Out & About #764 | The Distillery Winter Village 2021

The Toronto Christmas Market, fondly referred to as TCM, was rebranded as the Distillery Winter Village after a year of repose at the midpoint of unvaccinated pandemic.

Ticket prices had been subject to inflation, which was not unanticipated given the urgency to recover profit. Formerly charging no more than five dollars for peak time access during weekends and Friday evenings, the remaining four days of the work week had been liberated from entry fees. The takeover, and abandoning of the old website, saw a surcharge of three dollars, plus associated administrative and processing charges per ticket. Furthermore, the inaugural tree lighting ceremony was added to the roster of admission-requiring days, despite being scheduled on a Thursday.

Countless attempts to round up interested companions ended in vain: they either wanted nothing to do with crowds or wanted nothing to do with TTC congestion during rush hour. The latter was more understandable than the former, especially with consideration of the desire to travel (and board a plane!). Efforts were combatted with an endless supply of excuses and lukewarm responses, to the extent where it would have simply been easier to politely <s> bluntly decline in the first place. With Tree Lighting night inching closer, and my pitches overturned again and again, I began to give up hope for the market.

Alas, there was but one reliable specimen that came to my rescue. My birthday twin, who is a self-proclaimed "low-maintenance" creature with wholly unrivalled openness to my endless assortment of impromptu proposals and unprecedented randomness, expressed acceptance of the request - wholeheartedly and, most importantly, willingly.
​​Her proximity to my own coordinates ensured a pragmatic approach to logistics planning. Time and cost savings were unrivalled with the elimination of GO train tickets, which, may I note, have notably grown pricier since the transit service's plunge into single digit ridership numbers at the peak of the pandemic. (Can you blame Metrolinx though?)

I left my overworked, underpaid post slightly earlier than normal to ensure a congestion-free course downtown. It worked out well for me, given that the sudden influx of emails had concluded by Wednesday evening for the most part. We found our place to reside inside one of Corktown's handful of carparks. Parking rates varied by district, as made aware by the Green P website. By the George Brown residences and sparkly new YMCA building was our garage of choice, and adjacent to it a lofty outpost of Dark Horse Espresso.

This location was significantly larger than that of the John Street location. It boasted ample illumination from its glass panel encasing, seating along the perimeter of the café, and even a decently-sized marketplace for wine and gifts. Also featured was alcohol for sale, which corresponded to its comparatively tardy closing time of 7pm.

I reviewed the menu options at the cashier, then, at earning a tepid response from the cashier, I took to browsing on Ritual. There was a faint memory of seeing app-only promotions, and I wasn't about to lose out on my rare redemption opportunity in the city.
An Iced Latte was requested via the platform - tip added for dine-in courtesy. Neither proof of vaccination nor IDs were requested for verification, though we did overhear the barista's high level inquiry to patrons that placed orders at the bar. Signs mandating the provincial order were not upheld within the space; there were no posted notifications beyond recommendations for symptom screening. We took to a window seat: I cracked open the weighty monster of a machine, while the birthday bud took to an analog activity - journalling.

​Washrooms were situated towards the back of the café-market hybrid. Signs pointed towards the end of a hallway featuring minimal illumination and a noticeable amount of cardboard boxes within its path. A member of staff with dainty Korean-style tattoos gestured towards the accessible stall, "The bathroom is there." Two sinks were affixed outside the bathroom, with one more inside the stall, promoting handwashing through the act of convenience.

​My Latte had been brought to the mobile order pick-area within steps of the entrance. A red heart accompanied my name on the cup's lid; ample ice and a milkiness were found in its contents.
Work continued into the early evening hours. Dark Horse had imposed a one-hour limit for dine-in customers, which we had stretched by 150% (yet did not get booted).

Our trek to the market then commenced. Opting to enter from Trinity Street, we were guided by four members of uniform-donning staff. One conducted visual checks for vaccination records and IDs, while the three others scanned ticket QR codes. Unaware of the precise start time for the Tree Lighting Ceremony, we ensured an arrival of roughly 5 PM. Passerbys would then notify us - indirectly, of course - of the slated 6 PM schedule.

The inside of the market was gently glowing. A hushed vesper violet saturated the sky. Familiar strings of bulb lights emanated a warm cast on the visitors beneath.  It was official: the annual event was back.

We found the vendor count fewer than past years, with retail stalls exceeding street food options. Roots made an unexpected appearance at the south limit, and was joined by Sapsucker, an initiative involving sparkling water derived from our nation's very own maple trees, and Kombi, a winter sportsgear boutique boasting a fur-lined snowmobile in front. Removed was the Naughty or Nice display as well as some heated lamps by Pure Spirits Mews. At the intersection of Trinity Street and Gristmill Lane was a stage - complete with red carpet - for performances executed in the name of Salvation Army. The signature jingle could be well overhead the vocals and cheery commentary.

View the full album HERE !

​​A total of four rounds were made about the east end of the event - twice for initial evaluation and twice out of forgetfulness. My birthday twin had refused drinks at our earlier stop, noting intention to indulge in either hot chocolate or cider later in the day.
Foreign names of storefronts and rotating light displays served to distract us on our sojourn. Stopping for photos at nearly every point of interest (me), we didn't complete the first loop until about 5:45 PM.
En route back to the main pathway, the sight of mini donuts from Cops caught our attention. I voted in favour of a savoury dish first, striding over to a stall offering Raclette sandwiches and whiskey cookies in sealed packages of two or six.

