“You eat meat, right?” Jason Momoa asks as we go through his meantime Toronto home—a three-story Victorian—right into the yard, where 2 huge tomahawk rib-eyes hiss and also smoke over a radiant grill.
“Here, grab one,” he claims, seizing up the piece of meat, childish smile smeared throughout his signaturely furry face. The extreme welcoming appears middle ages, timeless Momoa—downright Dothraki—so I do as Khal Drogo advises, standing up a smoldering, frenched rib bone simply enough time for a selfie.
Checking the picture, Momoa concerns the following instruction. “We can’t post these,” he claims poignantly. “You can see the houses behind us.” It’s weird to listen to a male that personifies nomadic warlords and also looming superheroes acknowledge to such preventative measure. But unintentionally exposing your specific area to 16 million Instagram followers is a no-no, whether he’s hanging below or at his real house in Los Angeles’ Topanga Canyon.
There are various other pictures that he’s even more anxious to share, particularly of an antique Land Rover simply protected in a swap for 2 vintage Harley-Davidson choppers, an uncommon profession from his collection. “I usually just hoard everything when it comes to bikes and trucks and cars.”
One may think as a lot from the ’36, ’37, and also ’39 Harley knuckleheads parked on the premises. “Those are just my choppers. My other bikes are on the way here,” he confesses. “I love them all—knuckles, pans, shovels. They’re all different, they all sound great, and they’re all fucking awesome.”
And though he hungers for the noise “when you kickstart the bike and the motor growls right back at you,” the self-proclaimed “gas and oil guy” understands it’s a guilty satisfaction. As an intense supporter for ocean health, he’s making the change to electrical. “A lot of my trucks have been converted into e-vehicles,” he claims. “I run solar power, and I love Harley’s electric LiveWire. You twist the throttle and jump to 100 miles an hour in three or four seconds. It’s a whole different sport, and there ain’t nothin’ about it except—bravo!”