|HECKLE AND JEKYLL ENJOY A FEAST |
of ten-dollar fries (!!!) at Elleven. Which is a stupid name; what's wrong with Ten? Ten is perfect. That extra one is just pretentious and ... oooh. I get it.
My adorable daughter and I met up for lunch today. This is a rare treat; we live and work in far-flung cities, she just happened to be attending a seminar in Toronto so we saw this as a nice opportunity to stuff our faces together. The little weirdo doesn't drink (I still don't know where I went wrong) so food is how we bond.
And because I was involved in this adventure, of course things had to get completely fucked up.
For starters, the wee abstainer got lost, despite my perfect directions. "Head out of the convention centre onto the street in front, I forget the name but there are tall buildings all around; pass the construction guys and go a couple more blocks and turn south ... I think it's south ... and we'll find a restaurant when we get there."
Thank God for cellphones, or she'd still be wandering the streets of Toronto, plaintively calling out for me. Just like all those times when she was little and I'd lose her in the streets of other big cities. (I mean seriously, how hard is it to ask questions? Don't they teach kids anything in Brownies anymore? "Excuse me, cross-eyed stranger, have you seen my mother? She said she was going to the liquor store and to stay right . . . what? Candy? I'd love some!")
We finally met up but by now we were both pressed for time, so we just went to the first place we saw.
Which was a mistake.
Because she is a very serious foodie and I am a cheapskate. So let me just say I'm sorry, E11even, but you drew the short straw with us, because not only did both of us roll our eyes at the three different servers you sent around but we also both concurred, aloud, that everything from your name to your prices to your check presentation is ridiculous.
We found a seat, were ignored for a good 10 minutes, and then got a menu and almost fell off our stools.
"These prices!" the wee abstainer gasped.
"I'll be dining on coffee," I huffed. "The day I pay TWENTY GODDAM DOLLARS for a cheeseburger!"
"Let's just share something," my daughter said.
We looked at the menu again and then looked at each other.
"Fries," we chimed in unison.
Well to make a long story short, those were the most mediocre overpriced fries I've ever eaten in my life. The chef could learn something from New York Fries, such as how NOT to put lemon thyme on them and how to keep them from becoming as damp and flaccid as Bruce Jenner's unused penis.
He could also learn a few things from Tim Hortons, such as how not to bother with the laborious, faintly obscene French press he makes the waiters do at the table while my daughter and I look at each other and try not to titter.
I know I'm sounding like one helluva bitch, but that's just because I am one. I've had much better food at much cheaper places, so I think I can be excused for still obsessing over the experience 10 whole hours later.
And the kicker? Just minutes ago, I got a text message from my daughter. "Thanks again for coming to see me today, Mom :) that was fun!"
Grumble. Okay, fine, E11even. You scored one point on that one.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Aw, but look how cute that check is! They bring it to you in a little envelope marked "The Damage"!
MY NOTE: Which is exactly the right word to use when you charge that much for fries and coffee.