A Melted Swiss Raclette with prosciutto was secured just minutes before establishing a spot for the viewing. Most indoor eateries take to a melted wheel of cheese for raclette dishes, though the outdoor stall utilized heaters and small blocks of cheese placed on swivel plates to maximize order completion rate. Each taking a plastic fork, we pried away the bun halves in an attempt to split it. Little success was had with the grain mustard-slathered slabs; our first bites were met with hardened cheese (Oh Canada!) and crispy, toasted edges, albeit loss of aroma from standing in the wind. Cornichon pickles supplied a crunchy tartness to brighten the palette, while prosciutto a savoury touch.

​Between hurried mouthfuls and a frenzy of fork marks, we managed to complete consumption of the item just in advance of crowds gathering near us. The scene had seldom been seen amidst COVID times, but evoked a sense of déjà vu from the pre-pandemic years of celebration. A mother and daughter duo slipped in front of us, each raising a tray of Cops donuts before them. At noticing my interested glance, the young girl stared back at me.
"Is it good?" I asked.
"Yes" came a shy reply.
"Oh yes!" boomed the mother. "Would you like to try one?" Her glazed variety was brought up to eye-level. The girl followed suite.
We politely declined, then eventually succumbed to her persistence.
I downed the Cinnamon Sugar without hesitation, while my partner-in-crime glared at me, mouth agape. "I thought we were sharing!"
"Oh." My lack of consideration dawned on me. "But splitting would mean sticky fingers...." My mind trailed off.
"Well I'm eating this one!" She turned and copied the very action that earned me much disapproval. I was then informed that the Ginger Snap Molasses Glaze was "just glazed", without essences of ginger molasses.

​Availability of maneuvering space diminished around us. Pompom-topped toques flew into view, next infants riding on the shoulders of parents. Thrilled for a somewhat "normal" holiday season, the surrounding atmosphere had grown antsy with the eagerness to partake in some form of festive activity. Thankfully, with slight shifts, our experience remained enjoyable. A brief speech from the Mayor took place, then a ten-second countdown later, and the instantaneous illumination of the tree.
This was it - 37 days till Christmas.

Bustling crowds darted for different photo-taking destinations. Those nearby offered to snap shots of us, while we would return the favour afterwards. The gesture was another first since March 2020, when the touch of strangers was deemed as fatal as poison ivy.

Sauntering to the west side of the district then back, we landed before the Mill Street Brewpub. Most stalls were serving either spiked or regular cider, but rare was the menu offering of its mulled rendition. Along two cups of the circulation-promoting drink, mini pretzel bits were requested with half-and-half sides of horseradish mustard and vanilla porter fudge.

A total of eight nuggets filled the container, seamlessly smooth on the outside and pillowy on the inside. At the depths of the disposable container was melted butter, which had seized due to chilly climate conditions. These temperature-induced effects would extend to the vanilla porter fudge; the pipe-able substance had begun to separate when we finally sat down. It appeared a mix of melted chocolate, oil, and a stabilizer of sorts. Richly-flavoured with exceptionally chocolatey notes, one would likely be unaware of its synthetically altered properties had it not revealed a lack of resilience to weather.
We concluded the horseradish mustard as the superior dipping sauce. Akin to wasabi, its qualities stimulated teardrops and clarified any hints of nasal congestion.

The Mulled Cider possessed a robust flavour despite bitter aftertaste. That said, it wasn't unpleasantly bitter, and was really quite cozy in a single-digit environment.

​As we perused some more, the thought of dessert resurfaced.
Mint Chocolate Smoothies from Palgong sent shivers our way, inducing excruciating brainfreeze and numbing fingertips while in wait for our turn at Tartistry. Heat was reinstated with our retreat indoors.

First order of action was bathroom usage and, as we settled into the last of the vacant tables, orders of Grilled Cheese and a Spinach & Feta Quiche from The Sweet Escape. It mattered not that it was more frittata than quiche, for I found much delight in its splendidly plush composition.  The slivers of potato, cheese, and egg were devoured with utmost content.

​A Mint Chocolate Crinkle Cookie was also procured at this stop out of curiosity. The incorporation of mint into baked desserts is scarcely seen and even scarcer to find achieving success. My own crinkle cookie undertaking had resulted in premature dissolution of icing sugar, leading myself to believe that the formula is not as simple to execute as it appears.
Preserved in its paper bag, I took to the contents the next morning. In spite of the unseemly shower of sugary dust, I was more than pleasantly surprised. Crackly edges paired with a chewy interior and plentiful portion of mint enthralled the tastebuds. The Sweet Escape had proved proficiency in both sweet and savoury realms.

​The Distillery District grounds were departed around the 9:30 PM mark. Tartistry's Butter Tarts were enjoyed a day later.

​In absence of the Maple Pecan, I had selected the Maple Walnut. Plain and Whiskey joined to form a quad of gluten-free delicacies.

​The tarts had been priced very reasonably: $4 each or $14 for a pack of four. They were larger than the average tart with beautifully crimped (pressed) tart crusts and encased incredibly decadent fillings.

One would detect wafts of butteriness upon drawing near; across the spectrum were complex notes of brown sugar, maple, and slick rum were emulsified into the custard. Plain was admittedly the sweetest, Maple Walnut the most varied in texture, and Whiskey the most unique of all. "G&W" - the makers of the alcohol had originated right from the lands on which we stood.