Roger Pires May 14, 2009
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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"Opa!", Whitby style
Last Saturday, my wife and I did something we haven’t done since blackberries were something you served with whipped cream. We went out for dinner. Without the kids. I’ll go out on a limb here and surmise that to most people, a night out with your spouse is a regular, healthy stop on the marriage marathon. To us, it’s a rare event we’ll regale our grandkids with as we gather at the kitchen table.
This milestone came about courtesy of some friends of ours who had recently married and wished to share their joyous news with us over some Greek food. We hadn’t even left Udora’s “city” limits when my wife’s cell phone rang. It was home calling. This had to be a new record. Our teenage daughter needed clarification on some house rules. Apparently, in the time it takes a mini van to travel the length of a football field, her little brother had violated several of them. She rhymed off a litany of transgressions. We had to tell her that no, he was not allowed to leave the property on his bike but that yes, he was allowed out of his room – especially to go to the bathroom.
Since our journey took us into the city, we had flipped a coin to see who would be forced to drive. I lost. I happen to be the proud owner of an intense aversion to city driving. The restaurant was in downtown Whitby (if there is such a thing). Our buddy had given us concise directions. Given my challenges, I understood the location to be somewhere north of the 401 and south of the Arctic Circle. But where I lack in urban navigation, I make up for in responding to terse, verbal commands like: “Turn left here” or “Double back, you missed it.”
The restaurant was located in one of those entertainment mega-complexes that have become a hallmark of suburbia. We pulled up to the mall parking lot where several acres of concrete separated us from the Aegean blue neon sign of our destination. We were eventually blessed with the miracle of a parking spot beside a building that resembled an airplane hangar. A massive billboard on the side informed us it was a movie theatre. I remarked to my wife that you could cram a thousand Roxys into that monstrosity. She said I needed to get out more. We ambled to the end of the block only to find we were still a short cab ride from the restaurant. The warm, still evening convinced us to hike it the rest of the way.
I’m not exactly what you would call an adventurous gourmand. But the Greek menu has some vital prerequisites for a satisfying dining experience: meat, meat, and more meat. The fact it had four or five selections on tap could only elevate the rating for this particular establishment.
Our hosts were well versed in the subject of appetizers and they ordered one of the “classics” for us to try. Saganaki must be Greek for “giant mushroom cloud of flaming goat cheese.” Our server arrived with a shallow cast-iron dish. In it, was a slab of cheese shaped like a life raft floating in a bubbling lagoon of oil. My first instinct upon seeing this would be to rescue the captive piece of dairy from this pool of cholesterol. The Greeks prefer to set it ablaze. In keeping with tradition, our server doused the cheese in ouzo and ignited it. A menacing column of flames rose from the dish and tickled the rafters above it. We were informed that the traditional response to this conflagration was for everyone to shout, “Opa!” I thought it more prudent to locate all the emergency exits (author’s note: I wonder if Greek restaurants pay more for fire insurance?). The cheese survived the attempt on its life and still managed to remain delicious.
Choosing an entrée was far less dramatic. I opted for the grilled salmon, which is about as traditional as a cheeseburger. The dish came with rice and seasonal veggies. I asked our server if, given my severe allergy to vegetables, he could substitute the greens for more rice. The would-be arsonist obliged. Happens all the time, he said. I remember that my wife ordered chicken and potatoes, since I ate half of it.
What’s most memorable however, was our company. To a soundtrack of bouzouki music and clinking cutlery, the new couple told us about how they eloped. I questioned them on the legitimacy of their elopement, since it was their kids who drove them to the airport. They pulled out a photo album. We saw their smiling faces under a sub-tropical sun, he in his tux and she in her wedding dress. I recalled how, not so long ago, a smile was the last thing I expected to see from him. Their union was a testament to second chances. It hardly mattered if Elvis had performed the ceremony; or Wayne Newton; or if they had chosen one of those drive-thru numbers where you say your I-dos into a clown’s nose. Looking at that album filled us with the joy you feel when good things happen to good people.
My wife and I decided we’d have to do this dinner thing more often. The hard part will be convincing someone else to get married.
