Move over Veuve Clicquot

As it turns out, turning 41 is about as easy as turning 40. A smidge easier even as there were no “oh my God I’m turning 40” panic attacks.

All you have to do is wake up and have someone make you a yummy breakfast of bacon, French toast (made using challah bread), eggs and fresh fruit. Oh, and make sure they warm up the maple syrup and put in fresh blueberries. You don’t want cold syrup to ruin nice warm toast and stop the melting butter.

Then you go to the DMV to renew your license and find out that since 40, they have instituted a $60 “city tax” (that was the only bad part of the day ~ David Miller, you stink!) but at least I got in the “if it is your actual birthday today” express line. There is no such thing, but as I walked straight to a wicket, I told myself I was getting VIP service.

When you get home, you need to find a red oval Le Creuset Dutch oven that gets you a little more excited in your pants than it should. You can ignore the card that says “Farting Is An Art” on the front and “Happy Birthday Rembrandt” on the inside. That is just rude.

As nothing says turning 41 like a trip to Costco, you can throw in that too. However, stay away from the cheese samples. I have never met a cheese, or many other things, that I could not swallow, but their “apple cheddar” tasted like I licked that ass of a long dead monkey. So gross, I had to discreetly spit it in my hanky.

If someone happens to ask you what you would like to do for your birthday and afternoon tea is your thing, then the Windsor Arms is the place to go. IronMan had asked earlier in the week what I wanted to do and I hadn’t given it much thought so I booked us in. It was a nice way to spend the afternoon, especially given the cold drizzling weather we had. Not a huge fan to their Colin and Justin make-over in the one room, so we asked to be moved to the “traditional” side.

Oh, and you will enjoy your tea a lot more if beforehand you get a surprise massage in the spa on the fourth floor. Especially if your masseuse is a burly Greek boy named George. The massage was of the Swedish variety, not the Greek. Alas, not every day can be perfect.

And since you are on a tour of Europe, why not wrap things up with a pleasant evening reminiscent of your 40th? Provence Délices is a Cabbagetown restaurant I have walked by numerous times and last night was able to enjoy their wares. IronMan hesitated in making reservations having read some of the on-line reviews, but a friend assured him the food was worth it even if the service was a little lackluster. Kind of like Cuba, but in reverse.

Granted, the waiter’s constant “you are very welcome” sounded a bit forced and I am sure were the result of his reading reviews about himself, and he could have used a shower, but really, to me, that just added to the authentic French experience. As Karen Walker says, “the French, peeyoo and blah blah blah….”

The above mentioned friend also made the evening special by introducing me to my new favourite champagne – Georges Gardet. Before I could order anything gin related, an ice bucket was set on the table and the pop of the cork was heard. So delicious! And as IronMan is a teetotaler, I was forced to polish it off by myself. I vaguely heard something to the effect of “you don’t have to drink the whole thing” a couple times. Luckily, the sound of the bubbles drowned that out.

I indulged, as I am wont to do, in Foie Gras, but have to say that IronMan’s Charcuterie was the blue ribbon winner when it came to appetizers. That, and the piping hot baguette they smack right on the table, would be more than enough for two people.

Much like the new Dutch Oven, my Choucroute Garnie got me more excited in the trouser area than it should have. However, at 41, I hear I should take that movement wherever and whenever I can get it.

If you simply follow the above steps, substituting things you like to do where applicable of course, you too can ease into your 41st year.