As I stare into the abyss from the maple leaf lounge at Pearson Airport, I envisage a new adventure, not long after a similar adventure ended in April. Summer passed by so quickly and a first-half report is required. Experiences of the summer employment of my cohorts seem diametrically opposite. For some, the clock ticks slowly in monotonous drudgery. My own experience has been nothing of the sort. It seems inconceivable that summer had only six weeks left and even fewer after this impromptu trip. To extrapolate to full-time, as is the point of the summer internship, anything less would seems unbearable.

Only a year ago, I filled my July days with Summerlicious; this year, what started as only seventeen engagements quickly dwindled down to ten. And although the resto-hopping was indulgent and euphoric, it was truncated by even better gallivants. On a few occasions, sitting in foreign offices, I snapchat home some branded mints. They help me spell the consultancy’s name, though it’s still elusive after the first three letters. Our advisers, collectively, employ several of my friends. I might even get to tell them what to do.

On one occasion, about an oversized mahogany table sat the reunion of the constituents of Queen’s Commerce. Consultants, bankers, corporate lawyers, accountants and regulators. Some of them were native; others were flown in on our dime from Canada. Together they were our eyes and ears. One faceless summer, who didn’t get a seat at the big table, was punishingly cc’ed on all the brainless tasks no one else wanted to do (many of them, mine).

The city itself is a cacophonous, metallic roar. At best, it is ugly. At worst, it is sketchy and dangerous. The poor pedal snacks amidst the unrelenting weave of traffic or accept payment by credit card for drinks along the unending line into the hottest club. The rich dine at three-Michelin star restaurants and frequent art museums and inflate the prices to unaffordable levels.

One restaurant cost $220, which I happily paid. It’s a steal for the highest rated restaurant I have visited. The restaurant is a bastion of luxury, though intimate and nondescript from the outside. The grandiosity is mostly hidden until you flick through the photos online. Waiters attend to every demand, hurriedly, like printing the menu in English, reproduced below. Unfortunately, the culinary prowess is only excellent. Start, for example, with the kiwi cocktail that was so sweet from the honey that the ice cubes had to melt before it became drinkable. The bread, itself over $10, came with a raindrop of garlic, a lump of sour cream and a scoop of butter in a can. For an aperitivo, a perfectly crisp manioc root on luscious butter. The famous shrimp cocktail, as seen in an Anthony Bourdain show with a vinegary cashew sauce had an expertly concocted, spirit-raising freshness – it is probably the best shrimp in the world.

Next, heart of palm, which has the texture of a coarse artichoke purée, was topped with crispy tapioca to complement the sliver of anchovy. The balance in this dish is perfect: one side provides the texture and the other side provides the taste. But it’s mostly downhill from there. The mackerel is overpowered by the sweet honey, not unlike the kiwi drink was. The artichoke risotto, which the waiter in his choppy English explained came from the chef’s local gardens (he’s a botanist and a historian too, apparently) was as expected. And the pork ribs were excessively dry, even overcooked, in tongue-numbing sauce.

July 20, 2013

Tasting Menu

4 courses, $220 CAD

Shrimp, chayote, tamarind and cashew juice

Roasted heart of palm with anchovy

Mackerel, palm and mushrooms sautéed and native honey

Mini-rice with artichoke

Baby pork ribs in Malbec and Bras manioc

Aligot

Nut tart with whisky ice cream curry, chocolate, salt, rocket and pepper.

Before dessert, a final savory indulgence. Aligot, a cheesy mash, like the one I had in Paris, came literally pot to plate and with some spoon theatricals to get there. Finally, dessert. Whisky ice cream with much of the alcohol in-tact, and a whirlpool of chocolate that looks and tastes slightly like a dried date jam, complete the meal. Unfortunately, like the rest of the meal, the first bite is interesting and the next bites turn onerous.

When the day dies and the ugliness is hidden in the night, the city livens. A fleet of cabs transport the well-to-do youth to assemble in tightly packed spaces where newly-formed pairs engage without a word. Apparently, the partying is better than that in New York. The line-ups continue at the 24-hour bakery, where freshly-squeezed juices are spiked with ginger. Hung-over food is best at the local market, where the famous Italian sausage sandwiches are had with local beer.

I have since returned to Toronto, leaving behind the hectic new world with but one month to spare until a final return to Kingston. And although the first two years of commerce moved like molasses, the third year has come and gone in a blink. It has been a year of academic success (at Queen’s) and failure (at ESCP), and one of new experiences in every corner of the world. This blog is often depressing because the world is often depressing. This year has been an exception.