»You can read me the riot act.

Strolling down Alberta Street, saw a yard full of chopper bikes, a porch full of punkrock, and a street chock-full of food vendors.

Belly-dancers and oud players, glittering pink-bedizened ballerinas, six-foot-tall choppers, endless steel-drum barbecues, jigsaw art ...

... frustrating attempts to obtain beer, first a forgetful but friendly waiter named Brooks who brought me a shandy but forgot all other beer at the table; then a pleasant but pointless hostess who cleared a nice sunny table for us, but negelected to tell us that we needed to go inside to procure comestibles. A half-hour wait at the next pleasant beer garden we saw; and then a nice pub further down the street, with an obscure and romantic patio but distinctly snooty service. Said one as she brought out the food we ordered, "You'll have to go inside to get more beer; we're very busy." And she then came back with the rest of the food, asked "Do you need anything else?" in a pleasant way and immediately walked off as we contemplated getting another pitcher.