Thanks, Hip Grandma
For the HH, an ideal weekend comprises sleeping in, lazing around on the couch for a bit and then thinking about food. Me, I like to get things done and plan my time. When I lived on my own, I’d wake up at 6:30 AM every day of the week, including Saturday and Sunday (alas, those days are long gone).
So for us, Sunday mornings are the compromise when we both get something we want. He: no food prep, no dishes to wash, no kitchen cleanup (basically, no work). She: getting out into the world, seeing other humans, being part of the buzz of civilization (such as it is these days).
When I think about brunch-specific restaurants, two places spring to mind.
First is Chez Cora, the Quebec institution that originated there. It was founded by Cora herself, a single mum who needed a means to support herself and her kids while still being available to them after school. As a result, Cora’s closes at 3:00 pm (even today, when Cora Tsouflidou herself is long retired).
Called Cora’s Breakfast and Lunch in the rest of Canada, it used to be a choice spot for all manner of egg dishes, home fries, abundant fresh fruit garnishes, and, the pièce de résistance for those in La Belle Provence, cretons (or pork paté, a breakfast staple among French Canadians).
For decades, Cora’s was THE place to go for early breakfast or brunch. In fact, I have many fond memories of the HH and I spending dozens of garrulous mornings there with my dad and sisters, sharing a meal and hugs goodbye before we hit the highway on our way back to Toronto (this in the days when we visited Montreal on the regular).
Nowadays, however, the story is a little different: like so many businesses-turned-franchise, Cora’s seems to have morphed into something barely a step above fast food, offering industrial-style meals that have lost their enticement (at least, to me).
The second brunch association that pops up for me is a place called Mildred Pierce.
Have you seen the film noir of the same name? Mildred Pierce was a knockout hit at the time of its release in 1945, and Joan Crawford nabbed an Academy Award for Best Actress in the titular role. The story revolves around Mildred, a divorceé who opens a restaurant to support herself and her two girls. Intrigue ensues (I won’t spoil it for you in case you haven’t seen it), with many twists and turns along the way, leading to a gasp-inducing ending.
In my early days here in Toronto, there was an acclaimed brunch spot in the west end named after the movie. Housed in a nondescript, old industrial building, you’d easily miss it if you didn’t already know it was there.
Once inside, you felt as if floating through a dreamy, two-tiered space with an ornate, Renaissance vibe. The dimly-lit, opulently-decorated dining room featured antique furnishings, mismatched china dishes and teacups, gilded busts and pedestals strewn around with diaphanous golden drapes suspended from the ceiling and trailing on the floor (and which, on more than one occasion, got caught under the leg of my chair).
Along with their innovative omelets and other brunch fare, I was also entirely enchanted by the buttermilk scones (ah, the days when I could ingest gluten with abandon!). When I think of excellent brunch and ambience, I think of Mildred Pierce (the restaurant, though the movie wasn’t too shabby in that realm, either). Sadly, the place closed several years ago, to be replaced by a more upscale version in a new location.
In more recent years as we’ve, shall we say, “matured,” the HH and I have come to appreciate a solid, old-fashioned brunch locale. After experimenting with a different restaurant and menu each week for several months, we’ve now settled on just a few favorites that we cycle through each weekend.
One of these is a bakery-style cafe that serves hefty omelets (my personal fave is the spinach and goat cheese, but I’ll order the smoked salmon in a pinch), offering endless cups of coffee (for the HH) or green tea (for me) and old-fashioned bagels (or, in my case, new-fashioned, gluten-free bagels).
While the setting is admittedly a little cramped and bustling, we do appreciate the food, which still feels like it’s fashioned from actual eggs and potatoes rather than some kind of liquid mix or pre-seasoned, frozen spuds.
A couple of weeks ago, as we attempted to enjoy our meal and still hear each other above the din of the crowd, I couldn’t help but notice the couple sitting beside me.
The young man was clearly in his early 20s, with the tousled hair and facial stubble of a university student on Christmas break. Dressed in a powder blue sweatshirt and jeans, he chowed down on a huge BLT (in this case, “bagel, lettuce and tomato, the cafe’s version of the classic). He appeared entranced by his companion as they engaged in a lively conversation punctuated by laughter and the occasional tap on the hand from across the table.
His table-mate, on the other hand, was dressed to the nines in a multi-colored sweater with gold stitching around the collar and hem. She wore a massive gold (clearly faux metal) pendant at the end a black bead necklace and large gold hoop earrings. With spiky, cropped grey hair, she appeared to be in her late 70s or early 80s.
Given the generational difference, I immediately assumed this was a grandson visiting with his grandmother over the holidays. I began to construct all kinds of reasons for the brunch date: was he regaling her with stories about his studies? Or asking for advice about his new girlfriend? Or maybe asking for more information about her new boyfriend?
Whatever the reason for the meeting, they were clearly enjoying each other’s company; this was no obligatory visit with Grandma. The conversation was animated, punctuated with the occasional laughter and even a guffaw or two. At one point, the young man pulled out his phone to show his grandmother photos of–what? The new girlfriend? His apartment?--and she inspected every image carefully, as if the phone contained classified documents only she could approve.
Of course, I did my best not to eavesdrop (it was too noisy to hear their actual words anyway), and tried not to stare. But I was intrigued by by the obvious bond between them and how much they enjoyed each other’s company. And–not gonna lie–it warmed my heart to see someone so young be genuinely interested in a grandparent, with such respectful and positive energy exchanged between them.
As the HH and I got up to leave and I pulled on my jacket, I couldn’t help but notice a bright fuschia streak in her hair, like a slash of lightning through a field of autumn grass.
I leaned over and smiled. “I love your hair,” I said.
As she turned toward me, I saw that the frames of her glasses were the same hot pink.
“Well, you can have it, too,” she said, smiling broadly.
I nodded. “I guess I could,” I said.
Hip Grandma was clearly enjoying her pink hair. As well as every other aspect of being alive.
I left the restaurant with a comfortable warmth in my belly, much more than the result of ingesting a good meal. It was the sense that when it comes to seeking contentment in life, Hip Grandma had the right idea.
So often, we believe it’s the big things in life that will make us happy. But what if it’s more along the lines of a streak of pink hair? That level of happiness is certainly attainable for most of us.
It comes down to this: if you want pink hair, get pink hair. Maybe even some glasses to match. Who cares what your “age” says you should look like, or wear? Who cares whether strangers in a cafe judge you?
Since that Sunday, I think of pink hair as a symbol for embracing what really matters in life. Frivolous haircolor, just for fun. Enjoying the moment. Basking in animated conversion, laughter, and the love in your grandson’s eyes.
In fact, I’ve converted it into a verb: “I think we should pink hair that party.” Or “Hey, let’s pink hair the weekend.” Or “My dog walks need to be pink haired.”
Thanks, Hip Grandma, for reminding me that pink hair is simple, and it’s for everyone.
Because, why not?
********************
As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!
*******************
I have always wanted to zebra stripe my dog, who is black, but the wife disapproves.