Tamar "you don't win friends with salad" A.'s Profile

Don't get me wrong.  It's not that I need to be INSPIRED by sushi.  I mean, one can't ask for a miracle every time he takes a knee.  Sushi is, by its very nature, a refreshing and purifying experience, from the comforting slurp of miso soup to the last palate-cleansing piece of pickled ginger.  And it's not like a sushi establishment can fall THAT low.  So am I OFFENDED by New Generation's utter lack of care, from the slapped-down food by the eye-contact-avoiding waitresses to the lowest-common-denominator rolls?  Do I clutch my PEARLS at their half-hearted, unevenly chunked avocado-and-iceberg-lettuce avocado salad?  Am I WEEPING over the sad strip of tuna, bulbous rice, and lazy dump of crunchy in my spicy tuna handroll?  

No, friends.  I'm just underwhelmed is all.

When I first moved to Toronto, a young naive lass, I came here because its claim to fame was that it was open after 1am.  The fact that I can't remember the last time I was awake past 11:45pm leads me to believe I've outgrown it.  Fortunately, there are about 12 other sushi restaurants in its two block radius in which to spread my wings and fly.

I concede that I might have been a bit swept up in my love of having discovered a decent sushi place that delivered, and thus a bit prone to exaggeration when I initially wrote my glowing review(s) of Genki Ya.  But I also am open to the fact that they have gone downhill.  And I'm not even talking about the janky pickled ginger, punchless wasabi, and fairly tasteless fish.  I'm talking customer service.

The last number of times I've ordered from there - and you can check my order history online; we're talking LOTS-O-ORDERS - I've had my food, after a long wait, delivered with notable errors and cranky delivery boys.  Let's take last night, for example:

My boyfriend calls and is met with a non-English speaker who yells at him to order online.

Sushi ordered at 8:30pm, arrives at 9:45pm. [note: we live approximately 5 miles from the restaurant.]

Delivery boy tells me how much the order costs, conveniently rounding up the total I've already seen on the online receipt (that factors in the $2 delivery fee, mind you) from $31 to $33.  $40 handed over.  Please give me $5 back.

He snots, $2 won't even pay for gas.

It's 9:30, I'm hungry, I'm pissed off, and now I'm covered in snot-shame.  Fine, I say, give me $4 back.

He thumbs through his bills, glaring at me.

I open my green bag to find missing avocado in my tuna roll and none of the requested soy sauce packets.

***

I know we've all got to make a living but COME ON.  Your sushi is fine, Genki Ya, but your customer service is deplorable.  I'm sticking to Super Fusion from now on, and I suggest all you Yelpers out there follow suit.

Pizza Chef could fall victim to the "it's better than nothing, which is exactly what else is nearby" Headtoss of Mediocrity (see Flying Goose Pub, The), but manages, with a liberal application of mozzarella cheese, to rise above.  The pizza here isn't trying to be your fancy brick oven hooha.  Rather, it focuses on the foundations by piling toppings onto a crust that has that slightly crispy texture on account of its oiliness (it's tastier than it sounds), and then dousing the damn thing in cheese.  You know those total liar Pizza Hut commercials where the slo-mo pizza slice is withdrawn from the pie in an elastic gooey glory of cheese?  Pizza Chef is Truth, yo.

It's relatively cheap ($10 for a small; $15 for a large) and the toppings range from standard fare to some slightly jazzed up "gourmets" (veggie, meat-lovers, Hawaiian, Buffalo), and the ambiance is surprisingly welcoming and quaint, with nice light, high ceilings, and those wooden ceiling fans to appeal to your warm country aesthetic.  Amuse yourself by going next door to Annabel's and noting how their font is exactly the same as Ben & Jerry's (SPOILER: it used to be one), and savor the fact that you're in a sweet little town where maybe the food isn't used to aiming high, but someone will actually hold the door open for you when you're laden with pizza and ice cream.  Seems like a fair trade-off to me.

Yikes!  I'm not really understanding the "meh, I've experienced better" displayed here.  Was something amiss in the yummy dill hollandaise of your eggs benedict?  Did someone spit in your zatar, sun-dried tomato, and goat cheese omelet or spill your cinnamon-spiked coffee down your back?   Was something unsavory floating in your fresh grapefruit juice, or did that ideal-for-Bloor-people-watching patio cave in on you?

No?  Then shuttie.  

It's not cheap, but neither is any other brunch establishment in this neighborhood.  But it's unique, Israeli, mural-filled, and scrumptious, and by the way (HAHAHA OH MY), they have some very attractive and enjoyable staff who keep the ambiance lovely and the coffee flowin'.

You know that absolutely infuriating answer about how life isn't fair your parents give when you lose out to that brown-nosing ass-clown on that thing you totally deserve?

One can stumble around Toronto and find a merry old English-style pub just like this one on EVERY FREAKING CORNER.  One can venture into said pub and take one's pick of well-priced single malt scotches and even weller-priced pints.  One can take in the warm ambiance, the mahogany everything, the murky patterned carpets, the twinkling white lights.  One can engage in quiet conversation in front of the glowing fireplace and fancy himself a viscount.  Oh, here's a fine place to get a drink around the corner from my mom's, we discovered AFTER NOT LOOKING VERY HARD AT ALL.

