Secret Ingredient
"It has a secret ingredient."
"What is the secret ingredient?"
"It wouldn't be a secret."
This, my attempt at understanding what Ukrainian iced tea is, while enjoying dinner at Ukrainian Village. (I never did figure it out, though, judging by the purplish red color, I'm thinking it might be beet juice. I wasn't so crazy about the combination, as you might imagine, so I switched to Earl Grey tea later.)
I had already expended my dining out budget last night one fish & chips and beer at the Atlantic Trap & Gill (I love how all these places have websites, and who can argue with a place that serves Monkey's Cod Bombs), but I was so engrossed in my book on the bus ride home that I decided to keep reading and find out just how far the bus really goes.
There's a reason it's called the "19 Stanley Park" bus, of course, so just before it disappeared into the blackness of the trees, I hopped off and walked down Denman Street in search of some dinner, and the Ukrainian Village had been on my list of things to try for a long time, given both that it has a great reputation around here for really good food, and that my building manager is the one who owns it.
He recognized me when I came in, of course, and I received first class service — kind of a one-of-the-family sort of treatment, but in a very different way than the Elbow Room last week (that was grown sibling treatment — this was favorite grandma treatment). I could only finish about half of my heaping plate of cabbage rolls, pierogies, sausage, and cole slaw, so I have dinner for tomorrow, too.
I never used to like leftovers.
I was stupid.
After dinner, when there was no sign of a Robson Street bus anywhere, I decided it had been far too long since I'd walked all the way down Robson Street anyway, past all the Asian teenagers and Korean restaurants, and chocolate shops, and high fashion clothing stores.
I saw my friendly neighborhood homeless guy, a little outside his normal stomping grounds, wandering around Robson Square. I considered giving him my leftovers again, but felt a selfish streak (you have no idea how good these cabbage rolls were), and hung onto them.
"What is the secret ingredient?"
"It wouldn't be a secret."
This, my attempt at understanding what Ukrainian iced tea is, while enjoying dinner at Ukrainian Village. (I never did figure it out, though, judging by the purplish red color, I'm thinking it might be beet juice. I wasn't so crazy about the combination, as you might imagine, so I switched to Earl Grey tea later.)
I had already expended my dining out budget last night one fish & chips and beer at the Atlantic Trap & Gill (I love how all these places have websites, and who can argue with a place that serves Monkey's Cod Bombs), but I was so engrossed in my book on the bus ride home that I decided to keep reading and find out just how far the bus really goes.
There's a reason it's called the "19 Stanley Park" bus, of course, so just before it disappeared into the blackness of the trees, I hopped off and walked down Denman Street in search of some dinner, and the Ukrainian Village had been on my list of things to try for a long time, given both that it has a great reputation around here for really good food, and that my building manager is the one who owns it.
He recognized me when I came in, of course, and I received first class service — kind of a one-of-the-family sort of treatment, but in a very different way than the Elbow Room last week (that was grown sibling treatment — this was favorite grandma treatment). I could only finish about half of my heaping plate of cabbage rolls, pierogies, sausage, and cole slaw, so I have dinner for tomorrow, too.
I never used to like leftovers.
I was stupid.
After dinner, when there was no sign of a Robson Street bus anywhere, I decided it had been far too long since I'd walked all the way down Robson Street anyway, past all the Asian teenagers and Korean restaurants, and chocolate shops, and high fashion clothing stores.
I saw my friendly neighborhood homeless guy, a little outside his normal stomping grounds, wandering around Robson Square. I considered giving him my leftovers again, but felt a selfish streak (you have no idea how good these cabbage rolls were), and hung onto them.