Not long ago, I spent a week reviewing the city's finest steak-houses, one medium-rare, truffle-crusted-wagyu after another. The week before was seafood week. More lobster bibs, crustacean claws ... [+]
We drove south on York Road, passing the large brick house that always stole my attention. I peered past my mother's arms and the steering wheel, to take another long, unblinking look. The exterior was almost completely hidden by overgrown trees and vines, also hiding acres and acres of unseen farmland. If someone didn't know it was there, they would probably miss it the first twenty times they drove by. "What's that on that house?" I asked. I was a nine-year-old, chubby cheeked girl with sloppy hair in a tight ponytail. Despite many repeated questions, I was still unable to hold back. "What d
