Post 300! A meaty proposition

So, yeah. With S out of town for the week I decided to make one trip to Whole Foods that would last me until she returned. I tried to think of all those glorious recipes that I'd made in the past boeuf bourguignon, Fillet of Sole, Artichokes with Hollandaise Sauce. Then I remembered that it was not me who had cooked those recipes but the lady from Julie and Julia. This had me depressed for at least five minutes. Then, I realized that I could grill. And what better activity for me than to grill up a week's worth of meat in one great night!

Uhmm. I was a vegetarian for nine months, and I'm still not a regular eater of meat due to S's persistent vegetarianism. So, as it turns out, meat-fest 2010 was a little bit of overkill. I'm discovering that I may not want chicken every night for dinner from now until Saturday. In fact, after two days, I'm already tired of meat-fest 2010, but I've still got about nine chicken legs in the fridge that I'm going to have to eat to not waste food. I'm really just posting this as a warning for anyone else who was thinking of trying meat-fest 2010. Don't. Really, it's best to do meat-fest in one sitting, nothing wrong with leaving a BBQ having eaten a burger, three hot dogs and a snippet of steak, just don't think that you'd want that again for the next five days. Onward and upward.

Alternative titles:

Meat-fest 2010-The little mistake that lasted a week.

A Meeting of the Meats.

A gross miscalculation involving vast quantities of chicken.


I also feel like I got short shrift on Facebook with captioning my artsy photo.



Alternatives to the original:

This is just how I sit when viewing art.

When I go to the museum, I want the art to look at me.

If I look angry it's just because of the low quality of the conceptual art.

And so on.


On the third day of our trip we went to the Old Port of Montreal. The Old Port of Montreal looks like a nice little European haven. Cobblestone streets wind like rivers through through the barges of nineteenth century stone houses while horses clatter by, pulling carriages as if in echo of the streets. At nine A.M. we have the Port to ourselves, and we scale the Sailor's Memorial Clock tower only to discover a barbed wire fence at the top obscuring our view. We lean down and take a picture, hoping to capture some of the splendor of Old Port. Instead, it just looks like we're in jail.

That same day we eat poutine in the courtyard of an old restaurant. The walls are lined with ivy, and a small spiral staircase rises from the courtyard up several stories to a loft. As it turns out, neither of us care for the poutine. I'm not sure what Miss Muffet was thinking. They aren't very good. How you can make fries soaked in gravy taste only average is beyond me. Before we leave an old couple, British I believe, asks the waitress what poutine is. When she's done describing it the woman asks the waitress if she can take her picture.

Waitress: Why.

Woman: I just like the looks of you.

While the wife lines up the photo the husband, a garrulous and strange old man with a large yellow hat and a camera wrapped round his neck, somehow embodying the stereotypical tourist makes bunny ears over his wife's head as she takes the picture. Then, the couple leaves without even sitting down to eat. We define ourselves in opposition for comfort. It is nice when the opportunity is so easy.

That afternoon we walked onto the Point Jacques Cartier and into the blue tent of Cirque du Solei, which turned out to be literally breathtaking. The things that these people could do had me constantly gripping my chair and tightening my legs in fear that they would fail. It was my favorite part of Montreal.

In the evening we briefly argue about where to eat, settling on a Basque restaurant a bit off the beaten path. When we decide to skip the wine, and order only fifty dollars worth of food our waiter turns surly. They serve us a soup in a glass that is about 1/3 the size of a shot glass for seven dollars. At the table behind us, an American man, wearing a t-shirt that says Penn St. Football on it, and sporting a hat, takes a picture of his incredibly small tapa to send to his friends. "At least we're not the worst one's in here," I say.

Our waiter begins to cheer up significantly as the time for tipping approaches. A fact, which we both comment on. Though, it's noted that our entire meal does take two hours and the paltry ten bucks he'll be getting isn't exactly amazing. At the table to my right an older couple orders food all night and drinks a bottle of wine. At the end of the night they are given free small shots by the waiter. During dinner, I could swear they were speaking about us in French, defining themselves against us.

That night we walk back down Saint Denis in the oppressive heat of early summer complaining about waiters and portion sizes until we feel good enough for gelato.