Toronto Adventures - The Danforth

I love my neighborhood. The Danforth. Toronto’s Greektown. Friendly old men call out, “Hello Kooklamoo!” when I walk by. At first I thought it meant, “You crazy cow.” Then I found out it means, “My little doll.”

Initially I thought everyone in Greektown was always angry. Because Greek people don’t talk. They yell. In the bank. In the bookstore. Especially in the grocery store. If there’s one thing the Greek people do well, it’s pick out produce. And yell.

Today I was meandering down a street laden with flowers when I smelled cinnamon. Yummy, yummy cinnamon. I followed my nose like the commercial says to a little bakery packed to the rafters with customers. Each was holding a loaf of yummy looking braided cinnamon bread tied up with ribbons.

I have never in my life been domestic enough to know that the “So-And-So Bakery” makes the best bread or “Mama’s Baked Goods” has delicious pies. But that was about to change. This was my chance to finally be on the “inside” and nab some of the baked goods everybody clamors for. I grabbed a loaf of the bread and waited in the impossibly long line up with hundreds of Greek people yelling and hugging and gesturing and arguing. They were buying truckloads of decorated religious candles as well. I decided to leave the insider candle buying to another day.

I felt like Martha Stewart. Before prison. I felt like I could go home and tole-paint a snowman on something. I felt like a person who always has band-aids in her purse. I wished I had a pantry, so I could put my uber-domestic bread in my now well-stocked pantry.

After about half an hour, I got to the cash register. The girl smiled and said, “The ???(Fill in Greek word I can’t pronounce here) is $7.” I almost fell down. $7 for a loaf of bread? But because it was sort of an accomplishment for me, I splurged.

I cruised down the Danforth and started chewing away at the bread. It was all I had hoped it would be---warm, cinnamon-y and comforting. I tossed pieces to some fat pigeons. I smiled at old ladies. I was sure they were thinking I could probably crochet with the domestic abilities evidenced in my prowess for picking out baked goods.

Then, something began to dawn on me. Why were all of these Greek people buying the same loaf of bread? On Easter weekend? And why did the bakery sell religious candles? Uh oh. Why was there a special name for this bread?

Then it hit me---this must be special religious bread for the Greek Orthodox Church. And there I was, chawing away on it on the sidewalk in Greektown. Were these people offended by my buying their holy bread for a snack? Would I now go to Greek hell? What was in Greek hell? Feta from other countries? I wasn’t sure, but at least I would have company. Those pigeons had snarfed down that religious bread without even saying grace.




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