Postcards from the Edge of Forest Hill

I sit in the leather club-chair by the window sipping my pumpkin spice latte. I have my study material at the ready- a paper on director’s liability alongside a dozen or so open PDF files of relevant articles. My headphones are plugged in and my writing music is playing- being that this is Starbucks, I feel a hipster band like Deerhunter is in order. But inevitably, a trip to the Forest Hill Starbucks around the corner from my apartment results in a people watching opportunity. My eyes move over to my first victim as she rushes into the café. She is a squat middle-aged woman in a hurry. She drops her Lanvin tote on the chair across from me and sits in the one next to it. She wears a bright pink Gucci scarf (yes, I’m label-conscious- it’s a terrible vice of mine) and shrugs off her oversized Burberry coat. She’s clutching a black credit card and her phone, and boasts a diamond-studded Cartier watch on her wrist. Still with her large sunglasses on, she furiously dials her phone. She proceeds to call what must be her own home in order to bark orders to her maid, to whom she speaks condescendingly slowly, repeating certain key words: “laundry… laundry… dry cleaning… dry cleaning…” A year ago, I would have been phased, perhaps even appalled at this woman. But hey, this is just another day in my neighbourhood. Welcome to Forest Hill.

When my friends and I decided we wanted to move from Mars to Earth- er, that is, from North York to real Toronto- we thought that moving somewhere Midtown might suit us the best. We had friends who lived around St. Clair and Bathurst who, though they hated the commute, liked the neighbourhood and believed it to be the perfect distance between school and downtown. We agreed and focussed our efforts here. I found a listing for an apartment on Heath Street West, just a block north of St. Clair on the east side of Bathurst. Upon touring the place, we quickly agreed it was the best place we’d seen. A pleasant building, spacious apartment, incredibly cheap rent, and the area seemed nice too. It wasn’t long after we decided this was the place for us that I realized the neighbourhood we were moving to. This was Forest Hill. But let me be clear- this is not the middle of Forest Hill. We were on the edge. Our cluster of apartment buildings backs onto the beginning of the true neighbourhood. When asked where I live, I generally say “Bathurst and St. Clair.” Nevertheless, geographically we are in the neighbourhood, and I do get a magazine in the mail once in a while exclaiming itself to be the “Forest Hill Post,” so I’ll take it.

Not being a native Torontonian, I hadn’t much knowledge of what Forest Hill meant exactly. I knew it was an older and nicer part of town- big mansions, established families. It was also a lyric in a Final Fantasy song about Toronto condo developer Brad Lamb- “you know I hate it when your friends are in the pool/ old money stinks, send those faggots back to Forest Hill.” Beyond this, I had little inkling for the feel of the place. After we moved in last June, that didn’t last long.

There are certain things you notice about Forest Hill fairly quickly. First is that it’s quite pleasant and quiet. There’s not a lot of traffic, there are lots of trees, and no one is really rushing about. People know each other, they say hello on the street, and suddenly you feel like you’ve found this private little enclave in the sprawling metropolis of Toronto. Then you look at the people. Everyone looks a little more elegant. Suddenly the cuts of the jacket change, the glimmer of discrete jewelry is a little brighter and the clackity-clack of the hard soles on the sidewalk draws the eye downwards to reveal the most festive of heels and oxfords.

