It would be impossible for me to speak about Almonte without mentioning the Superior Restaurant. It was the first restaurant I visited when I began working in Almonte (that is, apart from the Mississippi Golf Club in Appleton where Mike Galligan, Alan Sheffield and I had met to discuss the possibility of my employment). And I quite distinctly remember that when I walked through the door of the Superior and took my place at the counter (which I am wont to do particularly when I am eating alone), I was greeted by the very friendly face of Mrs. Gladys Currie. “Gladdy”, as she is popularly known, is probably the senior waitress at the “Soup” (as the restaurant is called), and she continues to work there to this day, though a less rigorous schedule. Gladys is good for business, not only because she is cheerful and constantly bubbling, but she positively encourages people to enjoy the pleasures of the restaurant, which for me meant the raisin pie (after having had soup and a sandwich). This was the beginning of a life-long love affair with the Soup:
Although the repetitious nature of my daily life may seem to be a paralyzing tedium, I do not look at it like that. Every morning I have some trouble getting out of bed, but once I have finished my shower, it’s not without a degree of gusto that I take off for the Superior Restaurant for breakfast; and it is there that the “front street” businessmen congregate. A good deal of the conversation centres around rather robust jokes (or, more accurately, poor excuses for them!). August 28, 1979.
Over the years, our regular breakfast and coffee clatch has become almost something by which to time the clocks. I and others invariably arrive within minutes of 8:30 a.m.; and, if any one of us is late or early, the others in the restaurant want to know what’s wrong or where is he. The other regulars who meet at the same time include John Kerry, Nick Magus, Bruce Monteith, Bernie Costello, Garry Davis, Ross Taggart, Lynden Somerton, and formerly Mervyn Munro, Doug Stewart and the late Fred Roy (who continues to this day to be famous for his excellent jokes, none of which was ever bawdy). We have the routine down to such a point that we all even sit in the same place in the six-person booth (and there is a marked displeasure if any people “from out of town” take the liberty of invading our “reserved” area - it positively throws the whole morning for all of us!). Depending upon when one arrives, the customary seating arrangement can entail the movement en masse of everyone on one side of the booth, complete with protestations about who has to leave soon, feigning the dipping of one’s thumb in someone else’s coffee, complaints about the mess and honey on the table someone else has left, etc. While we occasionally exchange less than charitable words about an absent member of the clan, the fact is plain that we all enjoy the mosaic of personalities of the members of the morning coffee club. It is also true that each of us has heard every joke the other knows at least one thousand times, but, in keeping with the general friendly disposition of the crowd, no one stops one of the members from repeating himself, and we all join in a happy laugh about it. Our reaction to these old jokes is in fact quite Pavlovian, to the point where we don’t even have to hear the joke, just parts of the punch line, and the same reaction is elicited without fail. The quick eye of Nick Magus has provided affirmation that our stories, though apparently told in the complete confidence of the booth (and at times in a hushed voice), are in fact nothing short of public fodder for other nearby members of the restaurant, including the numerous ladies and family members who regularly congregate in their own customary seats in the same part of the restaurant each morning. It has not infrequently happened that after someone has told a particularly bawdy joke, I have been astounded to look up and see the smiling face of some “proper” lady in the distance who is undoubtedly sharing the same joke with us. And then there are those like Ross Taggart (the Surveyor) who make a career of advertising his knowledge of the most popular vulgarity known to North American society. But nobody seems to mind.
Although the repetitious nature of my daily life may seem to be a paralyzing tedium, I do not look at it like that. Every morning I have some trouble getting out of bed, but once I have finished my shower, it’s not without a degree of gusto that I take off for the Superior Restaurant for breakfast; and it is there that the “front street” businessmen congregate. A good deal of the conversation centres around rather robust jokes (or, more accurately, poor excuses for them!). August 28, 1979.
