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| - On a fateful Sunday afternoon, after an unsuccessful attempt to obtain jamaican patties (I had forgotten that the best places are closed Sunday), we decided that the best alternative would be to sink our teeth in a juicy, delicious burger. Heading back towards downtown, we googled the best burger in Toronto and saw amazing reviews for Toma, along with awards and distinctions. Perfect!
The gods were on our side as we found parking right across the street and headed inside to the joys of gustation. The menu was exciting, and I found myself drawn by several selections but finally settled on an enticing combination of pulled pork and beef patty. After one mischievous glance towards my dining partner, we also both agreed on ordering classic poutines to accompany this fine feast. Being both from Quebec, we had our doubts but figured that someone, by now, would be able to perfect this unhealthy yet satisfying culinary delight in Toronto at last. The online reviews all raved about it, after all.
The slow service did not dissuade us from enjoying our time at Toma, as the ambiance (and the company) was nice. Large booths allowed us to spread out and salivate at the thought of these delicious aliments that would shortly be presented to us.
The food arrived. A finely crafted burger branded with a large "T" on the top of the bun was set next to a beautiful bowl of french fries smothered in sauce and... wait, what's wrong with the curds?
The classic poutine was neither classic nor poutine. While the french fries could, I'm sure, be quite nice on their own, their size meant they were completely overwhelmed by the sauce. The curds were... strange at best. I still can't figure out if they were actually cheese. They looked like pieces of processed mozzarella (the kind you get in No Name bricks) passed through a spaetzle maker and had no characteristic taste or flavour. Its texture introduced me for the first time to the feeling of having semen in my mouth from multiple glory holes, an experience I would rather not repeat. The sauce had an off taste, not just from being over salted (which we all come to expect in restaurant fare), but as if a squirrel or other small land mammal had taken to swimming in the vat and left behind a special mix of seasonings.
The burger was equally strange. The bun was, at best, fine, but the beef patty had no distinctive taste that would make one go "wow". In fact, the texture was a bit off, as if the ground meat had been overworked. The cheese also had a particularly strange taste. If such cheese had been served on Alderaan, the tremor in the force would have been one of relief. My dining partner, who had ordered a much more classic combination, had a similar reaction.
Starvation does not equal causation. We reluctantly finished the burger as we had had nothing else to eat that day, but left the seed-laden french fries aside and walked back out amazed that such cookery would obtain such rave reviews and awards. We are not hipsters or againsters, and can in fact enjoy food from all levels, from dives to fine dining. I can even find redeeming qualities in some of the worst fast food out there. Something was way off here.
But this is not where the story ends.
The combination of ingredients ingested minutes earlier began to combine in fast digestion as my body decided that Toma was best left out of my system. Minutes later, just as the so-called brioche bun was branded with a large "T", so would my anus be branded by the intense burn of hellfire as one ingredient after another used my insides as a boiling cauldron of witch brew that would punish me for not only the next hours, but the next day as well. Less than an hour after the last mastication, I had to sit at the porcelain throne to spew out a stream of acid that actually made me cry. As the stream of molten lava came pouring out of me, I converted from atheism to three different major religions and a few minor ones as well, as only some sort of divine punishment could explain the terror that was coming out of my bowels. Each rumbling of my stomach made me cry out for forgiveness, as my body was transformed into a geyser of burning, liquid excrement four more times that night. I collapsed in a cold sweat on the floor of the bathroom, crawling back to bed with hesitation as I pictured with horror the inevitable result of my body falling asleep and relaxing its sphincters.
While I was lucky enough to make it through the night without chemical burns on my thighs, the next day was dreadful as I had to take the road towards Ottawa by car, with my stomach still churning and warning me that this plague was not over with. I thank the designers of the OnRoute system and apologize for the strange chemical offshoot that they will have noticed in their water filtration. My new god Ogoun Badagris will receive offerings on their behalf.
Definitely an unforgettable experience.
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