As you turn the corner from Heath onto Spadina, you head north into the Forest Hill Village. It’s a small portion of the street lined with little shops and restaurants. There are the essentials- Starbucks, banks, a barber shop and salon. There are the cafes and places to eat like Sotto in the Village and The South Side, places that one doesn’t just drop into for a casual meal. And there’s a nice bakery, and a What a Bagel-a favourite fixture of mine (I once saw TV chef David Rocco there chowing down on chicken salad. I don’t normally recognize Canadian TV personalities, or really care about them, but he’s pretty good looking). As you descend into the Village, one feels like you’ve entered onto an elegantly trimmed lawn upon which dozens of peacocks are strutting. The female peacocks proudly display themselves- decked out in furs and knee-high boots, topped off with a unique bag. Hermès, Vuitton, Gucci- all the heavy hitters are here. You don’t see that Longchamp bag everyone and their sister carries around. These women pride themselves on being unique. The men are smartly dressed too, but they demonstrate how big their dick is by parading their car. Never have I seen more Benzes, Bimmers and Porsches lined-up outside a variety store while their owners grab milk and a chocolate bar. No one turns their head when a black or grey one drives by, and even the stark white tennis mom-driven Porsche Cayenne is de rigeur around here, but when a yellow or red one appears on the scene, the male peacock stops for a moment to glance briefly; but only briefly. You don’t want to betray your envy. There is the rare moment when even the most jaded male stops everything to stare at the beauty of a car; when the Ferrari or Maserati rolls in. There was a yellow Maserati parked down the street for much of the summer. Yours truly gazed upon it as if I was looking at Guernica. I tried to keep my drool from ruining the paint.

My roommate pointed out the demographics of the area. It’s not particularly diverse when compared to the rest of the city. A frequent fixture all over the area are strollers filled with white children, pushed by their Asian nanny. I don’t exaggerate when I say that more often than not, the babies and young children I see in the area are often not with their biological parents. Walking through the Village, continuing north, you come to the real heart of Forest Hill-the residential area. Along these streets are row upon row of perky, elegant homes, each somehow different from the one next to it. There are the very old brick ones, the very new faux-chateau style ones, the obscenely large gated ones and the occasional steel and glass modern one tucked away. This mish-mash of architectural styles makes for an interesting stroll about the area. The first time I walked around, I observed an old woman in pearls diligently washing the taillights of her Rolls Royce, and around the corner, a woman planting hydrangeas in heels. I thought these scenes were absurd, but fascinating. Our new neighbours include many of the cities elite, and some notable names: Drake, Nelly Furtado and Kurt Browning as well as a smattering of Rogers’s, Weston’s and Bronfman’s.

When you need to buy food, you go to the Forest Hill Loblaws above the St. Clair subway station. Not only is it located conveniently around the corner, but it’s open 24 hours a day. Here, a curious mixing of clientele makes for an ever fascinating people watching experience. The place is full of students and young people buying their groceries for the week. They jostle over tomatoes with old, well-coiffed Jewish ladies telling their Filipino caregivers which one looks the ripest to them. You can grab coupons downstairs for $2.00 off Sunlight dish soap, or splurge at the cheese counter on a $40 wheel of camembert. My roommate is convinced that on weekend evenings, they turn up the music, which is revealed to be depressing 80s songs like Careless Whisper that’ll send you straight to the ice cream freezer as you contemplate the fact that you’re grocery shopping on a Friday night. We still, however, can’t crack the pattern of what prompts them to wheel out the grand piano on the upper floor and serenade you with Chopin while you wait for your shaved turkey breast. But nothing surprises me anymore. This is Forest Hill.

Has it changed me? Not much. I may spend more money on cheese than I used to, and I now sport a $26 haircut from the barber around the corner. I certainly eat more bagels and I take my lox with onions and cream cheese, but just a little schmear. But as a student, and on the edge of Forest Hill rather than the rich heart of it, I can only peer from the outside in. I used to feel self-conscious walking about in my H&M jacket and my careworn shoes. But now I just slip on some black sunglasses and act like I own the place- you know, what I always do. So for now I remain, like the observant narrator in a Vampire Weekend song, regarding this world around me with scrutiny and some judgment at its insanity, but ever obsessed by it, and secretly, a little desirous.

Amusing Your Bouche in All the Right Places

People who don’t enjoy food can skip this article. You can also skip ever hanging out with me again. You can skip right over the edge of my balcony for all I care.

Too much? Okay, different hook.

