Out & About #903 | (Pt. 2): Blue Mountain Village + Heart's Tavern​

Read Part 1 HERE !

I swapped footwear quickly, then urged the sleepy polar bear to hurry back towards Thornbury. It had been my assumption that all beaches would support a splashpad and changing area. Alas, I was wrong.

In addition to paid parking, Little River Beach Park featured bathrooms, though no showers for rinsing off mossiness. I settled for wiping my feet dry, then changing into dry clothes.

​Ice cream is a mandatory mid-afternoon summer treat for me, particularly on days involving aquatic activities. Leading up to the visit, I had meticulously verified the operating hours of local dessert parlours, landing upon Pom Pom in the process.

​The Thornbury Downtown BIA was very compact, and we essentially found ourselves within walking distance of the businesses we had visited earlier. On the east side of Bridge Street, we found street parking marked with simplistic line paintings between an interlock boulevard and mountable curb and gutter. The right-of-way appeared more or less the same, however businesses to the west of Bridge Street had narrower walkways, continuous curb and gutter, and street parking on the road itself.

We had spotted another ice cream spot closer to the beach, though had our qualms towards its offerings - why was it so empty?
​A short lineup persisted outside Pom Pom, indicating plausibly greater popularity amongst locals.

​The designated POI adopted the form of a pale yellow hut next to a laundromat. To the left of the ordering window was a menu with prices; to its right was a list of ice cream flavours, categorized into dairy and vegan options. Merchandise such as a canvas tote bag and plastic water bottle were spotted adorning the payment area.

While we waited, the sleepy polar bear indecisively shifted between Cookies & Cream and Caramel Coco Crunch. On the other hand, I began Googling flavours for more comprehensive descriptions. Listening to my utterances of various ice cream profiles, the sleepy polar bear eventually settled on a small scoop of Moose Tracks in a waffle cone.

​Hovering between a root beer float and ice cream sandwich, I ultimately decided on the latter as to not fill my stomach before supper. Before pointing out a desired flavour, recommendations were sought from the girl behind the cashier. She recommended the Chocolate Brownie Cookie, though noted that the ice cream was "up to" me. I leaned towards Black Cherry, then, out of concern for cough syrup-tasting cherry bits, opted for Mint Chunk.

Orders would be fulfilled from a separate window - a green window sill with napkins and cone tray. The sleepy polar bear's order would emerge first: a standard-sized waffle cone with a small sphere of Kawartha Dairy's signature.

My ice cream sandwich would be brought to the counter some few minutes later. Wrapped in checkered food wrap, the specimen was larger than I would have ever fathomed. Having anticipated no more than two scoops of ice cream smushed between two cookie halves, my awe was undeniable when I peeled away the parchment to reveal two whole Chocolate Brownie Cookies and a shockingly synthetic-looking Mint Chunk.

The cookie was absolutely scrumptious, as the staff had assured. Boasting crisp edges, extensive chocolatey-ness, and a chewy interior, I would have loved to devour one with a glass of cold milk and reserve the other for later enjoyment. Frankly, the pair was a bit difficult to eat, since the cookie would become cold and rigid while the ice cream began disintegrating. At the very least, the checkered food wrap improved ease of consumption, preventing stickiness from spilling over the table.

Mint Chunk tasted as artificial as its appearance, and perhaps, arguably, worse. Admittedly, it was the first time I could perceive the wails behind mint ice cream bearing too great a resemblance to toothpaste. The chocolate chunks were of standard character, yet decidedly less flavourful than Hershey's or PC Decadent.

We deemed the ice cream passable, and nothing short of skippable.

​An attempt at further investigating the nearby vendors was cut short due to their early closures.

With approximately thirty minutes left until our dinner reservation, I offered the alternative of browsing Blue Mountain Village, to which the sleepy polar bear responded positively. Despite cautioning that we'd be venturing further from our final destination, I was informed that "anything is better than sitting in a car while everything around us had closed."

