Descending the steps into the Keg–it’s a steakhouse–at Yonge and Eglinton:
Foodie: When did the Keg get so damn cool?!
Beast: It’s like a jazz bar.
Foodie: Yeah, a jazz bar! Low lights, lots of black leather and everything’s shiny! Except there are also people wearing baseball hats backwards. This is going to be awesome.
Not just because we were back at the Keg–the subject of this blog’s first-ever post–but also because we’d just seen the Oscar-nominated film Whiplash at the theatre across the street from the restaurant. This was a jazzy Keg and the movie was about the fraught and complicated relationship between a jazz drummer and his instructor. There was a bit of a wait for a table. But the bar was wide open. So we saddled up there, quickly ordered our Keg classic stripling dinners (garlic mashed potatoes for me and baked potato with him) and started off with cocktails. Keg-sized cocktails.
This morning, in the kitchen:
Beast: We need to get rid of our sugar bowl.
Foodie: No we don’t.
Beast: Yes we do. And that little plate it sits on too.
Foodie: No we don’t. I love them both so much.
Beast: They look like they belong in a fucking dump: like they belong to a character in a Miranda July novel.
Foodie: Do you want to see the photos I took of you asleep last night on the couch?
Beast: I look like a character from a Wachowski brothers’ movie.
Outside of Harvey’s on the Queensway, a favourite resort-like destination for us when we have access to a car, the Beast turned to me and said, “Doesn’t this feel like the kind of slightly rundown place where a business man would come into after a long day at work to order a burger? And in the movie version, he’d be at the wrong place at the wrong time and there’d be some kind of armed robbery?”
This year I tried to curate the holidays before they even happened. I discovered this can lead to moments of both disappointment and happy surprises.
The Beast has really been pulling his own when it comes to week-night dinners. He made a great Bolognese last week. This week, it was paella, or rather his interpretation of it. He started with a Paula Deen recipe for “Mexican Rice” and then added peas, sausage and shrimp. If that doesn’t all add up to paella then I’m my name isn’t Paula Deen.
Add to this authenticity watching The Graduate, and it practically felt like we were in some tiny Valencian town eating our meal. The Beast had been eager to re-watch the film ever since Mike Nichols passed away. It was a night to remember.