When to say “Whoa”

The planets have aligned, the gods have smiled, the souffle has emerged from the oven miraculously unsunken; Allison and I are once again on the prowl in Toronto. Despite the somewhat frigid temperature - hey, coming from Singapore, anything below 25 degrees is cold - it was soul-warming to be here in this fair city, the afternoon spread out before us not like a patient etherized on a table, but rather like a banquet set on a velvet covered sideboard.

Since I had been gushing about the place for months, we decided Morning Glory would be the perfect venue for our triumphant return to the interweb. There is something so charming and cozy about this tiny King Street breakfast nook, its church pew benches and open plan kitchen (okay, so there’s nowhere else for it to go in the one room space) evoking tea cozies and prairie summers and kindly grandmothers smiling to themselves while they doze. You don’t need direct experience of any of these things to be smitten - though if a tea cozy does not feature prominently in at least one of your drunken escapades you should seriously reconsider the direction of your life - and indulgently overlook the sometimes uninspired quality of egg and bacon sandwiches.

And, since you’re so close, why not take a stroll around Toronto’s Historic Distillery District (I always laugh at the sign on Lakeshore)? The area could use more development - as Allison remarked, every time you go there it’s exactly the same experience, like brushing your teeth before bed - it is a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, particularly if you have long, important conversations at Cafe Uno, where one man bravely battled the hordes of caffeine and flatbread-seeking wanderers.

It is good to be back. You know all is right with the world when you have friends who listen when you tell them about something you read in the paper that morning, barely able to utter words because you’re laughing so hard:

Vance Packard had grown up in a different world, in a Methodist farm family in Pennsylvania during the 1920s. Automobiles were still a novelty. Packard’s biographer, Daniel Horowitz, reports a family story about how his dairyman father once tried to stop the family car by shouting “Whoa!” rather than braking and crashed through the wall of his garage.

Mark Greif, “The Hard Sell,” NYT Book Review

Okay, so that has nothing to do with Morning Glory or the Historic Distillery District, but it does have to do with indulgence and good friends and laughing because you can. So Happy New Year to everyone; wishing you the prescience not to stop your car by yelling at it as if it were a horse and the good sense to laugh at yourself just in case you do.

-Andrea

Bollywood, ho!

Whenever I tell Singaporeans how much I like Singapore, their reaction is always incredulity. “Really?” they say, eyes wide, cocktails bursting from their mouths, “why?” Fitting that Singaporeans should react with shock when my chief reason for loving this city arises from the same emotion: Singapore delights because it constantly surprises. Perhaps it’s merely a case of low expectations being surpassed. Before landing here, I admit I saw Singapore the same way the rest of the world sees Canada: clean, safe, and inescapably boring. If you stick to the air-con blasting malls along Orchard Road, Singapore more than lives up to its reputation as the blandest place in Southeast Asia. If you venture a little further, however, you may – ahem – surprise yourself.

Take, for example, Bollywood Veggies. Tucked away in the Kranji countryside, Bollywood Veggies is an organic farm/sanctuary/tropical wonderland. They grow vegetables, flowers, “uncommon medicinal trees and herbs,” and claim to be the “largest producer of organic bananas and papayas in Singapore.” The complex is like Organic Farm Disneyland. You can grab a bite of tasty organic fare at the questionably named Poison Ivy Bistro – we had red snapper curry, garlicky sweet potato greens, and an otah omelet – and work off the calories from the banana and tapioca cakes with a stroll in the garden. I oohed and ahhed at the gnarly fruit trees (who knew there were so many different types of bananas? who knew milk fruit/butter fruit even existed?) and got up close and personal with a ginger flower.

 

I particularly enjoyed the lotus pond, waiting to jump out at me from behind the Mr. Pee Wee and Jack-a-loo Eco Toilet. Forget Monet’s waterlillies; lotuses are where it’s at.

