Today is LE GORGEOUS fall day, swirling leaves and soft breezes. We went to Oakalla, and on a whim when we got there I bore left and we walked the long way ’round, ending up at Hart House. Sensing that the downscale price was upscale in size, I went for the shaved prime rib on ciabatta sammie with crunchy onions and Nippon style aioli and Paul went for the seared fish, which I knew was gonna be tiny, but the presentation was so amazing I’ll leave it to your imagination rather shove it in your face. The heritage parti-coloured radish slices danced a magnificent solo in a spotlight in the early afternoon sun (Paul picked the best lit table in the whole place, surprise surprise.) Then I ate them. And now they are turning into something dark and unpleasant, and such is the fate of every restaurant meal that every food critic ever had time to digest.
Shit Allegra why would you do that? Hey, I could have posted a picture, but I don’t even take pictures of my grandson most of the time. He is a verb, and pictures seem a very pale representation of his business and verve. I understand why people pic their meals but gadfrey sir a little restraint.
And of course for privacy reasons fewer pictures.
After the meal we made a post-prandial tour of the southern side of the lake, linking back up with the trail at the first diversion from the western parking lot. I have since measured it and it totalled 5.5 K and I was thrilled because that’s what I eyeballed it (I had said what is this, 5, 5.5 k) so I’m glad I can accurately estimate a distance, being reality based is good.
I did not finish my sammie. I looked at the second half and thought “There are few things on this earth that could make Jeff happier to eat right now”” and I took it home to him, and he ate it with every sign of delight. I left him to watch Z Nation and came upstairs to tell you that my feet HURT. Feel good though!
