the Bluejays stadium is Rees Street, which I found a pleasant surprise. They’ve actually spelt Rees correctly, which makes a change; I’m forever telling sales people, both here and in the UK: ‘R, double e and s for sugar’. Otherwise they simply spell it Reece. This is because they’re thinking of a god-awful American confectioner that uses advent calendar-tasting chocolate on dollops of peanut butter. Unfortunately, Rees Street is not particularly grand. Its sole function is to act as a feeder road to the stadium from the harbour front. In fact the street’s appearance is rather shabby. Functional and shabby – the story of my life!

At the bottom of Rees Street, where the harbour front begins, are located two nautical-themed shops. One sold extremely expensive sailing equipment and items of clothing. For a garish Hawaiian shirt, you’ll spend at least $200. For a Breton jacket, expect to pay $450. For $450 I’d want it to be hand-stitched by Sarkozy himself (well it’s not like he’s got much on at this moment). The other shop sold nautical books, so I was in my element. Overall, the harbour area is very pleasant and the atmosphere relaxed. You can even rent a kayak or take a harbour tour on one of the ferries. There are also the islands that lie just across from Toronto harbour, which I’ve yet to visit. Incidentally, the view of the CN Tower – Toronto’s most recognisable landmark – is also noteworthy by the harbour front. I managed to get one or two fairly decent shots of it from here.

Met my Waterloo

Last weekend we went to Waterloo. I’m fairly certain it was named after the battle, but in Canada you can never be fully sure; it might be a tribute to the Abba song. Our reason for going was twofold: to see some of Maria’s friends – Tony and Lisa – and to stop off at a Polish cultural exhibition.

The Polish event was held in a large recreation centre and there was a good turnout, with the musical programme already well underway by the time we arrived. And that was one of the problems. Someone in their infinite wisdom had cranked up the sound-system to 11. It was hard to even order a beer or a hot dog, let alone chat with someone sat next you. Still it was enjoyable to watch some of the rustic groups and take in some of the amazing costumes. The children were very cute, with youngest ones having some trouble remembering their routines. I also bumped into a chap manning a stall dressed as Marshal Pilsudski. He was very keen and was more enthusiastic still when I told him I was a member of the Pilsudski Institute in London.

There were a few WW2 veterans present and I’d have loved to have talked to them but the music – some rock bands were now taking to the stage – was louder still. And no, I’m not an old git! Really these beat groups should have gone on later in the evening. Maria was getting progressively more bored and we soon decided to call it quits and head to Tony and Lisa’s house, which was located in a very pleasant suburb. Their baby boy was with his grandmother, so we were able to chat in peace and then go for a lovely Italian dinner, with a very quaffable bottle of Chilean red. Sadly, I’ve forgot to note down its name. We chatted about a whole range of topics, including Cyprus, which is where Tony originally comes from. It was wonderful to talk about the island, which is where I spent almost three marvellous years growing up as a boy. Plus I’ve had a few holidays there since. So it was great to mention places that Tony knew of as well. It was also fascinating to hear his story and of the hard times his family had faced in the mid-70s. He came to Canada as a refugee. No welcome pack or chaps in red jumpers almost hugging you on arrival. Tony was thrown into school without knowledge of English and wished the best of British – well the best of Canadian, as it were. That’s got to be tough going.

The next day was beautiful weather-wise. Nicolas the baby had been dropped off by his gran and was having a whale of a time in one of those bouncing baby-holder thingamajigs. After a hale and hearty breakfast of blueberry pancakes, maple syrup and stringy bacon (plus half a doughnut), we headed off for St Jacob’s, a picturesque town known for its quaint shops and Mennonite community. Maria and I went first, with Lisa and Nicolas to follow after he’d had his nap. Tony who runs a couple of BBQ-themed restaurants headed off for work. Maria and I didn’t get very far. The attraction of an outlet mall proved too much and we managed to spend most of our time looking at Samsonite luggage. Lisa then arrived and we visited a large shop that specialised in Mennonite furniture. The quality was amazing and some of the tables looked like period pieces. The sales chap in his pitch called the ‘heirloom quality’. He was right, although heirloom quality came with an heirloom price tag!