Gluttony is a sin. I vaguely remember it from that awful Brad Pitt movie Seven. But I think I piss God off in worse ways than when I enjoy a good steak. Besides, life is too short not to indulge in some gastronomic delights once in a while. Got yourself in a rut lately? Have you eaten one too many Z-Teca burritos, or has Chef Rodolfo’s tepid salmon made you wish the courts would just let them be overfished to extinction so it wouldn’t show up on your cafeteria lunch menu paired with chilly potatoes rösti yet again? Never fear. This is Toronto. There’s plenty of good food to be discovered.

So indulge me as I romp through some of my favourite places to rustle up some decent chow.

My first exposure to the culinary delights of Toronto was on campus last year, when I survived the gang shootouts and injection killings living in Passy Gardens. Needless to say, I was unimpressed with the offerings. Though the occasional 1 AM visit to the Falafel Hut for shawarma resulted in a satisfying snack, the fear of getting mugged really didn’t make the trip worthwhile. The butter chicken at the Indian place in York Lanes isn’t so bad either- but campus is really not the place to be exploring food options. Then I discovered the real city. My awakening had begun.

One of the first places I ventured to was Nirvana (College and Bathurst), a hipster hangout with an Asian twist. Plaid and moody boys reading Proust abound here, but you don’t have to listen to Bon Iver and wear a scarf to appreciate the Pad Thai and vermicelli with spring rolls and chicken. The prices are right and each meal comes with a leafy fresh salad with a tangy house dressing. I’ve never had a bad meal here, but the bathroom does leave something to be desired.

Across the street is Sneaky Dee’s, a Toronto institution for greasy Mexican, which makes the Nirvana bathroom look as freakishly clean as the bathrooms at law firms. This grimy place may lack some charm- the last table I ate at had the word “CUNT” carved into the middle- so it’s not somewhere to bring the parents when they visit- and the service leaves something to be desired (is it seat yourself or wait for a server that never arrives?) but the food is worth it. Knock back a Dos Equis with a plate of the King’s Crown nachos. I’ve had other things, but I continue to return to this heaping pile of cheesy, beefy goodness. With hidden beans underneath, it’s the gift that keeps giving. It may even keep giving tomorrow, but, well, you are eating Mexican in a place where newspaper clippings from the 80s crowd the walls and the waitress who takes styling tips from The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo may have just horked a good one onto the floor.

Cheap eats can be had in many places across the city, and one of my favourites is New Generation Sushi (Bloor and Bathurst). For me, it’s the best sushi in the city, though perhaps rivaled by the more expensive red or yellow carpet rolls at Asuka (Yorkville). Heaping bento boxes come with the obligatory but delicious salad and miso soup, and the rolls are always prepared well with fresh ingredients. The tiny place is always packed, but the staff rushing on their feet get diners in and out efficiently, so the wait is never very long. This place is also the site of a 2009 stabbing after a dispute between kitchen staff, so I knew it as Murder Sushi for the first four months of my time eating there before I actually learned its name. Who wouldn’t risk a minor organ perforation for delicious spicy salmon? Hmm? Their companion Korean Barbecue place down the street is also a good place to stop.

So, you fancy, huh? Is it hob-nobbing with society wives and Canadian “celebrities” you’d enjoy instead? (Spotted- Cheryl Hickey. Squee!) Happy to oblige. Out of the way, but fabulous, is Scaramouche (Avenue and St. Clair). Tucked into an apartment building with a million-dollar view, this 80s throwback French restaurant is worth the trip to discover its’ hard to find location. As any good menu does, it is seasonal, but the favourites are still there. I gorged myself on the delights of duck- a terrine of Quebec duck foie gras with cranberries and pearl onions, followed by partridge with wild mushrooms, a potato latke and a healthy piece of grilled foie gras. Top this off with a piece of their famed coconut cream pie- with big shaved pieces of white chocolate on top so divine, you’re sure you’re eating coconut silk- and you’ll be belting out Queen at the top of your lungs from the table as the pearl-bedecked matriarchs at the next table drop their salad forks in horror. Divine, but pricey (mains are typically in the $40 range), this is definitely a destination restaurant.

