I trudged through the icy wind along the construction-shattered side street to one of Toronto’s glorious all hours (open 365 days a year) hot spots. This was a discovery several years ago, and I don’t get out to 7 West enough, but each time I do, I walk away with a new memory.
My first time there, I found a desk full of notes: tank yours, questions and answers, unrequited love letters, perplexed doodles, all stuffed into a drawer in front of me. My slice of cake cemented my affection for the hole in the wall, despite the restaurant running all three floors of the edifice.
Another time, I dined with the Unadvised Scallion. Tucked behind a half-curtained window on second floor one evening, we chatted about film and the many pitfalls and pains that come with actually getting into the wiring and grit that filmmaking requires. The red wine flowed, leaving us in a heady haze as we talked shop.
I remember a date on the third floor, spilt beer and red velvet cake crumbs (the red flags were there so early, alas hindsight).
I remember a tryst in the narrow, second floor washroom, a space emblematic of the phrase “I couldn’t swing a cat in here.”
I remember quiet lunches and loud dinners. I remember good food, though a glance at the prices always make me cringe at first: this is not an everyday spot for the cheap and the thrifty: plates start around $15.
For my latest memory, I sit near the first floor window, at the same table I had a wonderful date some three years previous. I’m joined by the Ardent Fashionista. Her smile is bright and welcoming, a burning red to match her hair. We embrace and sit, immediately falling into discussion of photography and her experiences. Her garden salad, a classic burger without bun deconstructed and tastefully arranged, and tall Irish coffee clutter the table with my Caesar salad, penne carbonara, and bowl of cappuccino. My notebook fights for space.
As always, any notion of price drifts away as soon as we begin eating. Rich cream and appropriate salt lets my carbonara drive away any lingering wisps of the bitter cold outside. The austere Irish coffee leaves the Fashionista cozy as it raises a slight rose to her cheeks.
The minutes peel away into hours. The main floor is busy with pairs and threes, but not so much that we can’t hear each other or feel pinched of elbow room.
By the time we leave to attempt a smoke in the frigid north winds, we’re both comfortably full and satisfied without being stuffed. One more memorable meal to add to the growing pile I have of this tall, subtle building.
7 West
7 Charles St W, Toronto, ON M4Y 1R4