Easy to Like by Edward Riche

the open limousine window.
But the noxious billows of the road were in such concentration as to mask
anything natural. The air quality was as bad as in Los Angeles. Toronto had come
a long way, and, from the stink of it, it had come by car.
    Having checked in and dumped
his bags, Elliot hit the street. He was in need of a glass of wine. He headed
for College Street, which he remembered as being the spine of a Little Italy.
When he was last in Toronto, the strip had housed a few serviceable restaurants,
and he hoped he could find a place that might offer the modest plate of
antipasti he desired.
    The neighbourhood, while still
ostensibly Italian, had been buffed and deodorized by colonizing scene-seekers.
Where once were boisterous families of Calabrese and the occasional artist or
student, there were now throngs of poseurs. There was preening and posturing
and, most hopelessly, searching sideways glances to see whether anyone noticed.
Everyone was awaiting someone else’s arrival, only they didn’t know who that
person might be.
    To be fair, you could see the
temptation. The scale and situation of the street were perfect for staging urban
adventure. The Los Angeles hipsters searching for parking on the wider avenues
of Silver Lake would covet such a prospect.
    The couple of workingmen’s bars seemed
more Portuguese than Italian now, but finally Elliot came upon a joint with a
promising menu and aroma and, owing to the stark lighting of the interior, an
absence of wannabe boulevardier. The coffee-with-cream beauty who took his order
explained that while there were no antipasti on the menu she was sure something
could be put together. The wine list was not as accommodating, so Elliot settled
on a tolerable, if internationally styled, bottle of Tuscan table wine.
    Out the window, Toronto appeared to be
internationally styled as well, a condition its inhabitants undoubtedly mistook
for being cosmopolitan. Still, things had visibly improved since the ’70s and
’80s. The diversity of the population, and the ease with which these hues and
shapes and manners mixed on the street, was something of a marvel. In Los
Angeles, people had drawn back behind their respective mud walls. Toronto, this
segment at least, wore its prosperity well, seeming not to have unconditionally
surrendered to the consumerism of New York or L.A. Livable, if unexciting. But
with excitement came trouble — and Elliot had quite enough of that.
    Elliot knew he wasn’t being as generous
as he might, that he held every émigré’s conflicted contempt and nostalgia for
the home country. One had to adopt a sort of chauvinism to justify or
rationalize the decision to have moved on and, one hoped, up. Truthfully, the
food now before him was as good as any back in Los Angeles. The two salamis on
his plate were of the highest order, tasted to have been made by hand and dried
in the air in the authentic fashion disallowed by North American health
inspectors. The preserved red pepper, blistered sweet, was obviously homemade.
The olives were surely sourced from North Africa, a better choice in a pinch
than some mass-produced shite from Italy. The bread was excellent, a touch of
salt improving on its Tuscan model, and the cloudy oil was the kind of fruit
juice you found on the ground in Umbria. It was pleasant enough, the food even
giving the ordinary wine a lift. Elliot was content until, after twenty minutes
or so, he got the definite sense that the Norse thug tending the bar and the
register was squinting at him, sizing him up. It was making Elliot uncomfortable
enough that he called for his bill with a few glasses remaining in the
bottle.
    The barkeep was soon standing before
him, Elliot’s AMEX card in his hand.
    â€œElliot Jonson?” he said.
    â€œYes,” said Elliot. The man’s voice was
familiar, as was the size of him, and the thick, nearly white hair —
    â€œDidn’t have the temerity to go