Day two of my Toronto vacation and I’m growing sick of seeing the same tall buildings with the same three businesses below them. If you see an Orange Theory Fitness in your neighbourhood, I’m sorry to break it to you but you don’t live in a real neighbourhood. Luckily, Toronto has a pretty wide network for bike sharing so getting to neighbourhoods that are underserved by public transport (often the coolest ones) cost you only a couple dollars and a couple hundred calories. I met-up with an old friend yesterday and asked him where to go in Toronto that doesn’t look like it was built for shareholders? He suggested I try Koreatown. It’s a stretch along Bloor Street between Christie and Bathurst which hosts several Korean restaurants, clothing shops, and grocers. So I check out a bike using the bike share app and start peddling. As I ride out of the city centre, I notice more and more trees shading me. It’s a such a simple change but it makes the neighbourhood feel more welcoming, more human. The shade is particularly welcoming because the sun is strong today and I’m I can feel my shirt sticking to my back. I see the sign for Bloor and turn right. I’m a little concerned I went the wrong way because all I see are Mexican restaurants. For some reason, I’m reminded of a video from the 1992 LA riots. An armed Korean man defends his store from would be looters. It’s harrowing to watch and I’m sure it was worse to experience. The signs on the businesses quickly change from Spanish to Korean as I progress east. I park my bike and continue on foot, looking for something to eat. A good indicator for me if a restaurant is worth eating at is if I can not read the sign. I see a place across the street with a sign entirely in Korean and walk over. There’s a menu posted in the window half of which is indecipherable to me. Should be perfect. I’m just about to walk in when I hear a woman behind me “Hi. Sorry but would you mind moving over a bit.” I turn around and see a young woman - who was not Korean - with bleach white AirPods in her ears and her phone pointed at the façade. I assume she was taking a picture because the food was so good and she wanted to share it with her friends. So I ask her “Food was really good, eh?” She takes a second to react, someone or something was clearly on the other end of her AirPods. “Oh what? No. My boss owns these buildings and I’m making an investor portfolio for him.“A wave of disgust washes over me and I lose my appetite. I guess the looters don’t need guns anymore.
I decided to keep walking and find somewhere else to eat. I make my way farther east and find a new place with signage also entirely in Korean and walk in. I see a large group of young asian men all seated together. This is another great sign. If it’s good enough for the resident minority group, it’s good enough for me. A smaller asian woman comes to me with the menu. There must be 50 options for rice dishes, 25 options for stews, and 12 options for things with no English translation. Another great sign. The women comes back around and asks if I’m ready to order. I go with the first thing I see, their “famous” pork stew. The woman whisks away the menu and leaves me to my own devices. I’ve been trying to avoid being on my phone when I’m out and instead try and observe what is going on around me. This is an exercise that never disappoints. I look at the walls of the restaurant and see several pictures of children, dressed as seniors, kissing. Some of the photos are black and white and some have become black and white after decades in the harsh sun. The children are also white. The restaurant is also extremely sparse. Everything is made of plastic but gives a relaxed playful affectation. I hear no music playing, only the sound of the men next to me talking to each other. I also hear the two women working in the back yelling at each other in Korean. I feel like I’m just at a friends house and their parents are cooking for me. All great signs. The woman returns with a cart, wheeling my food to me. She places several plates on my table each containing various pickled vegetables. I recognize the kimchi, pickled radishes and some spinach melange. I feel equal parts pride in my culinary knowledge and sadness at all the people who may never experience this. Then she presents the main dish. A large bowl of pork stew, still boiling, in a black ceramic cauldron. It looked like this.
The stew is delicious. The meat is perfectly tender and violently spicy. The sour/sweet vegetable accoutrements make perfect friends with the savoury broth. I notice the group of men next to me have also received their food as we’ve all gone silent. The silence is only interrupted by the occasional sniffle. A small price to pay for love in liquid form. The price of the food itself is in fact quite low. Something only made possible when the rents are reasonable and the produce from the Korean grocer down the street is affordable. It’s an entire ecosystem that thrives, money changes hands, and people’s souls are filled. An ecosystem under attack. I pay for the food and leave a big tip. I know it will never be enough to fight suited parasites but at least it’s one more bullet in the chamber.