The drive to Blue Mountain was swift, though I had my reservations towards finding parking at the odd, early evening hour. Contrary to my belief, we successfully found a spot in the gravel lot designated for Day Parking.

​By this time, the sun had begun its descent, casting harsh shadows on the tourists perusing the area. A haziness resided in the distance, remarkably visible against the cloud-less sky.

​We browsed sales at The North Face and observed water bikes in Mill Pond before strolling over to the Lift Plaza.
Our visit had coincided with the Blue Mountain Film Festival, which had brought with it ticketed movie screenings and sponsor booths. In the Events Plaza were live band performances, which may or may not have been associated with the four-day festival.

​In just under twenty minutes, we had managed to cover approximately three-quarters of the retail corridors. The sleepy polar bear's unfulfilled yearning from last fall had been satisfied (and I sincerely hope to never hear about it again).

Thornbury, Blue Mountain Village, and Kimberley formed three vertexes of the number 7. Taking Grey Road 119, we passed by the Scenic Caves entrance, then continued along a somewhat  ̶m̶o̶u̶n̶t̶a̶i̶n̶o̶u̶s̶ hilly scenic route. Again, an unmistakable haziness filled the air, lending a dream-like aura to the otherwise empty country roads.

Heart's Tavern had been discovered two evening prior. Having scrutinized the region's restaurant scene for the removal of overpriced tourist traps, I landed upon an establishment that surfaced - online, anyway, amidst the COVID era. Previously operating in the same industry on Ossington in the Queen West neighbourhood, the restauranteur duo had travelled out of the city and founded Heart's with passion.

Uncertain about the size of the eatery, I quickly reserved a spot for two and added in a patio request, should it be available. By default, the reservation enabled seating at the "horseshoe bar", a dimly lit section at the bar with tall stools. Patio seating was offered on a first come-first serve basis; thankfully, our booking slot coincided with such availability.

Before being guided to the outdoor dining space, the hostess gestured towards the Daily Features board, urging us to snap a photo of the list as physical copies would not be provided at the table.

​The restaurant layout was similar to that of a backwards question mark, minus the isolated dot at the bottom. Patrons would navigate through a rectangular portion of the building, which housed the kitchen and a handful of tables, before finding their way through a curved seating area (with one lower-level party table), two single stall bathrooms, and the patio entrance. Nestled within the curve of this imaginary question mark were six tables: 4 two-seaters and 2 four-seaters, each with marble tabletops. A series of string bulbs had been hung above, connecting the wooden face of the restaurant to the brick-and-mortar side directly opposite.
Bestowed upon us were cloth napkins in blue and white gingham, stout water glasses, and two menus: a double-sided food and drink menu edged in a similar shade of blue and a paper brochure featuring alcoholic beverages.

Décor was similar to Terroni, in that it was largely woody with a cozy ambiance. However, the primary difference lay in the finishing: where Terroni radiated refinement in its smooth, mahogany-tinted sections, Heart's was cruder, with obvious unsanded edges.

​Our server, clad in a black jumpsuit with a dainty floral pattern, approached us shortly to take drink requests. Instinctively imploring for recommendations on local picks, she recommended the Ida Spy Pet Nat as a wonderfully "dry" cider for sharing, given its larger 750 ml format. For single-person portions, I was directed towards Heritage Dry (500 ml) and Good Things (355 ml). When she didn't mention any other names, I inquired for further details, to which she responded that the other varieties were still "local, but not as local."

I opted for the Good Things Lager first, as a subsequent order of cider was anticipated. In hindsight, cider ought have been the one and only choice.
The small can format, seemingly popularized on the West Coast, was ideal as it enabled appetite for follow-up drinks. Though, the lager formula itself was average and hardly memorable. Moreover, it neither enhanced nor supplemented our sustenance selection.

The sleepy polar bear repeatedly proposed Oysters to start, having been reminded of tranquil times in Halifax while driving. I offered consumption of just one mollusc, declaring that I'd leave the remainder of the half dozen untouched.
Presented in a shallow, aluminum container, the oysters neatly arranged atop a bed of ice and served with lemon wedges, seaweed, a shallot-infused condiment, and hot sauce. An exceptionally mild horseradish was also included in the spread, its appearance nearly identical to grated cheese and profile several notches blander than The Keg's addictively pungent variation.