When the haute-bourgeoisie tire from a morning of skipping round from Prada to Chanel to Louis Vuitton, before they buy that Balenciaga bag downstairs, they go upstairs at Holt Renfrew to the Holts Café (Bloor and Yonge). This chic, well decorated lunch spot faces onto Bloor below. Enjoy a glass of prosecco and an open-faced chicken sandwich with arugula and drizzled truffle oil as you people-watch. The room is filled with fashionista fag hags and their equally stylish gay shopping buddies. How do you think I was there? Duh.

Just up Yonge is what I will call the best sandwich in the city. A tall order, to be sure, but nothing has surpassed the pulled pork at Black Camel (Rosedale Subway Station) yet. Except maybe their brisket. Private school kids on their lunch hours line up with construction workers from up the street to sample the delights therein. The menu is simple, laid out on the chalkboard above the cash. There are five or six sandwiches to pick from, all the same price, and include 2 condiments for free. I usually splurge and add a couple of things. Thinking about the brisket with BBQ sauce, pesto mayo, arugula, fontina cheese and caramelized onions makes me drool. No seriously, I’m drooling now. You need a whole roll of paper towels to devour this thing, wedged between a crusty Portuguese roll, but it’s worth dripping Charamoula mayo on your polo just to sample this bit of heaven.

Asking a group of Torontonians where to get the best pizza in the city is sure to start a conversation for at least twenty minutes. The usual suspects will appear, like Pizzeria Libretto and Terroni, while some will swear by Pizzaiolo’s Bianca. The one who says Pizza Pizza should be stood against a brick wall and shot. But I’m going to throw in a curveball and place my vote for Pizza e Pazzi (Dufferin and St. Clair). Quickly becoming a hot little place (make a reservation- Sunday night, we waited 45 minutes), Pizza e Pazzi prides themselves on creating authentic Neapolitan pizza. That means abiding by a few simple rules- wheat flour, Neapolitan yeast, baking at 905^o for 60-90 seconds- oh, and no pineapple. Grazie mille, because the Hawaiians have always failed to produce a decent cuisine. Poi anyone? The result is a melt-in-your-mouth decadent experience that immediately sent me back to when I ate a slice of pizza in a town outside Naples. It’s that good. Ribbons of prosciutto with a healthy dose of mozzarella- belissima. My dining companion thoroughly enjoyed her breakfast pizza- egg and bacon- and we finished with a pizza covered in nutella with brandy-soaked bananas. The pasta is also excellent, the wine list short but decent and the service fantastic. Their mushroom gnocchi was enough to make a bad date I had there completely tolerable, and if the waiter who was serving me that night is reading this, call me!

Finally, for something a little out of the ordinary, I recommend the fantastic Moroccan cuisine at Tabülè (Yonge and Eg). This little place hidden behind a non-descript front doesn’t betray the orgasmic delights inside. Seriously. Forget your bottle of Hugo Boss- just dab a bit of the sauce created by the garlic tomatoes on your wrist and let me lick it off. The dishes are best shared with the table, so order a few different things. The warm pita bread is best dipped into the smoky hummus, the best I’ve ever had, and then used later with the lamb kefta that comes with heaps of grilled vegetables and rice. The dark ambiance makes this a great place to bring a date, or perhaps to squeeze into a corner table with your mistress. This is definitely food for lovers.

