This Column is Not Satire: A Very Very Big-Time Serious Column About Important Issues That Affect Everyone, Even You

Yesternight, dear reader, I was absolutely astounded to find not a single eatery open in our dear city of Guelph, Ontario. We may be an agricultural capital, and it is a well accepted fact that if one ate today, one simply must thank a farmer, yet I had no farmers to thank this night, reader. Not a single smallholder or lone landowner! My night began thusly:

After a grueling day of significant socializing, cocktailing, chin-wagging, and elbow-adjacentry with many of this city’s most talked-about magnates and intellectuals — I shant’nt name their names, but suffice to say that you’ve heard of them — I found myself in desperate need of food-fortification. It was a Tuesday evening, and my Range Rover was having it’s Rovers rearranged, as it were. Surely Uber was an option, but I learned long ago that hired help must be vigorously vetted and scrupulously screened. It was then that I remembered the Public Transit system. A quaint mode of transport used by the masses, and one that was sure to ensure me an experience of the true culture of this town. It is as Pulp themselves once wrote. I wanted to live like common people. Indeed I did want to do whatever common people do. Once safely aboard, I lay delicately reclined over several of the unoccupied seats within the vehicle. Speaking in what I assumed was the local accent, I asked someone to move so that I could stretch out a bit more comfortably. When they did indeed move, I slipped a tuppence of coin into their hand as a simple but effective thank you. Charity is more than just the name of my second husband’s third stepdaughter. It’s a way of living.

Now reader, I admit that I was not certain what I wanted my dining experience to be. You know the feeling, I’m sure. It is late at night, your serving team has gone home to their assorted bungalows and walkups for the evening, so now you haven’t so much as a sommelier at hand to assist you in your night-time nourishment! This night in particular it was getting quite late, and I don’t like to eat late (as it can disturb the congenial workings of my already delicate digestion), but as I say, I was indeed ravenous. Something simple was all I needed. Perhaps Moules et Frites, I reasoned, or something else French-ish; not fancy, just whatever one might find in any old classic Parisian boîte. I decided to open myself to the locals, to learn liberally from their scrappy, salt-of-the-earth lifestyles. But dear reader, these particular locals shied away from me like a modest mare from a debutante attempting her debut debutage. It currently became clear that it was my air of cultured sophistication. Don’t be intimidated by these clothes, I said, after standing up gracefully and taking one of my fellow passengers by the hand: Yes, I did buy this tweed suit in Paris and yes it is vintage, I told her as I gently patted her hand, but that doesn’t mean we cannot commune together. The bus driver, who I might add was a brutish and bestial man, asked—no, demanded — that I get off the bus, claiming that I was “belligerent” and had “clearly been drinking.” I pointed out that he was in need of under-eye-cream, and offered to get him in touch with my dermatological life-coach Sufjan Petticoat-Jones. My generosity was not returned, dear reader. Not even close.

While walking the rest of the way into town I saw some of this city’s most charming architecture, including Ponyboy Vapes (surely a literary homage to S. E. Hinton herself), and in the distance, the Basilica of Our Lady Immaculate — which is, of course, what I call my mother. I also saw two skunks.

The first restaurant I came upon was a charming nouveau-americano establishment that I believe is locally owned and sourced. It had a very modern, dare I say, even pop-art inspired sign out front and was advertising a delightful late-night menu of something called McTasters™. The Scots are known for their hearty culinary creations, and I do love anything beginning with a patronymic prefix. I was Shocked, reader, truly shocked, to discover that the dining room was closed! I mean, I know times are tough for some people, but closed? It did have a quaint ordering window around the back that seemed to be open, and I thought I could go one night without silverware and linens. I do have a cottage estate in the Muskokas, so roughing it was not out of my wheelhouse. After all, the Muskoka estate has only one footman and a part-time chef. This little window was obviously inspired by the Food Truck fad that is all the rage in Toronto, London, and LA (the locations of my three summer homes), and it seemed enticingly rustic. If my footman and part-time personal chef could see me now, I thought!

My high was short lived, reader. I shudder thinking of it even now. They would not serve me! I have never been so scandalized in my whole life, except for maybe once, earlier than night when my personage, already on the verge of collapse from hunger and fatigue, was thrown so unceremoniously from that city bus. But here again, I was being thrown! Quite literally, the server, with their words, literally threw me aside as if I was an old copy of The Economist in a dentist’s office. “Get out of the laneway,” they screamed. “This is for cars only!” I don’t know who I should complain to, but when I find out… they called me all sorts of horrible names and even threatened to call the police, when all I did was try to order a selection of their artfully crafted culinary creations and then throw a small rock, really just a pebble, at their hideous little window after being rejected so uncouthly.

I centered myself using an ancient meditation technique taught to me by Sufjan Petticoat-Jones himself. (I’d repeat it here, but I’m afraid you’d all owe my dear Sufjan $850 for the privilege). And I continued into town.

Reader, imagine my growing horror when I found that the next three dining establishments I passed were all closed. I had already resigned myself to the realization that any chance of getting mussels was out the door, but now I was staring down the long barrel of the possibility that I’d be unable to get anything at all. Guelph, a thriving metropolis, and not a single restaurant open! It was barely 2 am and for a Tuesday night, I figured there must be something, something! My god, I’d settle for a seasonal tasting menu and a martini made with plastic-bottled vodka, at the very least!

For hours I walked, until finally, around 2:30 am, I came upon what would be my savior. I won’t say the name, because this particular eatery had one of the crassest names I have ever heard. Yes, we all know Prune in the east village (which I have been to) was bad, given the unappealing image of the shriveled laxatives it conjures in the mind, but this was even worse. I shall simply call it Corpulent Illegitimate-Child Tex-Mex Wraps. Well reader, what it lacked in name it more than made up for by the sheer outstanding audacity of it even being open! I ordered for myself one hand-crafted “Huge Tequila Lime Chicken Burrito,” made-to-order with rice, beans, and the chef’s choice of finishings, and after taking several Imodium, I stared in on what was truly some exceptional cuisine.