Our meal had been decent up to the Oysters, but only progressed downhill from then on.

Halibut Tartare, priced extravagantly at thirty-four dollars was a microscopic portion of fishy abomination. No amount of seasoning could camouflage its atrocious odours, not even lemon, smoked paprika, or seaweed bits (Yes, the ones "used in miso soup", as pointed out by the sleepy polar bear). While most tartares are served with tortilla chips for a crunchy contrast, wispy, Lays-like chips were piled high instead. The tartare itself was already salty, and the chips only served to heighten the excessive seasoning.

​Two variations of the Butcher's Cut were made known to us. The 8 oz. bavette, derived from the side of the cow, was described as a tender section suitable for sharing. It arrived with a seemingly Medium doneness, rather than the specified Medium Rare. The sleepy polar bear expressed alarm at the bloody cross-section, though I had thought little of this aspect. My primary concern was the lack of "greens", which had somehow transformed into - yet another heavily salted - red cabbage slaw with mustard seeds. The "frites", also salted to an extreme, were thick, textured strips topped with a viscous Hollandaise sauce.

While the Butcher's Cut was impressively tender and well-textured, its surface was horrendously briney. In addition to being marinated with salt and miso, further salting had taken place to extract excess moisture. Time and time again, I reached for water, until I could withstand the saline no more. Ketchup was spread atop each slice, causing eyes to widen across the table. The lemon wedge was utilized to clarify the taste buds after each swallow.

View the full album HERE !

Crispy and gratifying were the frites, but far too satiating when served simply with Hollandaise. Ketchup offered the appropriate sweet-tangy contrast, though failed to nix the heavy-handed seasoning. Leftover frites were taken to go, exposing an incredulous amount of thickener in the sauce: following refrigeration, the once-creamy topping emerged dull, deflated, and utterly disgusting.

The Good Things Lager hadn't been as rice-y as I would have liked; neither did it assist with feelings with bloatedness. Cider and wine would have been optimal choices to combat the generally salty personalities of Heart's creations, but my stomach could not withhold any more liquid after depleting the glass bottle residing on our table.

​As natural illumination waned, candles were delivered to each table on the patio. The installation conjured curiosity towards the string lights above, with specific regard to whether they had been positioned merely for the vibe instead of functionality. The sleepy polar bear confirmed my suspicions, pointing out that the nearest strand wasn't even plugged into an outlet.

Our final order of the evening was the Pistachio Frangipane, the most enjoyable course for me personally.
A wonderfully thick slice emerged on a vintage-looking, plastic plate, topped with crème fraîche and a delightful dusting of orange zest.

Frangipane was an almond-heavy concoction I had yet to perfect in my own kitchen. Herat's rendition was aromatic and nutty, displaying the defining qualities of almond and pistachio. The cake appeared dense, but, in reality, boasted great texture and a moist crumb, akin to Sunday Baking's Torta Caprese. Pieces of mushy rhubarb had been laid on top. They were lacking in the tartness department, though compensated with the luscious tanginess of crème fraîche. Orange zest served as a sweet, invigorating final touch.

​Washrooms, as mentioned earlier, adopted the form of two individual stalls. The one nearest to the patio was quite cramped, with barely enough space between the toilet and stall wall. Pristine it was not particularly, however I did appreciate the lemony scent of JR Watkins.

The evening grew chilly, as the sun receded into the distance. Having anticipated such mercury variances, I had slipped into my knitted cardigan a long while ago. The sleepy polar bear, having not undergone a similar decision-making process, shivered and urged for a speedy departure.

A brilliant full moon accompanied our drive back to the GTA, occasionally shrouded by shrubbery. K-Pop hits of the 2010s were revisited for nostalgia, including a handful of MBLAQ tracks (mainly adored by my Birthday Buddy and I).