We eventually reached St Jacob’s. Sadly, most of the day had gone by and we only had about half an hour to wander about. Very cleverly an old grain silo had been converted into a series of gift shops, selling all sort of interesting nick-knacks. I purchased a huge beer stein-sized coffee mug. I may even put beer into it. I also found a Scottish shop, which sold tourist stuff like clan-name car stickers and fake sporrans. However, it also sold ‘Scottish food’, which was actually British food. To my delight, this included packets of Walkers crisps: Roast Chicken and Smokey Bacon flavours. I almost fell to my knees, weeping. At last, decent crisps! I bought four packets right away. In Canada you can have any crisp flavour you like as long as it’s ready salted, BBQ flavoured, cheese flavoured, BBQ flavoured, ready salted, BBQ flavoured or cheese flavoured with BBQ. I chatted to the Scottish lady behind the till very briefly, saying that I was very impressed that they’d got hold of the Walkers packs. We then discussed Monster Munch and both agreed we missed these crisps most of all…

After this sensation, we waited for Maria to buy some fudge who had nipped into a sweet shop on the small town’s main street. Standing outside, I was telling Lisa how disappointing it was not to have seen some Mennonites. In the UK they are thin on the ground and I’d never seen this religious group before. Just then, two Mennonite buggies passed us. It was an amazing juxtaposition between the past and the present. These people have serious and deeply-held convictions. But in the UK – if you dress like a fully-fledged Mennonite – you’d probably be mistaken for a historical re-enactor. It was difficult for me to put into context really: the shock of the old-new as it were. We spotted a few more Mennonites on the way out of town. Some of the boys cycled pass on snazzy mountain bikes, wearing rather flash trilbies and braces. They resembled very sporty beatniks, but without the god-awful poetry one hopes. Someone also had a very good sense of humour; he was selling manure with the tag ‘Good shit’. I had to take a photo of this as it made me laugh so much. Hopefully we can go back when summer fully arrives.

We finished the day visiting Tony’s BBQ restaurant. Good food and a funky but downhome setting. What else can one ask for in the world of BBQ? I won’t pretend to be a BBQ expert, but I thought the food just as good as anything you can buy at Bodean’s in the UK. So I’m happy to plug Smokin’ Tony’s. Go there; I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.

Welcome to the wine county No.3

For our final day in Prince Edward County we decided to visit a peninsula in the east of the region that was the home of two cheese producers, several wineries and a cider maker. Before leaving our guesthouse, we chatted with another couple who were also on a tasting tour. I think they’d missed out on the countrylicious deals, as they described eating at an expensive but not very good restaurant the night before.

Driving through Picton, our first stop was the Lake on the Mountain, a strange geographic phenomenon that is hard to describe in writing. Essentially a lake has formed on a hill overlooking the Bay of Quinte, which is part of Lake Ontario. So two lakes for the price of one, I suppose. Our next stop was the Devil’s Wishbone winery. The weather was cold and the lady ushered us in to a lovely old barn with a tasting area under a very welcome and warm heating stand. She explained the wine in detail and clarified which wines were of the vineyard and which were produced using imported grapes.

Devil’s Wishbone was new, she explained, although she stressed that the head honcho had a great deal of experience and I’d say this was evident in the wines we tried. While some weren’t to my taste, I’m knowledgeable enough to know fair from foul. The wines of Devil’s Wishbone were definitely hitting the high notes. The tasting was accompanied with some cheese, which I appreciated. We eventually plumbed for the Cabernet Franc, which had a full body and deeper taste than many of the other varieties we’d tried on our tour. I’ll nail my colours to the mast here; I thought the Devil’s Wishbone winery offered the best mid-priced wine in Prince Edward County.

Next stop was the Fifth Town Cheese where we bumped into the people from our hotel earlier in the day. They were just leaving as we arrived. Anyway, the cheese was very good and surprised me because much of it was goat’s cheese, which I’m not really a fan of. The varieties and blends were fabulous and we also picked up a spicy pineapple jelly. You’d think spicy pineapple was an oxymoron and that on top of cheese it would be inedible; but it was quite the contrary and I really recommend it. The lady at the cheese counter was very informative and told us that the locals were very relieved that planning permission for a proposed wind farm, which would have wrecked the scenery, had recently failed. Incidentally, I bought some Morning Moon cheese made from cow’s milk. It was full of flavour.

