Can General Tso march uptown?
Should Toronto restaurants come with a Best Before date? A couple of months on the job and I’ve come away dismayed from several restaurants which won plaudits last year. What’s going on? Surely restaurants are not letting themselves slip once the reviews are in? I have a suggestion: instead of going twice to restaurants when they open, maybe reviewers should go only once and then return in a few months just to make sure.
Lai Toh Heen has just been given the hi-sign as one of the best new restaurants of 2007 by Toronto Life.. Will this be the breakthrough Chinese food experience for me? I know Chinese cuisine can be complex and subtle from the occasional piece of eye-opening dim sum, and from the Mongolian-American restaurant Susanna Foo in Philadelphia where I ate a never-to-be forgotten tea-smoked squab. I’ve only found it matched by chef Neil Baxter at Rundles in Stratford.
Instead, my idea of Chinese food is an Asian version of Big Macs, sinostyle fast food, pungent takeaways and drop-ins to the ruggerscrum of a Chinese restaurant where you struggle through the masses for a seat, shout to be heard and are identified only by number.
I had a fave greasy spoon called Champion House - now shuttered - where they banged a gong when the Beijing Duck came out and served 3-fire-alarm Gongbao shrimp – erratically. I never knew whether the food would be as good as last time because Champion House, like all Chinese restaurants of my acquaintance, had a revolving door for chefs, or as the writer Saki quipped “She was a good cook as cooks go, and as cooks go, she went.” There was no communication between Chinese hosts and our Western selves. They didn’t speak much English, we spoke no Chinese. To them we undoubtedly looked all alike. We joked about being hungry again in an hour, a joke since been amended by the avalanche of cheap Chinese products. Now it’s “I hardly finished eating before my Made-in-China sweater started unraveling.”
Going uptown must mean better communication. I want in to the world’s oldest-running civilization. First impression: Lai Toh Heen is elegantly black and silver. I know from a Californian blogger what upscale means in today’s Chongquin – hostesses in long lavendar dresses with matching rabbit chubbies (short fur jackets). But we didn’t get a chance to spot any kind of a chubbie before we were whisked into a small back room redolent only of a viewing chamber in a mortuary. It’s even got concealed strip lighting and Muzak. The only other mourners are a gloomy couple who share with us their irritation at not getting the pan-seared scallops they ordered.
Two things strike me. First, either the restaurant thinks that surroundings don’t matter. After all,Confucius, who wrote the bible for Chinese eating, never mentioned décor. He concentrated, like today’s nutritionists, on food as fuel, the higher starch the better.
Alternatively, Lai Toh Heen believes its food is so good that we won’t notice we’re sitting in a mortuary.
Well that gets blown apart almost immediately. I’ve invited along the Gourmand Couple who eat regularly at Eisenginn Farm, the cathedral of food in these parts, with the promise of a unique Chinese experience. Beijing Duck is perfect for four. “Hah” says the Skeptic – “you gotta count. If the duck comes out too quickly, it’s been deep fried rather than roasted.” Apprehensive, we sample the soup Hot and Sour is glutinously pink and mild. The eyebrows of the Gourmand Couple rise simultaneously. Why, you can eat spicier, tastier Hot and Sour from Soup’s On’s version at the supermarket. The Skeptic reports the Wonton soup is listless.
The Beijing Duck takes atleast twenty minutes and looks wonderful, like a shard of French polished walnut, but the little pancakes curl drily and the glistening crackly skin is lined with unwanted fat. Sill even a second class combination of skin,scallion and pancake tastes good – then the second course arrives, a terminally bland mixture of chopped duck and veg on an iceberg lettuce leaf.
The Gourmand Couple had in mind juicy fried orders, remembered from eating on Chesapeake Bay. What they get is unrecognizeable as the conventional oyster. I had high hopes for tea-smoked shrimp: the shrimp look real but we have to check the menu to find out whether they were meant to come with flavour.
We have a last wistful glimpse of the Shanghai we missed as the Skeptic hails the valet for his car. The bill is $10 and the Skeptic asks for change for a twenty spot.The valet asks “How much should I take?”
