More nonsense

More nonsense

“Izzy wizzy, let’s get busy!” The immortal words of Sooty, mute yellow bear glove puppet of my youth, have clearly been whispered into Mr. Corbett’s ear recently—and oofle dust scattered, too, or I’m a Dutchman (and I’m not) because lately things have been piling up. A very busy week—writing about wine and spirits for Food & Drink magazine and clothing for Harry Rosen—the stress compounded a hundred-fold by the ceaseless clatter of hellishcopters over the downtown core all weekend long. (Does anyone know who they are? A movie? Tourist flights? The MuchMusic awards? A class action lawsuit for disruption of quiet enjoyment may be in order). In the midst of it, like a silent, tranquil beacon of violet light shining out into space from Alberta was the two-ounce pour of Château Mouton-Rothschild 1995 I sipped in Edmonton on Tuesday evening. It may be the most elegant, subtle, resonant, perfectly balanced, exotic wine I’ve ever tasted. If I had a bottle, I’d put it straight into the TONIUR capsule (Things One Needs If Unexpectedly Reincarnated) along with side two of Abbey Road, various works of Shakespeare and Max Beerbohm, and several other items too personal to mention. Then again, I’d rather drink it right now (though drink is too coarse and thirsty a word for what I would do to that wine if I ever got my hands on it again).

Food-wise, things have been fairly sotto—this isn’t really food weather, after all—and there’s not a great deal to report. Lure and Lalot have closed—and someone told me Amadeus closed, too, though I haven’t had a chance to check. Despite not eating, I seem to be putting on weight—which is puzzling but typical of life as we know it.

Oh bugger—I just glanced up and saw the new moon through the window. My mother raised me to believe that it’s terribly bad luck to see the new moon through glass. Luckily, she also taught me the antidote so I’ve just dashed outside, bowed three times, each time muttering “Good evening, Lady Moon,” while turning over the silver in my pocket. A large group from the local Cantonese Lutheran church happened to be passing and seemed a little shocked… Can’t be helped. It’s more important to mollify the Fates (touch wood) than risk offending the piety of my neighbours. Such are the responsibilities we face when we open ourselves to the universe’s more subtle fluences.

Now that I’ve made my obeisance, it’s okay to look again, and I see that the crescent is in an extraordinarily dramatic relationship to Venus— as if love were a fly ball and madness the mitt, waiting to catch it. What does this portend?

Did I really have nothing memorable to eat this week?

Nope. Nada. Niente. Except for the things I cooked myself and a certain coconut popsicle (breakfast of champions) eaten at nine in the morning as I walked down a silent, deserted Queen Street West on my way home from a useless visit to the gym. Sorry. That was pretty much it. Next weekend promises much much more as I’m off to British Columbia for some sea-kayaking and salmon fishing (provided the planets are suitably aligned).