Fair?  YOU WANT FAIR?!

Grr.  Boston sucks.

Aw, jeez, way to make me look bad, Taipei Tokyo.  I go all out of my way to write you a glowing review, referencing Malcolm Gladwell and EVERYTHING, and how do you repay me?  With a bowl of miso soup that tastes like it was made with the discarded dishwasher water, forgetting my avocado substitution, and giving me the most flavorless spicy tuna this side of the mall?

Yelp-land is never going to trust me again.  If you need me, I'll be eating my shame at Super Fusion.

I'm a Bostonian born and raised, through and through, soup to nuts.  But let's face facts: this is mean old city we live in, friends.  (Friends?  Friends, right?  Please hang out with me.)  I mean, its residents are transient, its locals are cliquey, its squares are random and disassociated.  Community?  Yeah.  Not so much.  WHAT FAAHKING OF IT?  

Or so I thought.

Where are all the Boston hipsterllectuals?  Why, they're hiding behind squishy seats, sipping their beers, being squinted at by wee owls.  While the movies here are fairly second-run hit-or-miss (go to Kendall for the real consistent quality flicks), the diverse, eclectic, FABULOUS live shows are what melts our city's cold, cold heart.  The crinkled ticket stubs I've found at the bottom of my purse include: Dar Williams, The Aimee Mann Holiday Spectacular, The Slutcracker (twice), Punch Brothers (thrice), The Magnetic Fields, Crooked Still, and the Moth Mainstage.  I've kibbitzed with the talent out front, strolled through the Museum of Bad Art, inhaled all the reasonably-priced Junior Mints during the previews.  So keep calm and carry on, Somerville Theatre.  Your flaming hot stage is all the community I need.

A glorious, sunny Sunday!  5 healthy heart-pumping miles!  Walkers who jog and joggers who walk, barely indistinguishable in this relatively small, surprisingly neighborly spring jaunt!

THE TEE-SHIRT: Cotton, yes, but nice-fitting cotton of a gorgeous teal that I might be tempted to wear outside my bedroom.

THE POST-RACE SWAG: Nothing special - bottled water, bananas, some uninspired Whole Foods-sponsored crackers.

THE COURSE: For the most part, a gentle flat run along the reservoir, sun shining, birds chirping.  For the non-most-part, we have some hills to contend with.  There's a minor hill at the beginning to stretch the ol' legs, nothing to get excited about.  So we're going merrily along until around mile 4, when we ascend for a...while.  It flattens out a bit, then ends with a pop of a hill.  Not the most pleasant way to end 5 miles, but nothing unmanageable.  Waterstops at miles 2 and 4, and all miles are marked with folks calling out the pace as you jog by.

My only suggestion would be to "strongly encourage" the walkers in this runner/walker party to stay off to one side, and not walk 4 abreast and thereby requiring the runners to skirt around like smug, sweaty d-bags.  'Kay, thanks, see ya at the crackers.

I embarked on my Monday a pure, upstanding member of society.  My itinerary for the day included an early rise, a refreshing constitutional, abstention from high caloric food or bracing drink, completion of my work in a timely and thoughtful manner, and retiring early, radiating good Christian righteousness from a day utterly devoid of hootenanny.

SUFFICE TO SAY YOU CERTAINLY KICKED THE SH!T OUTTA THAT PLAN, YELP.

Thanks?

Ah, the Flying Goose Pub formerly known as the Four Corners Grill.  Ah, the pressure on a restaurant to be one of approximately three in a 9-mile radius that serves anything warmer than sandwiches or more interesting than pizza.

What is that you say?  No competition = NO pressure?  A...ha.

This place suffers the most from "well, it could be worse and it's not like there's anything better around here" syndrome, because, as we astutely remark every time we pay and leave, well, it could have been worse.  It's not like there's anything better around here.  The dishes are hit or miss, as are the prices.  You could come out of here utterly satisfied or feeling fairly ripped-off.

To wit: feeling on the healthy side, we decided to forgo the standard pub n' grill fair that is pretty hard to botch (burgers, nachos, assorted dips), and order the mussels to split and a seafood dish each - I the grilled salmon with double broccoli, my Pop the Cape Cod bake.  The mussels were totally scrumptious: the perfect brothy mixture of garlic, butter, white wine, shallots, tomatoes - everything a bursting bowl of mussels should be.  It was well-sized and reasonably-priced.  SO FAR SO GOOD we cheersed.

But alas, as any wedding-or-corporate-holiday-crasher knows all too well, the entrees have a bad habit of paling in comparison.  My grilled salmon was topped with that curried ketchupy BBQ sauce that they serve in Berlin alongside the currywurst (not exotic.  Gross.), and my "doubled" broccoli was, shall we say, singled.  I hate getting cheated out of a side dish.  My Dad's Cape Cod Bake was largely potatoes and shells, which I know from both supermarkets and beaches don't cost $22.  The broth was tasty though.

The beer was decent and the service was adorable (this is such a nice town, y'all), but the food has the potential to be totally weaksauce, which is ironic, since by and large, their sauces are pretty good.  Overall, it could totally be worse.  Not like there's much better around here.