I would have purchased more Morning Moon but in Canada, even at the source of production, good-quality cheese is always expensive. Reading into it – because that’s the kind of Rock n’ Roll lifestyle I lead – it appears that Canadian dairy farmers and cheesemakers are heavily subsidised, while imported cheese is heavily taxed. This allows Canada-based dairy farmers and cheesemakers to make handsome profits on fewer sales (poorer customers are priced out, but who cares about them right?) They keep their operating costs down on more efficient technologies and, just as importantly, through subsidies paid for by Canadian tax payers. And they don’t face any international competition because of the tariffs I’ve just mentioned. So yet again Canada has created a monopoly that screws its citizens in order to protect a small but vocal lobby; on this occasion it’s the cheesemakers. Blessed they are not.

Following Fifth Town we arrived at County Cider, Waupoos. The products were pleasant enough –superior to the bog-standard Strongbow or Bulmer brands back in the UK. However, they weren’t a patch on Aspall Cyder (god how I miss a nice crisp glass of Aspall) or indeed some of the artisan ciders to be found in the UK’s West Country. Their Peach cider was also pleasant. Maria who likes cider more than me bought a bottle of their standard fare.

By now the weather was very overcast and I thought it might rain. Thankfully it held off. Not far from County Cider was the Waupoos Estates Winery. It was a corporate affair entirely and while the girls at the counter were welcoming they stuck solidly to their scripts. In fact, I was surreptitiously reading their tasting menu as we were served samples. The sales patter was almost identical to wording. The red wines (we didn’t try the white because of the tasting fees) were so-so. Good for the table and a nice meal; good enough to serve friends who have just popped around; but not good enough to give to hosts of a dinner party. Standard fare really. Still we bought two bottles: a 2009 De Chaunac and a 2010 Baco Noir. Annoyingly, despite two bottles purchased, Waupoos charged us the tasting fee. So marks get deducted here.

Our final stop was Black River Cheese. I wasn’t up to par. Two tubs of cut cheese had been left on a table to try with no one in attendance or on hand to answer questions. The cheese products were kept neatly shelved in large refrigerator units running the length of the back wall. Overall, it felt like a convenience shop that happened to be well-stocked with cheese. There were quite a few visitors – older types. But almost all of them appeared to be buying ice cream on offer by the till. The cheese itself was quite acrid or bitter to taste and not really my cup of tea at all. Still the prices were more reasonable here. So I bought some cheddar with a slight chilli flavour. I found that it was quite good for making enchiladas, but I wouldn’t have served it to guests.

And that was our journey to Prince Edward County. There are still many wineries we didn’t get a chance to visit and I know there were many other sights to see. We’ll definitely be going back. The question is, do we go in the summer? Possibly not; it will be rammed with tourists all jostling for a place at the tasting bar, or cursing each other as they reach for the last bottle of Baco Noir on the shelf. No I’d rather go back in the Autumn. In the meantime, I’ve got some tasty bottles of the old vino to be getting on with.

Welcome to the wine county No.2

There’s nothing like a Canadian breakfast to start the day: some pancakes, some crisp stringy bacon, a small bucket of maple syrup and, in order to have something vaguely healthy, a smidgeon of fruit on the side. This was my choice at the Tall Poppy Café, while Maria went for the eggs benedict. It wasn’t up to par, she said, adding that Canadians never seem to get the sauce right. The prices were also a little steep. I think my breakfast cost over $9 (tax included) and there were only three pancakes and three strips of bacon. Still, the surroundings were pleasant enough, despite some baby boomers, or ‘active retirees’ as they are known in Prince Edward County, having a loud and annoying conversation about the casting process for a television show.

The weather was lousy and would get worse as the day progressed. Think northern English seaside resort lashed by rain in February and you have the idea. We booked into a new hotel, the Fields Farm House Inn, which was in an old but spacious country house on the outskirts of Wellington built sometime in the mid-1800s.  While it was very picturesque, it was also quite cold. We chose a room that had a fan heater built into the wall. We later discovered that it made a hell of racket when turned on (it must have been installed when they first introduced electricity it was that old looking). The innkeeper was nice and they had a good selection of books to browse through, including a very fine first edition (1910) of Das Rheingold as illustrated by Arthur Rackham. The owner, when we checked out, looked very puzzled when I told him of my admiration for this. He looked utterly unaware of his owning a copy!