And there are so many others- the piri-piri with onion potatoes at Churrasco of St. Clair, the veal parm with vinegar peppers and Brio at California Sandwiches, the yellow curry at Salad King, the steak with mushrooms and chimicurri sauce at Jacobs & Co, the chorizo-stuffed Cornish hen at Sassafraz, the turkey, tomato and onion grilled cheese at the aptly-named The Grilled Cheese, dim sum with those delectable deep-fried squid tentacles at Rol San and the crab cakes and sliders at Morton’s half-price appetizer hour- one place that I’ve frequented more times than I can remember is that old Toronto standard: Fran’s (College and Yonge). I’ve been there so frequently, I feel like episodic moments of my life are playing out beneath the mint green walls and mirrors all around. I’ve brunched with pals over eggs benedict, dated over omelettes, gossiped and bitched over chicken parm and talked about the concerns of my future over meatloaf. I’ve been there at 9AM, 1PM, 10PM and 3AM. I recognize the servers and the kitschy 90s music playing on the jukebox. Good food. Good service. Cheap prices. No frills. This for me is what dining out is all about. It’s the place of memories, and the recognition that you’ll always go back for more. These memories can be created at bad restaurants- I am no longer welcome back at the Yorkville Mall Pickle Barrel due to some alcohol-fuelled… unpleasantness…- but it’s better when the food is decent.

People get themselves stuck in the same ruts, preparing the same old crap at home (I’m sorry, Stuart, but those burritos! Honestly…), or eating out at the same shitty restaurants (you’d need a chainsaw to carve through the baseball they call a steak at Montana’s- this is now a Justine jibe), but there’s no excuse. Toronto may not be New York, London or Paris in terms of restaurants, but with such a huge population and nearly every culture on Earth represented here in some way, the food has got to be good, and it is. Anyone who tells you otherwise hasn’t looked hard enough. So do yourself a favour and don’t attempt another burnt fiasco at home tonight. Throw on your jacket and start exploring the city. The fat kid broadly smiling inside you will be eternally grateful.

So what are your favourites, and where are you taking me to eat?

A Note on Self-Righteousness- or, Haters Gon' Hate

Bonjour mes amis.

Oui, je sais, je sais it has been a long time. I hope you can all forgive me. The sojourn of the last few months has been long, painful but fruitful in the end. And I’m here to talk a bit about it.

I’m going to start by committing the ultimate taboo. I’m going to tell you all openly that… I’ll be working on Bay Street next summer. I know we’re not supposed to tell people, and I appreciate the fact that people are quiet about it out of respect for those who were victims to the horrible, arduous process known as in-firms, but this tale won’t make much sense if I don’t tell you outright. I’ve been doing the dance for the last week- feeling other people out, trying to tiptoe around the issue of discovering where people ended up, and frankly, I’m sitting the waltz out for the next several rounds. It’s bizarre to not discuss something so momentous. We’re all big kids. I think we can handle it. I understand why we don’t, but, then, discretion has never really been one of my strongest attributes. So here I am.

It was the week before the hellish three day in-firm process that I found myself at a meeting held by the Equality Committee at school. I approached the meeting with some trepidation, I suppose because I haven’t been much of the activist since coming to law school, but I actually enjoyed the meeting very much for the open and frank discussion about issues of equality in the school. They ranged from the banal to the more serious, and opened my eyes to a number of problems that require addressing. I felt engaged and involved sitting there and discussing matters with this group of intelligent and social-minded colleagues.

That was until a comment was made regarding advertisement of the school’s diversity. The speaker felt they had been duped into coming to Osgoode under the pretence that many of the students were social justice-oriented and that many of them were members of diverse minorities. ‘Tis true that a flip round our advertisements on the website and adorning the hallway show a range of students of all types, but the reality is that many law students are still typically white and heterosexual. Nevertheless, my sympathy for this student was lost at their next comment.

“So I come here, and everyone wants to work on Bay Street, so everyone is basically the fucking devil”

I pause. I think, I want to work on Bay Street. Does that make me the fucking devil? I am reminded of a time a potential date told me he regarded those wanting to work in that downtown glass and steel district as “soulless corporate shills.” Needless to say, I never met the gentleman in question. I have faced this problem since beginning law school- am I some kind of sell-out? Have I betrayed myself somehow by desiring that corner office in First Canadian Place? I am the kind of person who is apt to defer to the judgment of others- particularly those who I admire- and I do admire people who wish to devote themselves to championing the causes of the underprivileged. It is indeed something I have grappled with, and I wouldn’t be having this moment now if I hadn’t heard similar comments made dozens of times before. But my momentary crisis subsides. My confusion abates. And then I realize the truth.