Sometimes I even surprise myself. After three months of not posting – I’d rather ram my head against that teapot-supporting wall than take and upload photos – Bollywood Veggies forced me to break my fast. And, really, how could I not share a glimpse into Wild S’pore? (Another reason I love this place; whenever I see its pet name I immediately, incongruously, think of smores).

Singaporeans, take pride! You are much more than great water polo players (again, who knew?). But, please, don’t follow our example. If I start to see red and white crescent moons pasted onto backpacks, I might have to schedule a tête-à-tête with my old friend the concrete wall.

-Andrea

Dinner Under the Stars

Yes, both Allison and I have been awful - just awful - about posting recently. To tide you over until I return to Toronto - please, you’re turning blue, stop holding your breath - I present you with a post from traveller extraordinaire, Allan. Oh how I too love Morocco - the food, the faux-guides, the ukeleles, War and Peace… But I digress. Enjoy Allan’s tale; I guarantee you’ll leave dreaming of tajines.

On a related note, we’re always looking for contributors. E-mail us and perhaps - we don’t make any promises - your life’s dream can be fulfilled and you too can join the hallowed space of Vanity Fare.

- Andrea

6200 kilometres from Toronto lies the city of Marrakech in the Kingdom of Morocco. The very name of the city itself conjures up exotic imagery of a land and people very different from our own and indeed, the culture shock upon arrival can be jarring. Give in and surrender yourself to the pace and way of life here though, and you will fall in love with this charming city.

The heart of Marrakech and crossroads for all of North Africa is its main square, Djemma el Fna. Both locals and tourists alike visit this massive open area to mingle, shop, flirt, eat, and simply enjoy themselves. By day, things are relatively sedate. Orange juice vendors fill the western part of the square, selling the most incredible tasting freshly-squeezed orange juice you will ever drink, and for a mere 3 dirhams (40 cents) a glass at that. The dried fruit and nut vendors follow, placing their goods in such impeccable arrangements that they make you feel bad by messing them up. Apothecaries are next, selling medicines and treatments both bizarre and macabre. Sometimes it’s best not to ask or look too closely, if you know what I mean. Finally, merchants selling more modern wares like leather bags and jewelery line the square. Traffic, both of the car, scooter and donkey variety, ramble through with little heed for pedestrians. Moving out of their way is very good advice to follow. Street entertainers can be found during the day but they all seem rather lethargic under the unrelenting sun. When night falls, however, this square transforms into something magical.

Seemingly out of nowhere, dozens of food vendors set up shop in the evening. The benches and stools are laid out, the food is prepared, and the smoke and aromas mingle in the air, enticing all those in the vicinity. After a long day of exploring the labyrinthine souks in the medina, I am looking forward to a great meal. Enthusiastic touts beckon me to eat at their food stall promising this visiting Canadian that their food tastes better than poutine and is “finger lickin’ good.” I imagine “poutine” is substituted for spaghetti, fish & chips, or hamburgers depending on your nationality. Charmed by their words, I take a seat at the bench next to two cute Croatian girls. Good conversation is struck up, and the food comes quickly.

Moroccan food is simple yet filling, relying on spices and slow cooking to attain its intense flavours. The tajine stew with tender chunks of meat and vegetables is hearty. Calamari and frites are next and are so tasty. Traditional Moroccan flat bread is freshly baked and completes the meal. Near the square is the Koutoubia Minaret, towering over the city. As the muezzin’s haunting call to prayer from the minaret fills the warm evening air, I soak in and absorb this unique and incredible atmosphere. I sit at a bench with friendly strangers while spirited staff serve great tasting and smelling food. Monkey trainers, mystics, musicians, storytellers, and acrobats entertain all those in the square. The thousands of stars in the sky resemble diamonds.

You realize then that you have fallen in love with this crazy city. If you ever read a “Best Places to Eat in the World” article in a newspaper or magazine, you will undoubtedly find Djemma el Fna mentioned amidst all the Michelin-starred gourmet restaurants. Can’t argue with that.

-Allan, Vanity Fare contributor