Our first stop was 66 Gilead Road, home of the county’s only vodka-producing distillery. The house where the tasting room is located was very impressive and American gothic in appearance. We began by tasting two vodka products straight. They were full of flavour and bite, which is why I’m not really a vodka fan. But I’m sure those who know about the subject would have been suitably impressed. Adding a mixer enlivened the taste and was, I thought, much the better for it. The owner then arrived, shook our hands and proved to be fairly chatty. He explained to us how mad the Ontario rules were regarding artisan distilleries:

‘Imagine if a restaurant was next door and they wanted to stock our product. First they’d have to ask us for a shipment but only via the LCBO [Licencing Control Board of Ontario]. Then we’d send our material to an LCBO depot in Toronto. Here it will be processed and sent to the local LCBO shop in Prince Edward County, which is where the restaurateur must go in order to collect. Additionally, the LCBO charges the transport fees to facilitate this transaction. So I can’t sell direct even to my neighbours’

In other words, the LCBO is acting solely in its interests (keeping total control over the supply chain and charging the producers for the privilege). It also works in the interest of large corporate distilleries. They can easily cover transport costs and continue to make large Canadian profits (aided by their popularity and vast advertising budgets). I’ve no doubt they also lobby hard against allowing smaller competitors precious LCBO shelf space. Yet a physical presence in LCBO stores is absolutely vital for junior operations to build up their brand and levels of business.  The more I discuss it, the more I read about it and the more I shop there, I’m convinced that the LCBO is nothing more than a holier-than-thou relic of 1920s morality that has mutated into a state-run cash-cow that even the worst of Wall Street’s plutocrats would find morally bankrupt.

We then chatted about vodkas; the owner explained that most major brands spend vast fortunes on killing the taste, creating vodka that is merely an alcoholic ingredient for cocktails. I’ve got to say that I’m not overly fussed on this point as I’m not into spirits (excepting Amaretto, which I love). I tried to discuss Polish vodkas but he seemed disinterested in them. He even seemed a bit ‘meh’ when I talked about the famous Polish honey vodka and bison grass vodka, which, when combined with apple juice, becomes a drink of the gods. I still fondly remember my brother and I standing in a vodka specialist’s shop in Krakow, tasting shots of premium Polish brands. We walked out feeling slightly light headed with several bottles purchased. Good times. But I digress. We didn’t buy any 66 Gilead vodka for all that; it was a little trop cher and I was pushed to think of times when we’d have guests willing to drink straight shots of premium-brand booze. Hmm hold on a second…

Our next stop was the Barley Days Brewery, which produced a variety of ales, a lager, a porter and a maple syrup beer, which Maria liked a great deal. I thought their brown ale was very tasty, as was the porter. The lager was fresh, although possibly not quite as well developed as their other brands. Overall, I bought a variety of bottles and I’m ashamed to say that I drank these very quickly on our return to Toronto. If only they hadn’t made the ale and porter taste so nice!

We drove from Barley Days into the small town of Picton, which is where the Buddha Dog café sells some of the best hot dogs east of Toronto. They were quite dinky but the taste and options you had to ‘make your own’ were fantastic. I particularly liked the hotdog with a pumpkin-based spicy sauce.  The owner told us where we could buy some in Toronto and I’ll definitely keep my eyes out for it when we next go shopping downtown.

By now the weather was very grim and we discussed our next options. We decided to visit one last winery before returning to the hotel and getting ready for dinner. We chose the Huff Estates, which Maria had been recommended. Because the weather was so poor we simply rushed inside without taking in the fine view of the vines and the surrounding countryside. The girl at the tasting counter was pleasant but very much on script. I have to say that I thought their reds were mediocre really. Back in the UK I’d price them at £6.99 a bottle – not $19-25 (not including tax). However, their sweet wine was good and Maria bought some. Overall, I was less than impressed. It was also interesting that no one in the area we chatted with spoke of Huff Estates or recommended it.

Our dinner that night was another countylicious offering at the newly-opened Pomodoro Italian restaurant. The venture is brand new, although operated by the chaps who run East and Main Bistro. So we knew the quality was going to be good. We chatted a little to the manager and she told us a bit about the building, which was old by North American standards and still had the original tin tiling on the ceiling that had been painted plaster-white to resemble stucco patterns. She then recommended an Italian Chianti called Sinope. Although my experience is limited, I find Italian reds a bit hit and miss: either they are very smooth or taste like the Albanian and Bulgarian reds sold at petrol stations. However, this wine was very good indeed. It would go well with an Italian meal or by itself (always a critical taste test in my book).