Over the years, our regular breakfast and coffee clatch has become almost something by which to time the clocks. I and others invariably arrive within minutes of 8:30 a.m.; and, if any one of us is late or early, the others in the restaurant want to know what’s wrong or where is he. The other regulars who meet at the same time include John Kerry, Nick Magus, Bruce Monteith, Bernie Costello, Garry Davis, Ross Taggart, Lynden Somerton, and formerly Mervyn Munro, Doug Stewart and the late Fred Roy (who continues to this day to be famous for his excellent jokes, none of which was ever bawdy). We have the routine down to such a point that we all even sit in the same place in the six-person booth (and there is a marked displeasure if any people “from out of town” take the liberty of invading our “reserved” area - it positively throws the whole morning for all of us!). Depending upon when one arrives, the customary seating arrangement can entail the movement en masse of everyone on one side of the booth, complete with protestations about who has to leave soon, feigning the dipping of one’s thumb in someone else’s coffee, complaints about the mess and honey on the table someone else has left, etc. While we occasionally exchange less than charitable words about an absent member of the clan, the fact is plain that we all enjoy the mosaic of personalities of the members of the morning coffee club. It is also true that each of us has heard every joke the other knows at least one thousand times, but, in keeping with the general friendly disposition of the crowd, no one stops one of the members from repeating himself, and we all join in a happy laugh about it. Our reaction to these old jokes is in fact quite Pavlovian, to the point where we don’t even have to hear the joke, just parts of the punch line, and the same reaction is elicited without fail. The quick eye of Nick Magus has provided affirmation that our stories, though apparently told in the complete confidence of the booth (and at times in a hushed voice), are in fact nothing short of public fodder for other nearby members of the restaurant, including the numerous ladies and family members who regularly congregate in their own customary seats in the same part of the restaurant each morning. It has not infrequently happened that after someone has told a particularly bawdy joke, I have been astounded to look up and see the smiling face of some “proper” lady in the distance who is undoubtedly sharing the same joke with us. And then there are those like Ross Taggart (the Surveyor) who make a career of advertising his knowledge of the most popular vulgarity known to North American society. But nobody seems to mind.
Lest it appear that the “overhearing” is one-sided, I recall having taken my mother to the Soup for lunch one day. We were seated in a booth, quietly examining the menus, and could not help but overhear a conversation between two gentlemen at a nearby (though not adjacent) booth. One of the men apparently lived in the country with two women. When his friend asked him how he felt about this situation, the first fellow replied, “I feel a bit like a gopher; I’m either lying in a hole or next to one!”. Mother was shocked!
It is no secret to any one of us who daily visits the Soup like cattle to the watering hole, that by far the greatest attraction is the comfort we derive from one another's company. This comfort level did not come easily, however; it is grounded in a reasonably profound appreciation of the personality of one another. We have begun to read one another's minds much the same way one no doubt learns to read the mind of one's brother or sister after a while. It is not a preoccupation with any one of us, but it is an inescapable fact, an accident of prolonged association. For example, I recall the day that Richard Alexander, one of the Managers of the Bank of Montreal, while passing our booth took the liberty of helping himself to one of four pieces of bacon off my plate. The other boys at the table knew instantly that this was nothing short of criminal, even though my ostensible reaction (as seen by Richard no doubt) was merely humourous. On a different level, we have learned to see the deeper character of one another. John Kerry, for example, has established himself not only as the senior businessman in Town (over forty-five years) by sheer effort and perseverance, but also as a true leader in the community by his good and giving nature. He quite astounded me one day over breakfast when, after the rest of us had hit a lull in our combined attack upon someone, he announced innocently, “Well, he has his good faults!”. John has been knick-named “The Godfather”, and he lives up to his reputation. His large family and extensive business interests have been the subject of much interest to, and gentle gibes from, all of us in this Town. For my part, I shall never forget the encouragement which John gave to me when I first came to Town. He assured me that if I were to practice on my own, he would support me; and, he and his family have done that for over twenty-three years.
The Soup has also provided me with a refuge from the office when I have been working late at nights, too weak to take the trouble to travel the couple of kilometres home to prepare a dinner. Usually, I have been able to find a secluded table, which is large enough to permit me to lay out my books and notes for further examination and intellectual pursuit while waiting for my meal. Invariably, I take “out-of-town” visitors to the Soup for dinner. It is a comfortable environment, and the waitresses are accustomed to spoiling the “regulars” like me. If one wishes to dine in a comparatively more “classy” ambience, one can retreat from the front part of the restaurant to the (relatively) newly constructed posterior section, which houses an area complete with red carpet and matching red “leather” chairs (with arms, no less).
