Bloorp.

When I encounter a restaurant that offers a completely unrealistic eating challenge, I can’t help but wonder what deluded masochist would be so ready, willing and able to tackle ungodly amounts of food.

Then along came my cousin Mark.

Mark, he of steak and Jell-O-filled plates. He whose sky-high piled meals cause  paper plates to literally bend under the weight of the food. With his boundless energy and active lifestyle, he manages to keep a trim figure — one look and you’d never guess he could eat his weight in food.

Last month, he came pretty damn close.

It was his sister Kris’s birthday and a bunch of us gathered at RealSports Bar and Grill, where we discovered The Hail Mary on the menu:



That’s right: 67 oz steak. One pound of fries. One pound of coleslaw. One hour.

It began as a joke. He even dared to utter the phrase, “I’ve always wanted to try that.” But as the jokes progressed, they soon become, well, not jokes at all.

Then he spoke the inevitable words: “I’m gonna do it.”

We weren’t sure if he was serious, but he shut his menu with such conviction that we knew he’d made up his mind.

“DON’T DO IT!!!” cried Kris, arms outstretched.

He wouldn’t listen. It would take an hour and a half for the steak to cook, meaning he had an hour and a half to mentally prepare himself. (And you can bet there are pictures…)

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I’ve lost count of the times that people my age — and younger — have already whined profusely about “getting so old.”

What is it about age that is so upsetting? Or maybe the more accurate question is, when did it become fashionable to complain about getting old? I know I’m not counting down the days until I can justifiably whine about counting down the days to my oh-so-fast-approaching old age.

Two months ago, I celebrated another year being tacked on to my life and I embraced every second. Matt took me to a cute French restaurant in one of the most unexpected areas of Toronto where we feasted on garlicky escargot, hearty cassoulet and to cap off the evening, a plate of a puffy profiteroles trio…

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There’s something about vague fortune cookie fortunes that always make me feel stuff.

Snapped at Kom Jug Yuen Restaurant  in Toronto Chinatown.

Please draw your attention to this pizza slice.

I came to this revelation when I entered New York City’s Little Italy Pizza, which was, um, not in Little Italy. In disbelief, as if I couldn’t believe my own eyes,  I asked the man behind the counter, “Is that a spaghetti and meatballs pizza?!”

And when he responded, “It sure is,” I knew immediately that this was the slice waiting for someone like me to come along and give it a good home.

Allow me to reiterate: a spaghetti & meatballs pizza. It should come as no surprise to anyone that this did not last long.

As my friend Kate pointed out, “That’s such an E-Claire thing to eat.”

These arrived for me at work the other day, and I have to say: it’s not the first time a friend has given me trainer chopsticks as a gag gift.

Because, you see, I don’t know how to use chopsticks. Which baffles many people in my life, except Matt, who has long accepted that I simply refuse to learn.

It sounds irrational—and it is—but I cannot begin to describe the copious amounts of amusement I derive from my lack of chopstick-wielding prowess.

Perhaps the best example I can offer is when we’re at an Asian restaurant and I ask the server, “Can we get a fork?” purposely not specifying the recipient of said fork.

One of two things usually happens: the server will either bring two forks, or hand the fork to an embarrassed Matt. He’s since learned to snatch the nearest pair of chopsticks, then make a big show out of using them when the server arrives, to illustrate that he is very clearly not the one who needs the fork.

That scenario alone is reason enough to stay ignorant.

The last time a friend tried to teach me, he watched with a horrified expression, declaring it was, “The most grotesque thing I’ve ever seen.”

I’m sure I’ll learn. Eventually. When all the world’s forks have suddenly become nonexistent and chopsticks are my absolute last resort.

Until then, I’ll be adding these pictured trainers to the collection I never intended on having.

By request, I am posting this picture: my first tornado potato.

I went to The Ex with my pal Duncan last summer, where we made many unsuccessful attempts at various midway games that resulted in significantly lighter wallets. We decided to punish reward ourselves with some artery-clogging delicacies.

I’d heard tell of the tornado potato and upon first glance, decided it must be consumed at once — with a silly face, no doubt.

In the words of food lovers around the world: Om nom nom.

A serving of emu carpaccio from Eight Mile Creek, an Australian restaurant in New York, complete with a bed of rocket, black truffle vinaigrette and edamame. Squeeze a fresh lemon wedge over the whole thing and let the flavours mingle deliciously on your tongue, then happily in your stomach.

Mmm, Colombian ceviche… *insert drool here*

A typical lunch in Cartagena. This was our midday meal on Baru Island, where I encountered Gerard the crab.

The fish doesn’t get fresher than this—grilled on an open flame to flaky perfection, served with a little coleslaw, mouth-watering coconut rice and ubiquitous fried plantains. This Colombia trip saw me consuming more plantains in a week than in the last five years.

But I could happily eat a meal like this every day. And for the week we spent in Cartagena, I eagerly ate such a meal just about every day, savouring every bite knowing that it would probably be a long time before fish this fresh would once again delight my taste buds.

Snapped in the old walled city in Cartagena.

Do not disturb the ones who are busy enjoying their authentic American Broasted Chicken in Colombia. Or, as my friend n0wak would say, “ROASTED BY BROS.”