In the past few days anyone stepping off a plane for the first time at Pearson or City Centre Airport probably got a bit of a rude awakening to the real Toronto.

I do my best to try to warn people that, no really, it gets pretty fucking hot here in the summers, but usually I just get an incredulous expression in response. When I compare recent Toronto temperatures (31 Celcius  / 88 Fahrenheit) to, say, The Bahamas (30 Celcius / 86 Fahrenheit), they just kind of look at me funny, like maybe I’ve been spending too much time in the igloo or something.

It’s a bit warm for May, granted, but not by much.

“Yeah, but it’s not a humid heat like they get on the islands”, is often the next follow-up. Once again, spoken by someone who hasn’t been to Toronto in the summer. No, it really is. It can get as soupy here as it does in Hong Kong or Jamaica. I mean, did you ever wonder how south Asians, East Indians, West Indians, and people from similar countries could manage to live in Toronto if it’s some dreary northern podunk town? That’s because it’s not so foreign to them. In the winter they’re usually a miserable bunch, but in the summer they’re right at home. Right from the horse’s mouth that.

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Aha! I finally figured out why the smell of frying food conjures up such strong feelings of summer. And it isn’t all funnel cakes either.

The whole synesthetic experience must’ve started when I was still doing my ex-pat thing overseas. It was on the tropical island of Taiwan where winter temperatures hardly dipped below 10 Celsius (50 Fahrenheit), and the summers we non-stop steam baths regularly hitting 40 Celsius (104 Fahrenheit), that I  first made the association. After a few years of that, the link between summer heat and fried food musta just burned into my brain, I guess.

The fried food part of the equation is my favourite Taiwanese breakfast, usually eaten in small roadside shops surrounded by greasy steam and greasier customers.

The three most common meals at such establishment are, as I recall, lobogau, diced fried daikon (giant white radish), congee, a cold soup consisting of rice, some kind of shredded meat, and a variety of veggie / nut toppings, and dan bing, which I’ll be discussing here and the only thing that I actually enjoyed in the mornings. (Fried radish — gross!)

The name dan bing comes from the Mandarin words “ji dan” (chicken eggs), and “bing” (platter or plate – or ice if mispronounced). It’s usually accompanied by “nai cha”, literally “milk tea”, but with whitener being used instead of real milk — for a variety of reasons. Incidentally, this is also the secret ingredient in Tea Shop 168’s milk teas, unsurprisingly since this is also a Taiwanese company. (With tapioca in the milk tea —  buble milk tea — it’s called “jinju nai cha”.)

Dan bing is super easy to make:

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Zach’s post about the G20 kinda freaked me out a bit. Not about the clampdown on the city or anything, I think that’ll be a riot. My main concern is the volume of simultaneous stuff that’ll be happening, and the lack of bodies to attend. Last year I got a request to cover Caribana so I spent the whole day wriggling through a million people in the blistering heat. I had to miss about three other things that day, three things within my highly limited scope of “what’s happening”.

This year the city’s shipping in Euro-crazies for the summer, doing a mayoral throw-down, plus all the other usual seasonal stuff that’s supposed to happen. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

One day at a time.

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It’s been quite a busy day at the TCL city desk today.

To begin with, a bunch of personalities from my wake-up radio station were axed, en masse, this afternoon. I’ve only ever heard promos for the Motts’ show and I accidentally tuned into a Michael Coren repeat one night. Didn’t care for it. And Jacqui Delaney I found to be as awkwardly appended to my daily dose of waking petulance, the Bill Carroll Show, as the spelling of her name, and this clause. Plus, she was kind of abrasive.

But I wish them all well. It’s not always easy out there on the streets.

Take the Carties, for example. Almost everyone agreed that the concept was great; let’s have some alternatives out there on the streets instead of just the ubiquitous hot dog stand. The city clenched their butt cheeks extra hard on the requirements and only eight finalists (out of twelve entries), were accepted into the program. They had to pay a ridiculous sum for the carts which were sold, and branded, by the city. The vendors also had to wear city-issue uniforms. Oh, and the city told them where they would go and conduct their business. Some locations were great. Some, not so much.

There were also suggestions that the city might want to, you know, have a chat with existing street vendors to see how they do things. Kinda pick the brains of some of the people who have done this day in, day out, for decades.

Yeah … no, they didn’t do that.

I once bought a samosa from one of the a la Cart guys. His little shack was impeccably clean, almost too much so. He probably had the city’s sanitation inspectors living in his colon. The food was okay, nothing too exciting; proper City-Hall, middle-of-the-road flavour. And what’s this about handling every little thing with a pair of gloves on? With street meat, you get a dollar-store serviette (as dainty as the word implies), holding up a propane-soaked bun which is cradling a hastily warmed specimen of “dog” of some sort. “Hot” it most certainly is not. No latex glove, that’s for sure.

It’s almost inevitable then that the Carties would start dropping off, isn’t it?

Sad.

But Buskerfest helped me forget all about it! The name says it all; a street carnival filled with buskers. Open guitar cases, hats, plastic cups, and other collection receptacles abounded.

One of the performers flew in from overseas. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say somewhere in the region of Australia:

Strangely, this is as exciting as it got. At least for me. In the ten minutes or so that I stood there, the routine seemed to go nowhere. Those knives never saw any action. I still don’t know why those people were lying there. I waited, I applauded; tried to cheer him on. Nada.

Oh well.

