There is only one this that is better than my friends. And that is brunch with my friends. Well, basically, it’s like lunch for me because they all sleep in until, like, 9am on the weekends, so I have to wait around and wait and wait until they get their crap together.
We have a couple usual spots, but our favourite is The George Street Diner at 129 George Street at Richmond.
We started going there because it is owned and run by our favourite wait staff person ever, who used to work at the Senator, but left to start up her own place. And how fabulous it is. Classic diner food with a twist.
|where the magic happens.|
|Mmm. Delicious food items.|
Check out their Blog for specials and whatnot. No nudity so far.
Ash, the owner, is small and Irish. That’s all you really need to know about her.
Oh, and she can swear like a trucker.
|"Heck" she says.|
She’s probably the only person I will ever forgive for liking The Doors. That’s right. If you like The Doors, it’s just not on, ok? You and me? Not gonna happen. She is tiny, but I wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley. She’d probably be able to scramble all over me like a spider monkey and stab me with tiny Irish swords. For that is what the Irish do. Or so I am told.
She has, so it happens, the most infectious and charming accent. It takes ALL OF MY WILL to not lapse into a horrible Irish accent when she talks to us. Sometimes, I can’t control it. It’s pretty hard to stop myself. She looks at me like I’m brain damaged. With pity, but also some measure of disgust.
The usual suspects at brunch are myself, Ryan and Peter, Megan and sometimes Jane. Sometimes Bettina will join us if she is able to drag herself away from her weekend Flashdance marathons. Never could figure out what she likes about that movie. Once in awhile Sarah will come, too, but not enough for my liking.
|Sarah was in Montreal that weekend.|
I often order the poached eggs with home made Irish soda bread (You. Will. Die).
|Last piece of soda bread. I ate it fast. With marmalade.|
Megan likes her pancakes. Ryan goes for the Irish breakfast with Belfast ham. Peter usually gets yogurt and Irish soda bread. Bettina brings her own breakfast from home because she’s German and thinks that no brunch place makes buns and meats for brunch. She likes buns and meats. She misses Germany.
|Megan's fattoush salad|
|Ryan's fattoush salad is more cheerful than is Megan's.|
|a stranger let me take a picture of her mac and cheese. She asked for bacon with it!|
|my pear and beet salad with goat cheese.|
|a stranger's grilled cheese.|
The place is frequented by hipster douche-bags and aging hipster douche-bags like me and my friends. The ubiquitous guy with 5 o’clock shadow (at 11am) and glasses with black plastic frames. His girlfriend/partner/wife with dyed red hair and a knit cap with a flower on it. There are normal people, too.
|portrait of Ryan in the light of brunch. His glasses are not douchie.|
|some bitch loves her coffee|
|Ash with freshly made blackberry jam that she makes for the diner. I'm not sure if she sells it or not. If she does, she will run out when I want some.|
|Megan samples the jam. She gives her approval by stamping her foot 4 times like a horse that can count.|
So go. Tell Ash I sent you. And tell her in a bad Irish accent. She LOVES that.