The comment made is stupid. It’s moronic. And it’s completely ignorant.

I mean, since when do those who make these statements have an embargo on truth? I am here, at this meeting, aren’t I? If I wasn’t interested in making the school a better place for all students, I wouldn’t take two hours of my time to sit and discuss these issues. I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. What about wishing to work on Bay Street makes me “the fucking devil”?

It doesn’t. I’m not the devil. I don’t gobble up babies and take tea with Michelle Bachmann and Jerry Sandusky. I’m a regular person with moderate politics and a desire to do my work in peace, while in my spare time, taking part in some of the causes that are important to me. Undoubtedly the long hours I will be putting in will grant me some significant remuneration, and the great thing about having this money is that you have the freedom to support those causes with donations. Signing petitions and marching in rallies is one way of fighting the good fights- but so is giving money, and what many charities and causes need is money. Bay Street lawyers regularly sit on charitable boards, hold benefits and give back to the community in many ways. I have always wanted to have the financial security to be able to do this, and now it seems I may be able to.

The monolithic concept of Bay Street vs. Social Justice permeates much of the law school dialogue. But are we not lawyers, being trained not to look at things as black and white, but constant shades of grey? The idea that one is good and the other is the devil is juvenile, and yet these are the absolutes many of us deal in regularly in order to make ourselves feel better about the career path we’ve chosen. I am Bay Street bound, but I am certain that many of my similarly-situated colleagues believe that they are the good guys and the social justice types are flawed in politics and beliefs. This is all despite the fact that “Bay Street” and “social justice” don’t really mean anything anyway. Within these larger groups, lawyers are doing a wide variety of work. Some might want to be in-house counsel for Wal-Mart, but others might look at working in tax, litigation, entertainment or any number of fields. I like the idea of being a real estate lawyer. Does brokering a deal on a commercial space in an office building secure me a spot in Hell? And is it not naïve to think that one has more deserving clients than the other? I hate to break it to you all, but we’re lawyers. Our job is to assist someone with a problem. That often means wading through the muck and mire of someone else’s issues. It may mean having to defend a corporate client who may be guilty of abusing their employees. It may also mean we must defend a small-time criminal guilty of killing a bystander in a gangland shootout gone wrong. Wealth does not make one a more or less deserving client. Neither does poverty.

I have my own reasons for choosing to pursue a legal career at a full-service business firm. They include salary concerns and potential benefits, but they also include practice areas that I’m interested in and the people at these firms. I happen to think I’ve chosen a firm which is celebrated for the diversity of their staff. Lawyers of all ethnicities, backgrounds, orientations and political stripes are brought into the fold- and no one encourages them to become soulless corporate drones. I mean please- I have more personality than that, surely. Will that suddenly disappear? I don’t think so.

I am also of the mind that if one wants to change something, one needs to get into the system. Protests from the outside are all well and good, but if you want to make a difference, you need to be on the inside. Some will say that firms do not hire LGBT lawyers or they treat them poorly. Well, here I am. At my firm, I’ve disproved the first. I dare them to treat me badly. I would never let myself be demeaned in that way. I haven’t yet, and I have no intention of letting it happen in the future.

Frankly, I’m quite sick of having to defend myself and my career choices. I have done it more times than I can count. The holier-than-thou attitude of some needs to be toned down. I have the greatest respect for those who choose to work in many other areas- be it for the government, in a legal aid clinic or simply hanging their own shingle somewhere. We should go where we feel our talents are best suited, and leave the judgment aside. So to you, dear reader, who despairs about what people think of your career choice, I say fuck ‘em. Fuck them because you’re smarter than that. You know yourself. You know you’re a good person. You haven’t let the nay-sayers get you down yet. Don’t start now. Pursue your goal, whatever it may be. You will always have my full respect and support.