Once upon a time, there was a "Taverna".

Taverna Restaurant is located on Ashley Road, in Hong Kong. It has been around since 1969 (though God only knows how.) Below is a review that I am posting anywhere I can to warn people to save their money.

While waiting for the band to start at Ned Kelly's Last Stand on Sunday night, we darted up the road to "Taverna". I have never had a more disappointing meal in Hong Kong, except MAYBE at the Spaghetti House (that's right, I think Spaghetti House is better than here.)

My friend ordered the Caesarina Salad. It was supposed to have bacon, fresh parmasean, cherry tomatoes, and egg. It had nothing (absolutely nothing) but dressing and romaine lettuce. My Pecorino Salad consisted of 5 slices of browning pear, 4 slices of cheese, a stack of wilted iceburg lettuce, and two pathetic little black olives that looked like they'd been canned shortly after opening day in '69. My minestrone soup was thin, and bland, and the vegetables looked like they were rejects from the stock pot of a dim sum restaurant in the back alleys of Mong Kok. My friend's Vongole was luke warm, and it had about 6 clams, but no flavour. One friend had a mushroom risotto that he reported as "okay". Seeing as he's the most polite person I know, this description spoke volumes. The only two bits of the meal that got any praise were the pizza that one friend ordered, and the house wine which was highly drinkable (though, as one of my friends commented, "they don't make THAT here...")

On top of that, they send you out to the street to find a bathroom. The service was okay.

I would highly recommend somewhere else for a meal.

Indelible Marks II

A smoke only seems appropriate now, so I light one in my head.
I hear the soft puff and the slight wheeze as you inhale.
You took more breaths through a filter than you did without, I think.

The mill runs, and the saw whines.
We work, this motley crew.
The college boy, soft, fat, and useless.
The dwarf and the simpleton, hard, lean, and tireless.
The drunk, the dope fiends, the Jesus freak.
The one who has been a bit of it all.
We breathe cedar and strain our backs.
We swear and tease and laugh.
We do it for the pay cheque,
but we do it because of you.
These mills are obsolete now,
but yours works.

"Six be sixes to the Germans.
They turn 'em into camps
and sell those to the Japs!
What would Henry and Eddie say?"

We both know those old vets would say the same thing.
"Work, and damn the rest."


I see you at your perch.
One elbow on the table.
One hand on your knee,
cigarette burning.
Coke bottle glasses on a bulbous nose.
You've just made a point. Taken a drag.
You squint your smile. I nod.
You speak of horses and sleds and old trucks with no brakes.
You do it with authority.
You value hard work, and the men and women who do it.

You curse those who don't, who won't.

We share your bottle, small glasses of rye and Pepsi.
In my mind we're always alone, though I know that's not true.
Dad is there in the rocker.
Edna bustles about the kitchen chatting politely, lighting you up with her smile.
(Her faded shadow filled you with grief.)
People drop in to pay for loads of wood,
to pay back money they've borrowed,
or just to have a drink with the Squire.

I'll tell you something now,
something I could never have said when you were alive.
Men don't say such things
(they shy away from them like they would
from the blast of a furnace
or a bucking chainsaw.)
I loved you like a father. Like an uncle.
Like a friend.

A long time after and half a world away,
and I'm crying in a bar in Kowloon.

Your saw is silent, Squire.
Seven quiet, lonely years
we've not heard its whine.
Blades are rusted, belts are rotten.
Nothing works.

Indelible Marks I

It's been nearly ten years, old man, since last we talked.
You weren't old then, of course.
You were far too young for the fate that met you.

Either way, ten years has passed.

I see us scratching our heads, staring at your pumpkin,
Behemoth that she was.

You scratched because you wanted to move 400 pounds of her to Fredericton the day after your daughter's wedding.
We scratched because of you, and because of the awe in which we held you.

I had ruined your most promising onions that day.
Eager to please you, I'd zealously washed them, and peeled them back,
Taken off their papery exterior to show off their dark red skin, ruining them.
You reproved me in your gentle, funny way,
Taught me the importance of their cracked and dry covering.

You gave me tomatoes that day that I placed in my dorm window,
And ate with relish as they ripened.

Ten years and I still cry when I think of you.
Luckily, I still smile, too. And laugh. And love.

I wonder what you'd think of changes, how you'd react to new situations.

Some nights your laugh still carries up the river.

Who knew mowing the lawn after dark could be so emotional?