Oh, how I love having been born on a long weekend. I think everyone should have a statutory holiday held in celebration of the day of their birth. (To hell with Colonel By, it's all about ME!!!) Every Civic Holiday, you can find me cavorting and lolly gagging about, splurging on good wine, good food and great company. (Not that I really need to splurge on the last part – I have been greatly blessed with so many wonderful friends.)
Thursday was Le Nordik with Pruttah. Friday was pizza and beer, and another screening of P.S. I Love You – Pruttah hadn’t seen it yet, we were all about girly movies just then (much to Hubby’s chagrin) and I never really need another excuse to watch that flick. New fave sappy romance on my list. Helps that Gerard Butler is HOT LUNCH, too.
Saturday we took the Doodle to the market, where we loaded our reusable bags with locally-grown produce and mused about where this fell on the list of Stuff White People Like.
In the afternoon, us grlz did some serious shopping, gushing over new fall outfits, gossiping over vanilla bean lattes and going absolutely, stark-raving MAD in Sears. (If they tell me one more time to come get your FREE GIFT!!!! I think I might have to take a hostage …)
And then we went to Beckta.
I was torn between going with what I knew would be perfection, and trying someplace different but intriguing. I opted for favourites (it is my birthday, after all) and we got all gussied up for an evening at Beckta. As usual, we weren’t disappointed; the service, in particular, is far above any other restaurant I’ve been to. We were treated like gold from the moment we stepped in the door, and spoiled with delicious amuse-bouches and petit-fours before and after the most amazing meal.
I had spicy steak tartare with a poached quail’s egg; seared Quebec duck magret resting on caramelized peaches and nestled in a bed of peaches n’ cream corn risotto; and then I finished off with a salted caramel and dark chocolate tarte accompanied by chocolate panna cotta and this incredible stuff called boca negro, a chewy cake-slash-brownie-slash-fudge drowning in caramel sauce.
Let’s put it this way. If we’d had an “oh my gawd” counter going, it would have been off the charts. OH MY GAWD this bread is amazing. OH MY GAWD this tastes so good. OH MY GAWD can you pass the butter?
Today, we worked off our gluttony with a bike ride down to the Rideau Canal Festival and the Eco-Fair at Confederation Park (which, I’m sure, qualifies as something else us Caucasian folk enjoy from time to time … strolling around looking at hemp soap, solar panels and recycled pop bottle earrings. Tree huggin’ hippy stuff. Good times.) We recovered back at home with a bottle of Lenko Riesling to numb the pain of our seat-worn butts and screaming calves. At least I earned my dinner (even though everybody knows that birthday food - no matter what day it's served on - has zero calories and fat. Neat how that works, eh?)