I hate this weather. I am utterly sick of this extended ugly cold. I am appalled that every so often the chirpy chicks of local news peep out that once again Regina was the coldest place on the planet. Stick it up your ass, Antarctica. Regina wears the crown of ice and the codpiece filled with a mixture of gravel and slush. That's right, the codpiece. It was brought over in the nineteenth century by a group of British actors seeking to set up a thespian's paradise in the unsettled West. The settlement is now an abandoned farm with only the husks of a theatre, a few shoe stores and a couple of nice wine bars. Only the codpiece remains.

THE BEST LUNCH I EVER HAD

There was a time in Regina when fine dining was a practical joke that Greek restauranteurs played on the city back in the 1950s. Nobody had much of a sense of humour, and the restaurants flourished, promising greasy ribs and overdone steak for all. Back in 1995 there was perhaps one place for gourmet food, the small but pricey and exquisitely tasty Saje cafe (recently defunct, and replaced by a restaurant with really good food but such a monstrously stupid name that you will have to email me to find out what it is).

My then-girlfriend and I dropped in for lunch one day. It was absolutely empty, and we soon figured that the probable reason for its emptiness was the screaming fight between the owner and the chef. For some reason we sat down anyway and hoped that the fight would end soon. It was kind of like sitting in a movie theatre and waiting for the projectionist to notice that the picture is out of focus. At the Saje, though, there was no usher to complain to about the lack of focus. The fight went on and on and on, pausing only when the owner would bring us food or refill our drinks.

At no point did we see the chef. We only heard her voice from the kitchen while the owner flipped through menus and brought us coffee. It was 90 minutes of this:

You, you shouldn't do that, you shouldn't -
Whatever, lush.
You shouldn't hit a woman, you son of a bitch -
Whatever, lush.
And you can't call me that, that name, that is so disrespectful -
Whatever, lush.

I swear, 90 minutes without a break, while the chef hurled just about every imprecation she had at the owner, whose only response was, "Whatever, lush". My girlfriend and I didn't even talk the entire time; we just sat there listening. And that was the last time we ate at the Saje.

parode - exode