Service Writing: bar_one

924 Queen Street West, at Shaw, 416-535-1655. In the heart of a hip Toronto enclave known as West Queen West, just west of Trinity Bellwoods park, sits an urban version of an Italian trattoria. With the relaxed vibe of a neighbourhood hangout, the laid-back locals chow down at either the long, marble-topped bar or in the cozy booths in the back, all well-lit by the warm, retro lighting. The attitude-free staff effortlessly keeps things moving, even during busy weekend brunch. Small by contemporary standards, head chef Christina Barone’s decidedly modern menu has standouts such as a munti (wild mushrooms in tomato sauce with parmigiano) and gluten-free pizzas for dinner, and the Cruz, an egg, chorizo, whipped goat cheese and red pepper jelly that will delight both the sweet and savoury sides of your tongue, but sadly served only at brunch. The antipasto Bar One for two is almost a requirement. In one word, bar one is delizioso.

 Open daily 5 to 10pm; Friday and Saturday nights until 12am. Closed some holidays. Licensed. Access: three steps at door, washrooms downstairs.

Machu Picchu, Part II

The lush, green cliffs are kept tidy by the resident lawnmowers — the dozen or so alpacas who live atop the mountain. Throngs of tourists speaking languages I don’t understand are pushing and shoving each other in an effort to capture that elusive, but perfect, Kodak moment; the same one that will grace the cover of the family Christmas card. A light rain begins to fall and as I look across the flats, plastic punches of red, blue and green pepper the landscape, billowing in the wind and shielding the masses from the wetness. The rain eventually relents and, as I tilt my head towards the sky, I see a rainbow so vivid and bright that I am rendered speechless. The ancient Incan sanctuary is even more stunning than I’d imagined.

Machu Picchu, Part I

I struggle to catch my breath. My back is tired from the heaviness of my backpack and, without my daily Venti non-fat vanilla latte, my head is woozy from the 4am wake-up call. Still, I trudge onward. I’ve been climbing for four days, slowly, tepidly, anxiously; but excited with anticipation for that which lies ahead. I’ve imagined a thousand times the emotion I’ll feel as take my first step onto the mountain’s hoary ridges: the crisp, light air; the sun dripping its rays over the top of the Old Peak; the eponymous sun dial beckoning me towards it. I take a deep breath and my steps quicken, the ancient Incan sanctuary luring me with its promise of finally discovering the Lost City of Machu Picchu.

No Such Thing As Cultural Insularity

Smoke billows from gangs of barbeques lined up as far as the eye can see. Bunches of Hello Kitty balloons neatly tied together gently wave in the afternoon breeze. Tourists click their cameras incessantly and nearly trip over each other with excitement. Traditional arts and costumes from the eight Chinese provinces are featured on stage and performers under intricately embroidered red-silked dragons dance through the streets.

My nose leads me to open-air street vendors selling skewers of pork and beef, fried rice, lotus paste sandwiches and steamed breads; at times smelling putrid, rotten, rancid and sour and at other times sweet, aromatic, and occasionally perfumed like a newly-planted taro bush on the Hawaiian coast. Fused together, their fragrant flavours transport me to the Orient with a single inhale.

I saunter through the colourful displays and can’t help but bite into Takoyaki and curried fish balls, while double fisting a strawberry bubble tea and a fresh coconut sliced open specifically for my consumption. I sip the last bit of coconut water, and spy both boiled white radishes and chocolate wasabi ice cream. Something tells me I’m required to make a detour, as the streets of Chinatown invite me to indulge, again.

The City of Blinding Lights

At dusk in late summer, when the sun is just beginning to set but the light still pokes its head through the sky, the city is aglow. Lovers stroll hand in hand down the Champs Elysees towards the Arc de Triumph; restaurants awaken from their afternoon naps and begin preparation for evening repast; tourists busy themselves about the city by jumping on and off the ubiquitous double decker tour buses. Above it all flashes the searchlights of the the iconic 19th century iron lattice tower known as le tour eiffel, marking its place as an enduring beacon in Paris’ night sky.

 

There may be no other city in the world more photographed, celebrated or sung about than Paris. Long the backdrop for many a romantic movie scene, in reality, Paris is far more than just a film prop. Less a city and more a cluster of villages, Paris’ twenty arrondissements, or subdivisions, were once compared to a model of the human brain, each piece exhibiting a specific function and juxtaposition. Arguably one of the world’s cultural epicenters, its offerings are simply unrivaled. From the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay, the Moulin Rouge and Opera Garnier, to the writings of Sartre and Baudelaire, you’re unlikely to find any other city that will stimulate your senses like Paris. 

 

The cuisine of Paris deserves a recognition all its own. The temples of gastronomy that personify the city of lights could very well be called a bon vivant’s wet dream. Classic Paris haunts such as Taillevent, Lasserre, Le Grand Véfour, and La Tour d’Argent still arouse and excite the most discerning palate. Turn down an off-the-beaten path side street into one of the defiantly distinctive neighborhoods and run smack dab into a street vendor selling snails, putu mayam, or pan-fried noodles. Have a beer at 4am at one of the city’s brasseries (french for “brewery”), often open 24 hours with menus scrawled in almost illegible writing. Regional cuisines showcasing the diversity of the province are so ubiquitous that you can go on a complete culinary tour of the country without ever leaving the city.  

Really, regardless of the subject, this world-class city delivers the goods. Lest we forget those famous words spoken by Harrison Ford’s character in “Sabrina”, Paris is always a good idea.