For dinner I chose calabrese minestrone soup, pulled braised beef cannelloni and tiramisu. The soup was full of flavour, as was the cannelloni. Incidentally the food was served piping hot in bowls that felt like they’d just been removed from a firing kiln. This kept the meal warm and tasting much better. Frankly I despise restaurants that leave food hanging around to get cold or, at best, simply serve their products lukewarm; so full marks go to Pomodoro on getting this right. Unfortunately, the tiramisu proved disappointing: too much cream, not enough sponge and, most important of all, no boozy after-taste. Tiramisu without alcohol in the sponge; ye gads! But I suspect the chef was not to blame. Odds are that the fault lies – yet again – with Ontario’s imbecilic alcohol laws.

Welcome to the wine county no.1

Early last week, Maria and I decided we needed a break from Toronto and a trip to the country. Naturally, there was a debate about where to head: I favoured Norfolk County, which had a local producers’ fair coming up, while Maria was sure Prince Edward County and its Countrylicious festival (where various restaurants offer three-course dinners at $30-40 dollars) was just the ticket. Maria won me round by explaining that the area was also known for its vineyards and that we could go on a wine tour. Winemaking in this region is very young still: the earliest vineyards were first planted in the late 1990s and early 2000s. As I write, a gold rush of winemakers is still occurring and I suspect that in ten years great swathes of Prince Edward County will be under vine.

We set off on Friday after wasting several hours getting ready (possibly my fault). Prince Edward is due east of Toronto on Highway 401. It took us about 2 hours to reach our accomodation which was located in Wellington village. It is called the Newsroom Suites because the local paper is laid out in the offices below. It was very cosy and our suite was filled with all the mod-cons. Another advantage is its location: just across the street from two of the county’s best restaurants.

We decided to immediately visit some wineries to make up for lost time. We started at Chadsey’s Cairns. The owner came out to greet us and was very personable, taking us to the vineyard’s tasting area and explaining his wines and their flavours. I should note here that in Canada it’s the norm to pay for tastings – usually $1 per try. So Maria and I shared in order to save some cash. Most vineyards wave the tasting fee with the purchase of a bottle or two. During our visit, we discovered that the more corporate vineyards were the less flexible when it came to tastings, charging for them unless two bottles were purchased or, in the case of Waupoos Vineyard, charging regardless of two bottles bought. It leaves a bad taste in the mouth as it were.

In addition, many of the wines produced in the county are made using imported grapes. Purists will find this sacrilegious. How can one claim the product is of an area when the grape, the vital ingredient, comes from elsewhere? Others will argue that Canada is forced to import: the grapes would be unable to survive the more fierce winters. Also you are paying for the expertise of an estate’s manager and staff in creating a blend that hits all the high notes. I lean towards the argument that a wine should reflect its region but I wouldn’t assert much of the nonsense that surrounds the concept of terroir. I suspect that Ontario’s insane alcohol policies agitate matters further. For those interested, Chadsey’s has a very interesting article outlining the political problems on its website.

But back to Chadsey’s tasting room: the chap offered us several choices, including an excellent Gewürztraminer and very cheeky Reisling, which is not something I usually go for. In fact, I’m not really a fan of white wine. Perhaps I’m being a bit of a snob here, although I should add that white wines seem to give me headaches after a glass or three. On the red side of the line, his 2008 Gamay Noir (or Beaujolais) was very quaffable. An extra selling point was the recommendation that it best accompanies hot and spicy food. This had me sold. Maria went for a demi-bottle of Ruby 2009 rosé, which was very fruity with deep peach overtones (I’m sounding like a wine ponce here, I know).

The next stop was Sandbanks. This was a slightly more corporate affair, although the girl behind the counter was very warm and hospitable. She chatted about the wines with confidence and in a language that I could understand. The Baco Noir was the winery’s flagship product and was easy on the palate, although it lacked some of the depth I like with French reds. We preferred their Cabernet Franc. Their Winter Harvest sweet wine was very impressive. Now I’m not a fan of dessert wines, so this product – which is a kind of halfway house – ticked a lot of boxes for me. Even Maria, who is a fan of dessert wines, liked it and so bought a bottle.