It is no secret to any one of us who daily visits the Soup like cattle to the watering hole, that by far the greatest attraction is the comfort we derive from one another's company. This comfort level did not come easily, however; it is grounded in a reasonably profound appreciation of the personality of one another. We have begun to read one another's minds much the same way one no doubt learns to read the mind of one's brother or sister after a while. It is not a preoccupation with any one of us, but it is an inescapable fact, an accident of prolonged association. For example, I recall the day that Richard Alexander, one of the Managers of the Bank of Montreal, while passing our booth took the liberty of helping himself to one of four pieces of bacon off my plate. The other boys at the table knew instantly that this was nothing short of criminal, even though my ostensible reaction (as seen by Richard no doubt) was merely humourous. On a different level, we have learned to see the deeper character of one another. John Kerry, for example, has established himself not only as the senior businessman in Town (over forty-five years) by sheer effort and perseverance, but also as a true leader in the community by his good and giving nature. He quite astounded me one day over breakfast when, after the rest of us had hit a lull in our combined attack upon someone, he announced innocently, “Well, he has his good faults!”. John has been knick-named “The Godfather”, and he lives up to his reputation. His large family and extensive business interests have been the subject of much interest to, and gentle gibes from, all of us in this Town. For my part, I shall never forget the encouragement which John gave to me when I first came to Town. He assured me that if I were to practice on my own, he would support me; and, he and his family have done that for over twenty-three years.
The Soup has also provided me with a refuge from the office when I have been working late at nights, too weak to take the trouble to travel the couple of kilometres home to prepare a dinner. Usually, I have been able to find a secluded table, which is large enough to permit me to lay out my books and notes for further examination and intellectual pursuit while waiting for my meal. Invariably, I take “out-of-town” visitors to the Soup for dinner. It is a comfortable environment, and the waitresses are accustomed to spoiling the “regulars” like me. If one wishes to dine in a comparatively more “classy” ambience, one can retreat from the front part of the restaurant to the (relatively) newly constructed posterior section, which houses an area complete with red carpet and matching red “leather” chairs (with arms, no less).
The bottom line for me, however, with the Soup is breakfast. Ever since I can remember, whether at boarding school, at university residence, law school or Osgoode Hall, I have always enjoyed my breakfast. And I can say without a moment's hesitation that the breakfast at the Soup is the best I have had anywhere in the world. For the first few years that I put on the fed bag each morning at the Soup, I simply accepted the plate at the table as it had been prepared for me. However, as my interest in transferring the eggs from the plate onto a piece of toast began to wane with time, I invited the cooking staff to do this for me in the kitchen, and I understand that now it is not only I, but other visitors to the restaurant, who have “Bill's Breakfast”, prepared a la carte so to speak!
One of the other places I frequented at this time for breakfast was the Party Palace in Ottawa, where I spent most of my weekends:
On both Saturday morning and this morning, I had breakfast at the Party Palace on Elgin Street in Ottawa. This restaurant used to be a great place to go about six years ago. Then, it was a regular greasy spoon, and all the waiters and the owner bordered on insanity. Now, the place has become somewhat sterile, under new management, it’s clean, and there isn’t that fat fast-order cook with the filthy apron. However, there is one compensating factor: the waitresses are singularly stupid, and this makes ordering the most standard fare synonymous with teaching them to play chess. The food isn’t all that bad, and they try hard. I wish we had a place around here like The Bagel in Toronto, where the staff talk in loud voices to one another behind the counter, and all the customers can listen to all the recent gossip, how late the daughter stayed out on Yonge Street last night, et cetera. Even Moishe’s (Smith) place is not quite like that, although it certainly has the best flair in Ottawa. In fact, I can hardly complain, because Freda (Smith) paid for my lunch there yesterday. September 16, 1979.
Even when I travelled down south in Key West, I always made it out of the hotel compound for breakfast. The entire culture that surrounds breakfast is exciting for me; the smell of bacon and coffee in the early morning air, being freshly washed and dressed, possibly (usually) having a cigarette to look forward to, exchanging cheery “hellos” with the morning crowd, being thankful for another day, not to mention the general hunger that seems to possess me after a night’s sleep. As Louis Audette used to say, “The beast must be fed in the morning.” Which also meant that attempting anything else requiring civility before having fed the beast was next to impossible, if not in fact downright dangerous, as some unsuspecting Clients of mine have discovered.
In fairness to the menu at the Soup, I feel compelled to add that the other meal (of the “diner” sort) which I enjoy very much is my not-so-regular-but-always-delightful Friday lunch of pea soup and plain turkey sandwich with lettuce and mayonnaise. Once when my father was visiting me at the office on a Friday, I brought back a turkey sandwich for him. He had just had a small heart attack and was very conscious about what he was eating, so when I told him the sandwich had mayonnaise on it, he flatly turned it down. So I suggested he simply remove the lettuce and mayonnaise, which he did, and he then confirmed that the sandwich was in fact very nice indeed. And, apart from a small bit of meat which he shared with Monroe (my dog), he devoured the rest of the sandwich without further objection.
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