Once in a while my sisters and I go for dinner; for simple reasons, like them getting away from their husbands and children or to gossip about our mother without the fear of being digitally monitored and out of the three-mile radius of her all-hearing “momdar”. So basically a girls night out where I watch them pound a trough of pinot grigio and I do all the ordering. We recently went to a local Greek spot in NDG that has been a part of the neighbourhood for the longest time. Perched on top of Mount Monkland, Lezvos is the poorman’s Santorini; replacing the picturesque white sovas houses overlooking the deep indigo Agean sea, the vantage point from Lezvos is of the rolling red tail lights of north-bound Decarie traffic and the laughter of children being taxed at Villa-Marie Metro.
Addiction is nothing to joke about or scoff at… unless it’s an addiction so close to obsession, then the first step to face your emotional and physiological dependancy is to man-up, face it and admit to it; My Name is Jason and I am a Puff-o-holic. What is a “puff” you ask? No, it has nothing to do with any narcotic that’s inhaled or smoked – well “inhaled” in a different sense of the word. Puffs are things next to Godliness; sweet, warm fried dough balls bathed in honey worthy of any ancient Olympian… and now citizens of the greater Montreal area.