Time was moving on and several of the vineyards were now closed. Luckily, Rosehall Run was still open. The welcome was a little cooler and I suspect this was because we’d turned up five minutes before closing. I’ve got to say I wasn’t so enthusiastic about Rosehall’s product. The wines tasted fine and that’s just it – there wasn’t one bottle that grabbed my attention. Even the superior wines lacked a certain je nais sais what. The Sullyzwicker red, the cheapest at just under $15 (less sales tax) was drinkable and I thought about buying a bottle. But then I remembered that $15 was expensive for me and that another winery might have a product much more to my tastes. So we left Rosehall without buying, the only vineyard where this occurred.

The proprietor of the Newsroom Suites had told us that Karlo Estates stayed open until 6pm and so this was our final stop for the day. The tasting area is in a wonderful old barn that dates back to the 1840s. The girl who welcomed us was very much on script until we started to chat about other matters. It turned out she had relatives living in my neck of the woods back in the UK. The wines at the Karlo Estates were excellent: lots of body and lots of flavour. Some were made using imported grapes. However, the taste was excellent, so I forgave them the transgression. Even better, they had cheese samples to try. Wine avec fromage is certainly my cup of tea. Overall, I’d say Karlo Estates was my second-favourite winery stop during our break.

We headed back to the hotel and it wasn’t long before dinner time. We’d chosen the East and Main Bistro, which had excellent reviews. The countylicious menu was formidable and Maria and I both chose fresh mushroom ravioli, with peas and a tarragon cream sauce to start. Both of us then went for the 10 oz grass-fed local striploin, with frites and mushroom jus. For dessert, I chose chocolate pot de crème, while Maria went for the Fifth Town cheese (locally produced), fruit, preserves, and toast. Somewhat ironically, we chose the Sullyzwicker red to go with our meal. So I suppose Rosahall didn’t lose out in the end. It was a good accompaniment, although totally outshone by the entrée: a steak made in heaven (vegetarians and vegans look away now). Medium-to-well done, the knife cut through the meat as though passing through butter. Juicy and with just a bit of mushroom to add a little extra depth, I have to say this was one of the best steaks I’ve ever had. To those French restaurants that claim to have mastered steak frites: well you haven’t. Grab your head chef, put him on a direct flight to Toronto, and then have him rushed by taxi straight to East and Main Bistro. I’m sure they’d be happy to teach the cordon bleu-trained chap a thing or two.

Toronto Zooniverse No.3

Okay one last entry on the Toronto zoo and I’ll be brief I promise! Our next stop was an African jungle biosphere, where there were lots of different species and some really fantastic sights. The pigmy hippo was mooching around the corner of its pen, while its another pigmy hippo wallowed in the enclosure’s pond. There was a reptile section as well; the chameleon had set himself up on a branch and was basking in the glow of a red lamp. It looked a little like he was at a Pink Floyd concert circa 1967. I was also taken with a giant fish tank that held a variety of small but brightly-coloured species. I was reminded of a giant screensaver.

The A-list stars of Toronto zoo are its primates. The gorilla zone was awesome in the real sense of the word. When watching these animals we are, without a doubt, catching a glimpse of our ancient primeval ancestors. As we approached, I caught sight of a pair investigating a jerry can. I wonder if they were trying to work out its function? One of the gorillas saw me taking a photo and, rather like Queen Victoria, I don’t think it was very amused. I only just caught sight of the baby gorilla trying to walk alongside its mother; they were both moving very fast and I think it was their dinner time.

In their enclosure, in the Southeast Asia section, one of orang-utans made me chuckle; it was obviously playing around for the sightseers. It began by hanging off a rope or two and then sliding down to a giant plastic tub, which it promptly clambered into, pretending to hide. We moved off towards a different viewing area, where another orang-utan was sitting. This was a mistake: once we got there, we noticed that the playful orang-utans was now sitting almost where we’d just left. It was having a great time inspecting the visitors more closely. The other orang-utans looked deeply unimpressed, as though its colleague was letting the side down being so active when visitors were present!

By now we had about half-an-hour left. We spotted some peacocks on a roof of a nearby building and I took some photos. We also spotted some Macaque monkeys grooming each other. It was funny to see them: it resembled a hairdresser speaking to a client! At one point their attention was distracted by some shouting children. Noticing there was no threat the pair got back to grooming. I had some fun anthropomorphising.
‘Take no notice darling; mullets are so in this season,’ said one.
‘Oh I know dear; these ghastly proletarians wouldn’t know fashion if it walked up to them and put them in a pair of winkle-pickers and drain pipes,’ said the other.

