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| - For the opulent of Toronto's elite, this Pusateri's location in Yorkville is the best and only place for an expensive cookie. The grocer closely resembles a Park Avenue grocer, which is my entire theory with the Yorkville Neighbouhood; it wants to be Manhattan.
This Pusateri's is located at the foot of Minto Furnished Suites, a rent only building. It is a mini block down from a Starbucks, the estate is lit with amber lights, and there is even a small area for al-fresco on Bay. An emphasized deli section with meat hanging from the ceiling fixtures, and trollies smaller than the 'greenest' cars on Earth, it would be less subtle if they sold only large apples in the fruits section.
If you are unfamiliar with Yorkville, it is piece of land less than half a square mile in the heart of Toronto's luxury retail neighbourhood. Million dollar condominiums, boutique hotels, International brands, and restaurants with linens that appear to have more than a gazillion thread-count per square-inch. The City under one of its former Mayor took a half billion dollar initiative in repaving the streets of this neighbourhood, so it'll look shinier. This is the extent of Canadian corruption. Yorkville accentuates affluence and gentrification to such a degree, businesses as far as three blocks away claims to the name when listing their location online.
On a Saturday evening, rented Ferraris and Porches line the narrow streets, all fighting for a conspicuous parking spot in view from places like Sassafraz Restaurant, or ONE Restaurant at the Hazelton Lanes hotel, where the rooms start from seven hundred dollars. That price doesn't guarantee a cocaine dust free washroom.
Naturally, this Pusateri's location strives to do their best at serving this specific clientele, and the prices reflect that business model. European imports line the shelves, fresh baked goods rivals the few bakeries nearby, and it is the only place I know of where freshly squeezed juices are available for purchase in this area. The stock and staff are impressively assembled and displayed. The prepared foods section boosts an array of delicious mundane foods. The baked chicken leg is priced at the normal price of a whole chicken, but that is justified with the slices of potatoes and peppers that also come with the packaging. At least its justified in the pockets of the people who fashioned themselves to pay such inflated prices for arguably this Dickensian protein. I found myself sitting by the al-fresco section parallel to Bay Street, contained by a terrace fencing that couldn't produce the feeling of privacy or exclusivity even if it were ten foot tall. It felt like I was an extra in a scene of The Sex & The City, as I watched a woman write into her red notebook with a psychotic smile on her face that apparently she thought only she was privy to herself. When you smile with delight in congratulatory fashion with every stroke of the pen, what you are Madam is crazy. Another couple talked to each other about some obscurity in a volume which was clear that the conversation is not between (or even for) themselves, but for everyone else around them. The conversation revolved around the happenings of their lives. It is the very factor which contrasts between pretentious people, and normal people; what they've done versus what they're doing. In a different subculture, it would equate to two men speaking loudly about their supposed large penises and who they've plowed with them. They would both be doing this in (let us not forget) a grocery store. Fabulous.
My interpretation of pretentious is not refined to things of inflated pricing, but inflated ego. If Pusateri's was a boutique grocer offering Canadian, or hard to find European or even just Italian food, then I would find myself as a regular here. It is not that, but a carbon copy of itself based off of the idea and ideals of doyen lifestyles. The geographic interpretation of meats in the merchandising proximity is correct, as the foie gras can be found next to the fine bologna, which is next to the organic wurst. Even with this refrigeration diplomacy, the store on the whole fails to resonate a sophisticated diet with actually sophisticated people. It wants to be something else, in a neighbourhood which subtly denies its geographic identity.
It is unfortunate, but the nine dollar clam chowder in the mason jar sealed with un-reusable caps is the worst kind of capitalism on this side of the West, and very un-neighbourly. It is my suspicion that if I were ever to come to face-to-face with Mister or Misses Pusateri, we would most definitely be speaking English.
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