mjj (flemmings) wrote,

Local natter

Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Fiesta has party sandwiches now. More than cake-- to which I have extremely little resistance-- party sandwiches are my downfall. The only thing that stops me from bingeing on them is that one has to go to Fiesta to get them (a hike in these crippled days, even if they're only two blocks away), and they cost an arm and a leg ($10 for four pinwheels and six fingers), and they don't do mix and match. So you get chicken party sandwiches or egg party sandwiches or tuna party sandwiches but not all together. But I shall be hard put to avoid them on my every ten day shops.

Though the last time they had these, from a different supplier, the cashier told me they couldn't keep them in stock because if customers didn't buy them, the staff did-- and then after a month, no more party sandwiches. OTOH Fiesta's other sandwiches are made in-store, and maybe they used to make the party ones themselves but found them too labour intensive.

Since joining a neighbourhood FB group I keep seeing entries about bikes being stolen in broad daylight (also of exhibitionists on Palmerston and knife fights at KFC: never thought Seaton Village was so criminal.) So once again I must hump the bike up the stairs every time I use it. Though it occurred to me last night, when I went out to do just that, that with the black rain cover on, the thing is practically invisible in my shaded front garden with its two trees. Still, safe than sorry.

To be honest I've been waiting thirty-some years for thieves and burglars to come to my area. The criminal demarcation line was always Manning Ave, the next street east of me. Past Manning there were always break-ins and mandatory alarm systems, because east of Manning was yuppies and UofT professors and open concept renovations and houses that, though small, screamed money. But from Manning westwards it was all Italian overwrought iron and tomato plants in the front yard and Nonna and Nonno sitting on the front porch all day and nothing of technological value inside. So definite was the cultural divide that the film producer owner of the house at the corner of Manning and Palmerston Gardens, which I rented with friends in the mid-80s, petitioned the city to change the address from 867 Manning, which was the front door, to 59 Palmerston Gardens, which was the back, becaue 'Palmerston Gardens' had so much more cachet. (Equally Yarmouth Rd., the first street north of me, suddenly turns into Yarmouth Gardens on the other side of Manning. I mean, Yarmouth Rd was good enough for Meghan Markle, but not for our professional types.)

But now the Italians are all but gone and the houses sell for over a million, and the new owners renovate the shit out of them or rebuild completely, so I guess we're sitting ducks.
Tags: food, place

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