Elsewhere, some of the buskers had so much polish, they were like some kinda disco machines:

It may not be to everyone’s liking, but everyone’s gotta make a living somehow. Even the very tall and gangly:

The evening ended with a rousing human beatbox, but that video is still being transjiggamafied. I hope this will suffice until then:

I feel I should apologize if TCL is a bit sluggish today; it’s been t-h-i-c-k around here. Temperatures were running in the high thirties (close to a hundred Fahrenheit), and that insidious humidity crept in right along with them. Soupy is not the right word, unless you mean French Canadian split pea soup. Then, yes.

I had somehow managed to forget just how much of a punch this kind of weather delivers. I spent four years living on a proper tropical island and I can say with some authority that Toronto’s summer is not unlike a tropical one. It’s hot, sticky, humid, and relentless. I like the challenge – see how far I can walk before I pass out from dehydration – but Ollie tends to take a more pragmatic approach:

I took the day off today to be a tour guide to my folks and a Czech student they’re showing around. We hit some of the more air-conditioned locations such as the PATH, the lakeshore, and the Toronto Reference Library.

I particularly enjoyed the reactions to the Korean BBQ lunch. If you’ve never been, imagine the hubcap from a small car sticking out from the middle of a restaurant table on which you cook your own prepped food (usually meat). Most places heat it using a gas line that runs up through the centre of the table, but more elegant places use lye beneath the cooking plate – kinda like a fondue setup.

During the lunchtime conversation, the word “exotic” was used more than once. “Good” also. I’d add “inoffensive” as long as you stay away from the kimchi – I’m just not a big fan of fermented cabbage. I mean, I know what I like and it’s allowed my weight to hover above average, so I think I know what I’m talking about here. It’s the same reason I never trust that skinny chefs will ever produce anything really tasty. It simply … can’t be.

Luckily, the chefs along the Taste of the Danforth route yesterday were, for the most part, not svelte. There were plenty of beefy characters serving up beefy skewers. And chicken. And pork.

The short stretch of Danforth Avenue essentially had all its Greek and Mediterranean shops (and every other shop in between), spill their food onto the street for sampling. At most places you got a meaty skewer for $3 and for $5 you got the skewer on a gyro with veggies and tzatziki.

The idea behind Taste is pretty simple; stuff your face the entire way, and then do it again on the way back:

It’s a flawed concept; it’s just not possible. I got through two skewers, one gyro, and one cob of corn before I threw in the towel. I didn’t even have room for baklava, and I don’t remember the last time this has happened.

Maybe I’m just getting old. I mean, with the liquor stops along the way being off-limits due to the heat, I felt like that didn’t leave much else for the adults. Okay, that’s not entirely true; there’s plenty of music to get down and dance a Greek-ish jig to:

The gentleman waving the flags is Mr.Canada, as emblazoned on his custom-made maple leaf suit. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to ask him anything as he kept scooping up ladies out of the audience and entertaining them with his flag dance:

It had a semaphoric quality about it; stiffly elegant and clearly sending out all sorts of unintended signals. Guess you can’t blame the guy, it was just as hot during Taste as it is today and the fact that he made any sort of effort should be applauded. The fact that he wore that suit on that day … well, maybe he should see someone about that. I mean, I wasn’t dressed very sensibly myself, and I was a puddle (I layered, just too much!).

Next year I’ll take a note from the Danforth’s regulars and keep it simple, classic, and timeless:

The War rages on, Being Erica still makes no sense, yadda yadda.

I recognize that it’s been pretty monotonous around here lately, hasn’t it? It’s not like the combative strike by the 416/79 has paralyzed the city! Let’s see what else is happening around town.

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And I’m back! Through the wonder of digital technology, I was able to perform the kind of modern miracle of science grandpa would have voided his bowels over: turn a hyphen into three hours.

I’d intended to head down to Ontario Place for the fireworks but in this day of have-nots, it seemed rather indulgent. That was just fine though because on my way I ran into a few interesting places like the Jazz Festival. Not so much a festival as an extended concert for really relaxed people:

I managed to sneak my slight frame behind one of the tent flaps to watch Brandi Disterheft pouring out a gentle “In my solitude”. Dave Brubeck was around somewhere too, just not where I was. In hindsight, I would have loved to cut a rug with Medeski Martin & Wood, but I won’t let regret rule my life. The if-onlys are the things that kill you: if only I’d heard of the festival sooner; if only I’d read the entertainment section more; if only I’d practiced safe sex and worn those damn shin guards. If only.

I wandered away from the square and bumped into my old buddy Steve Mann, hydraulophone guy and seemingly retired cyborg:

Steve is a hero; the only man who can get women all wet by touching his worm in public. I know it’s blue, but it’s better than the green one (yep, still down there – eww!)

Anyhow,  that subject is probably best left to sit in the sun and gather flies. Just as well because I was getting a bit weary of listening to Steve explain (for the third time) the inner workings of the instrument to two people (Mr. Whitey ensemble at the right + guest) who had asked the same question (verbatim) three times. No! The water doesn’t activate electronic actuators! What is wrong with you two?! He just told you it doesn’t! God!

I could actually taste the bitterness subside as I headed back home. I stopped at a lonely a la cart guy in front of Metro Hall to buy a lukewarm veggie samosa. At two bucks it was a greasy good deal, but not really much personality. That was a bit further uptown in front of Metropolitan where I found a bunch of chess players slapping clocks and talking trash:

One of them had a fist raised to the other, growling for “revenge!”. Perhaps jokingly, but I knew that full-contact Aussie rules chess was imminent. I got out of there fast, past overstuffed garbage bins and noticeable roadside litter, as fast as my little legs could carry me. What a night!

Maybe not in that exact order but … what a night!