The finesse fish I tasted

Did you ever enjoy grilled fish, fresh from the furnace?
I did.
When I was a teenager in Toronto, we had an Armenian next-door neighbour, Ed, who was a man of all talents, and a well-respected carpet merchant. His wife, Winnifred, was a classical pianist who gave lessons to a number of students, most of conservatory-level talent, on a baby grand piano which was large enough to fill the dining room of their 1.5 storey 1940's house. The piano stood on a very fine maroon persian rug, of course, leaving just enough room left for the student and her master to sit at the keyboard, metronome ticking. But Ed always saw to it that there were fresh flowers on the piano.

Everyone called Ed what sounded like "Hopar" to my ears, a term of endearment and respect meaning "uncle", I was told. He adored his wife and her music and her students. He would sit in the kitchen for hours over an espresso and absorb the many repetitions of Schumann and Brahms (and the Liszt goes on) whom most pianists would find difficult to perform, waiting for Chopin and Mozart. If neither of these was forthcoming within a reasonable time (two espressos), he would disappear to the basement, where he had built a darkroom.

In his country of birth, Ed had been a professional photographer. That is, he took the pictures (often using a view camera with its enormous plates) and processed them whether in color or B&W, the latter being his creative favourite.

When he came to Canada, he was mentored by a previous immigrant who was a rug seller, and in due course, opened his own shop south of the 401 highway on Avenue Road. None of these merchants were in competition with each other: they were a community and most were directly related, so they would lend a hand when one was needed.

Hopar and I became great friends: I spent many a summer leisure hour in conversation with him in the back yard. He planted a mulberry tree (later to be known as "that damned mulberry"... a term my father coined when out in his garden rooting up the weeds and the unstoppable progeny of the tree, even though it was on the far side of Ed's yard.)

One summer, Ed gave me a job at his store for two weeks while his regular help was on vacation. I typed invoices, confirmed installations with customers, kept payment records and when things were slow, tacked down expensive rugs on the floor of the shop and sprinkled dry cleaner and vacuumed them. New shipments would arrive, and we would wrestle them into the storage area. It was fascinating, tiring and he even paid me, although I would have worked for him for nothing.

Ed's accent rendered the "i" as a long "e" in English, and the reverse. So one day I found myself puzzled for a moment or two when I saw him spreading fertilizer on his extensive border garden. I asked what it was, and he said, "The very best ship sheet."

Nevertheless it was Ed's tending, care and advice that nursed a sparse wisteria vine on his side of our back porch from a pathetic trellis of six or seven vines to an impenetrable forest of violet cascades and dark green leafiness. And his roses and cucumbers were paragons of their species.

One summer day, Ed invited me to dinner, and said that we were going to have greelled feesh. I knew it would be good. We went inside, but rather than to the stove, we descended to the basement. Ed opened the furnace. Inside was a steel tray of coals, sitting on the big circular burner that was part of the typical coal-to-gas conversion. On it was a grill, and on that were three white fish, that from my cloistered experience of mainly breaded fish sticks, I failed to recognize.



Hopar turned them over gently, closed the door, and went into the darkroom to show me his latest work. From the drying line he unclipped this picture. Five minutes later, we retrieved the perfectly grilled whatever-it-was, repaired to the kitchen, and with certain fresh additions from the garden, sat down in the guest bedroom, now converted to a dining area. Beethoven thundered from the music room. The metronome ticked relentlessly. But the furnace fish was finesse fish. I have not tasted its like since.


New owners inhabit our houses now. The music and the strong Armenian coffee are long gone. I have no idea what transpires in the neighbourhood these days, except that the price of those houses has increased more than tenfold. But I have no better wish for you than that you may enjoy neighbours on all your boundaries like Ed and Winnie.

(I wrote this with Canadian spellings in honour of my favourite neighbour who did me so many favours.)