I wake up in a blur of light; one more night of less than four hours. My eyes still swirl with the kaleidoscope of stars, what carried me through last night’s insomnia. Coffee spiked with Pumpkin liqueur wakes me, as I sit in a cocoon of my comforter and fuzzy blanket and watching grainy bugs bunny cartoons. My phone blinks with a scattering of mixed message, including a chain from the Opaque Dancer, I send a reply, and by the time I’m done my cup, we’ve made plans for a breakfast of dim sum.
Climbing the three steps to the broad, open dining hall that is Dim Sum King, I’m still shivering from the cold leeching through my coat. I sit near the window, clutching my cup of scalding green tea until the Dancer appears at my shoulder. She’s swaddled in full winter garb, apparel I should probably start mimicking. I’m still holding onto the last vestiges of autumn, begging the last, tired leaves to stay aloft on their branches for one more week.
Carts trundle behind my back, and soon our heavy tablecloth is scattered with an assortment of baskets. Shrimp dumplings, minced pork and peanut in tidy, semi-translucent bundles. The dish of curry cuddlefish was a bit more rubbery today than the tender yellow morsels I’ve come to expect. First one, then another basket of siu mai, each delicious bundle of pork and shrimp tied in a dainty yellow package, garnished with a soft red bean. The pan fired dumplings were large, but their flavours slid right by without leaving an impression; what meat was mixed with chapped onion and an edge of garlic within? I know not: I dipped each in either the curry of the cuddlefish, the chilli oil, or the siracha.
Our talk turned to opera, and we found ourselves retelling Wagner’s Ring Cycle with cuts and variations from different productions we’d scene. A wonderfully camp Loki from Vienna. A terrifying Fafner from Toronto. A Brünnhilde so beautiful it’s understandable that she’d sleep on top of a mountain wreathed in flames. We wrapped up our talk as I was picking up stray grains of steamed rice from the brushed ceramic bowl the Dancer had insisted upon.
“Always have to have a bowl of rice,” she winced, “if I can.”
We bundled back up and threaded our way through the dining hall, now teaming with families and friends. Every one of the dozens of tables was filled with few seats empty; clearly, getting lunch at 10am was a wise move.
Out into the frigid winter clawing its way at autumn’s throat. I veer to Kensington to get some work done, while the Dancer heads out to find a place to study. Dim sum rarely disappoints a hungry stomach seeking warmth.
Dim Sum King
421 Dundas St W, 3rd floor, Toronto, ON M5T 2W4