Toronto zooniverse no.2

The Australia zone continued in a biosphere, where several types of bird and a tree kangaroo lived. The latter seemed very slow and deliberate; it had a meditative approach, as though in a former life it had been a ninth-grade Zen Buddhist Rōshi. Knowing how dangerous they can be, the Komodo dragon was impressive as well. The section on the Great Barrier Reef and Australia’s waterways and billabongs was interesting and a couple of tanks contained brightly-coloured fish. There was also a tank holding translucent jellyfish. These chaps were taking it easy; with no brain or bones to weight them down, they were floating around with all the ambience of a Brian Eno album circa 1977. I also remembered a quote from a Walter Moers novel: ‘The light at the end of the tunnel is just the glow of a jelly fish’. Outside once more, we spotted the ‘marsupial summer home’. Two wallabies were wandering about gazing intently at the grass.

The African area was a popular destination and I was glad that we’d left it for later in the day, when the numbers had started to thin out. Two giraffes were ambling around in one section, while some hyenas lay bathing in the mid-day sun nextdoor. The African penguins are stars of the show, especially after the controversial Brokeback Zoo incident. They seemed content to dash from one side of their pool to the other. Some would halt now and then, bobbing up and down on the surface as though the whole business of simply going backwards and forth was getting rather silly. But being birds, they soon got back into the swing of things, joining their brethren for more sweeps of the pool. The impressive thing here was the underwater viewing platform that allows visitors to get a good view of the submerged penguins in their mad, never-ending dash.

The lions were camera shy; only one lioness appeared happy to parade before the camera, before heading off behind a little hillock much to everyone’s disappointment. It really did seem that the more clever species would seek out spots where they could hide from the public’s gaze. Several times I wondered about moral issues. For example, one leopard back in the Eurasia section was pacing up and down in his cage section and I was a little uncomfortable at this; it reminded me of the old London zoo. Still, I suppose we have to offset things like this when we consider the amazing work premier zoos undertake in order to protect endangered species or how they help primates that have been unlawfully captured and badly treated etc.

Next door to the lions were baboons, a disreputable-looking bunch if you ask me: just the sort of animal that would steal your hubcaps, windscreen wipers and car mirrors, and then sell them on the black market. The zebras took a more leisurely approach to things. But with all those stripes, they looked kind of stuck in the 1980s. The elephants were a highlight. These magnificent creatures were ambling around their enclosure, investigating things and happy to approach and eyeball the tourists. Much larger than the Sri Lankan elephants I’ve seen, I was still stuck by the similarities between the two types. One more post to come on my day at the zoo: gorillas and orang-utans included, so stay tuned!

Toronto Zooniverse No.1

Yesterday Maria and I visited the Toronto zoo; a daring decision as it was a public holiday and it seemed that half of Toronto had the same idea, adults accompanied with screaming kids in tow. Our game plan was simple: to visit the less popular sections first and work our way towards the gorilla and orangutans biospheres, which would be rammed with families at the start of the day. On entry, we almost jettisoned this by visiting the zoo’s new polar bear cub whose enclosure was packed with gawping Torontonians. The little chap was camera shy and I think he was trying to get back into his hut.

No other polar bears were about and so we headed towards the Eurasia zone, which had far fewer people walking through it and was therefore much less hectic. We spotted a pair of reindeer with their antlers shorn. They also had an old Xmas tree hung up-side-down for them to nibble on. The next stop was the Red Panda pen. These chaps are endangered and are cute in the extreme: a kind of fox/cat/badger creature that has nothing to do with pandas other than they’re also obsessed with bamboo. I’d never seen these animals before and I have to say that I’d have taken one home there and then if they’d been on offer. One of them was snuffeling around the grass, keenly interested in various blades here and there. It took no notice of us or any of visitors so dedicated was it to the its self-appointed mission between a tree and the Red Panda hut.

Moving on, we came across a pair of yak, one of whom was annoyed by the presence of a ground hog that was scampering around. Like all bovine beasts, they seemed happy to just laze around and chew the cud. In the next field were two alpacas and a small donkey, the latter possibly added to keep the others company as they are herd animals. People who read this blog know that I’ve got a soft spot for alpacas; there’s a herd near my family home in the UK. I think it was a time for their check-up as a zoo keeper arrived and drew them away with a series of whistle blows. Who knew alpacas and a donkey could be trained in this manner? Much more energetic were a pair of steppe ponies that were dashing around their paddock, play-biting each other and having a great time. There was another pony who took no part in these silly games and carried on chewing his hay.

