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Saturday , August 22, 2009
THE FOOD CRITIC IMPERSONATOR: Laura Jane Hits Up Milestone's Date Night, 08.19.09
Hi! Welcome to "The Food Critic Impersonator," starring good old Laura Jane Faulds as the Food Critic Impersonator. It is a new column devoted to sharing my eating-related enthusiasm with you/the world. Dig in, and- of course- enjoy!
I. SERIOUS INFORMATION PRESENTED NON-SERIOUSLY (AS IT SHOULD BE)
Anorexia is a torture chamber that I escaped from. This journey has been an emotional epic, like Papillon but with a girl, all long-shots: me picking away at a crumbling ceiling with a toothbrush, carving pathways out of ballpoint, digging a hole to China. When I broke veganism, it felt like kicking out that last brick, seeing, feeling, sunlight finally, and knowing I did it, I'm- it's- gone.
The best thing about ditching veganism is Caramilk bars. The second-best thing about ditching veganism is that I've been opened me up to an entire new realm of moments and minutes, guesses and whims, happenstances and serendipity. I spent the entire first half of this summer singing, or rather, shrieking, the praises of living a boring, amazing life that is non-constructed and open-ended, being wise to the possibility of the Universe's awkward, unexpected beauties hitting me hard when I least expect it: a friendly punch in the upper back. Yet, as connected as I felt to this mentality in almost every arena of my life, the way I ate remained systematic and methodical; veganism necessitated that it must so be.
The morning I broke veganism, I went out to Wanda's Pie in the Sky and ate a slice of peach praline (which I always typo as "pralien"; weird- do I really write the word "alien" that much?!?) pie and drank some fizzy elderflower/pomegranate-themed beverage. I felt totally uncomfortable, hated myself, and wrote about how I bad I craved a certain normalcy within eating. The thing I kept thinking of was the lyric in "The Ballad of John & Yoko" where he talks about eating chocolate cake in the back of a car. I wanted to be a person who could eat chocolate cake in the back of a car without having to figure out what time it is, the amount of hours between my last meal and now, what I ate this morning, what I would eat later, or would I? Etc Etc Etc. I knew it wasn't beyond me; and it wasn't. Because I have it now, and it's heavenly. Hash.
Cary Grant, on becoming Cary Grant:
"I pretended to be somebody I wanted to be, and, finally, I became that person. Or he became me."
I did that too. The normal eater, I mean, the Food Critic Impersonator, became me.
II. SETTING THE SCENE AND/OR UP SHOP
In the scheme of things, it's pretty frickin'-frackin' "normal" to go to Milestone's, a yuppified, misguidedly "klassed up" Ruby Tuesday's-type establishment located in Toronto's wholly unbearable Yonge-Dundas Square, my hometown's contrived and grotesque answer to Times Square.
Every Wednesday forever (probably not forever), Milestone's celebrates Date Night, a mostly annoying gimmick inviting rich boring couples to get in on the "$50 Date Night Specialty Menu." Take heed, Normies of Southern Ontario! Grab one's dude or babe of choice, spend a shitload of money on sugary cocktails, overeat in a non-nonsexy way, and then go home and get laid. You will wake up in the morning, give nobody a thumbs up, and exclaim "Thanks, Milestone's!"