Towards the end of the Eurasia section there was a herd or mountain goats dozing on an artificial outcrop that I presume was a reflection of their wild habitat. They seemed blissfully unaware of proceedings until a keeper arrived and placed food in containers and a trough. The baby mountain goats were timid at approaching the containers nearer the fencing. They were wary of the humans outside looking in. The long-horned chaps had no such qualms and tucked in with gusto. The tiger den, with a moat and appropriately high fencing, was home to two big cats. Being cats they were asleep on the grass, looking quite content with the day, which no doubt involved breakfast; a chance to scratch a giant post or two; and then an extended nap before dinner. From the tiger enclosure it was a hop, skip and a jump to the wallaby, emu and other Australian animals zones. The emus had little chicks waddling around, usually in the wrong direction. They’d be guided into line by a friendly beak of an adult. I’ll post part two a little later.

Toronto librarians win Pyrrhic victory

The librarians reached an agreement with the library board (the proxy for city hall) a few days ago. This is great: I can visit my local library again. I also support the librarian’s cause and so I was happy that they’d reached a positive outcome. Or have they? Reading a CBC news report, I was stuck by several elements that would have me concerned if I was a regular or part-time librarian with under 11 years’ service.

Maureen O’Reilly, head of the local librarians’ union, claimed the strike as a victory. In the CBC report she is quoted as saying: ‘We convinced the board to give up their attack on quality jobs’. But further into the article we can clearly see two delayed-action fuses ticking away:

1) Benefits for part-timers will be customized to suit their unique position.

2) The city’s desired cuts to employment security were pushed back to members with less than 11 years seniority.

Point one has aspirational written all over it; nothing will be done here except perhaps a few cosmetic details. In point two, from my reading of it, the union is agreeing that there are two types of worker/union member, their value determined on length of service and nothing to do with ability or performance.

We also have the following from a report by The Star: ‘No permanent library workers could be laid off even if the city outsourced their jobs’. Which means what exactly? That if the job is outsourced, the Toronto librarian (of 11+ years, I presume) will continue to be employed regardless? On this, I suspect the union now hopes that the library board will  think twice about outsourcing because of this latent cost implication. However, I’ve no doubt management will  continue to push for outsourcing, in increments, to create another layer of those working on the public payroll. The cheaper outsourced workforce will continue to grow as librarians retire and their numbers are no longer replaced. The city and the library board will therefore rely on natural wastage to the job for them. Some long-term jobs will be created, or so we are told. In a CTV article, we are informed that ‘a modest number of full-time opportunities will be created over the course of the agreement’. Again, this is aspirational – the term ‘modest number’ and ‘opportunities’ is just white-wash. As Sir Humphrey Appleby would probably tell us, employing just one full-time person could fulfil this criteria

But these are longer-term issues. In the short to medium term, members with 11+ years will be protected and management – desperate to make savings because of pressure by the city (and motivated by the nice bonuses they can secure if they succeed) – will move to cull junior librarians and part-time workers. (Incidentally, I was told that length of service is determined by hours worked i.e. 11 years’ worth of hours worked minus holidays and illness. I would suggest that the part-time librarian with 11 years’ of service is therefore a rare breed). Naturally, the part-time workers will be the first target. O’Reilly recognises this, with The Star reporting: ‘The union still has concerns about the employment security provisions that leave part-time workers more vulnerable to layoffs, she [O'Reilly] said.’

Incidentally, nowhere in the union’s demands was there an active call to slim down middle and senior management, despite this being a prime factor in Toronto Library’s efficiency and fiscal problems. It was never going to fly of course: for management, agreeing to a night of long knives amongst their own would be the equivalent of turkeys voting for Christmas. Still the union should have vocalised the problem of top-heavy management a lot more. It has two advantages: 1) the public would have whole-heartedly supported this, knowing that increased management levels in the public sector have led to higher costs and additional inefficiencies 2) it would have meant that the library board, in the next inevitable round of negotiations, will be more cautious in their approach. Putting your opponent on the back foot is half the battle. Next time, I think the union should demand that for every two workers (or four part time workers) threatened with redundancy, the management must also sacrifice a member. Now that would be an interesting situation!