To restore my belief that there is a Wizard of Oz er great Chinese cooking, I drop by Cha Liu, a little dim sum place above Eglinton. The steamers are slapped down one two three on the table, the server barely notices us, same old same old. But not the tastes! Fried Salmon Milk custard bar is sensational, Fried taro and chicken cake is a little hemisphere of stuffed light pastry, Fried shrimp and mango roll is a crunch of fried scented cream….. Get over here Lai Toh Heen and take instruction! I ask our server what is the sauce on the table. “Spicy sauce” he says tightlipped. Then he gives a slight smile. When we order more, he smiles more. By the end of the meal, he shows teeth. Finally, we’re communicating – great food’s done the trick.
*Lai Toh Heen 692 Mount Pleasant Road
(one block south of Eglinton)416-489-8922
Food plus tax:$140 Wines by glass start $7.50. Uninspired wine list. No wheelchair access.
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Saturday, April 21
Saturday, April 14
SPICE R00M
by
Gina Mallet
on Sat 14 Apr 2007 11:38 AM EDT
Comeback Kid
By Gina Mallet Wearing a blue knitted cap with his whites, Greg Couillard makes pals of the diners in his new spot, Spice Room & Chutney Bar in Hazelton Lanes, a suburban-lonely mall, lit by heartless fluorescents and patrolled by the ghosts of the city ís golden age ñ the eighties. That was Mr. Couillard ís golden age too when-doing-your-own hadnít yet morphed into mantra, and foodie was a brand new definition. Twenty years ago, I piled into a taxi with a bunch of new-minted foodies and scooted along Queen Street West to Couillardís Stelle, a shiny white box of a restaurant coloured violent red, purple, viridian by the palate-numbing flavours of Jump Up Soup. How deliciously novel - as was the boisterous Mr. Couillard. Toronto was smaller then and so was the cityís restaurant culture. Wherever you went ñ to celeb central, the Yoohoo CafÈ as Sid Adilman dubbed the Courtyard CafÈ, an amusing aviary in the Windsor Arms Hotel - to the raucous Noodles Pasta Bar, to Lotus where Susur Lee cooked in a way he has never again cooked, to Stadtlander where you waited five hours to finish a meal, to Scaramouche, still stately after all these years, to Beaujolais, opened by Vancouverites Barbara Gordon and Bob Bermann, to John Maxwellís clone of Broadwayís Joe Allen, to Sandy Staggís Fiesta which offered Chicken in Bondage, homage to Rough Trade ñ you ran into someone you knew. And of course Fenton’s which symbolized Torontoís coming of age as a food destination. When I was theatre critic for the Toronto Star, I used to take visiting firemen to Fentonís, Ralph Lauren channelling Henleyís Leander Club. They sipped Leek and Stilton soup and ordered Eton Mess with pleased surprise. How Toronto had changed was a theme of all conversation. ìFrom nothingî said Sir John Gielgud one of the last great stars of the English stage to play the Royal Alex, ìto a sophisticated cityî. Lunching at Fentonís, Expatriate Bernard Braden who had fled Hogtown to become a BBC star, said he was tempted to move back, . As the piano player ripples out ìYou must remember thisÖî, I have a tweak of pain as I watch an older, humbler Mr. Couillard work a room of people whoíve never heard of Stelle or know that heís the last individualist, a chef whoís ricocheted from kitchen to kitchen all over town. Most of his contemporaries are either gone or settled into executive chefdom. Fusion, his original calling card, is often criticized as confusion. His ace was fiery spice, but now heís aced by fiery multicultural cuisines. Yet here he is with Jump Up Caribe style still on the menu ñ What brass! This guy is one hell of a survivor. Heís morphed shock into something more subtle, the room is a symphony of sand and black, a page out of House and Garden featuring African gracious living. The lighting is so low that itís hard to see the menu, the table lantern having been designed to flatter aging women on safari. The trek guides are all charming. The menu is printed on gold paper roams the world and cries out for translation. Michael, who has come along hoping spice will clear his sinuses, explains the references. Lamu is an island in the Indian ocean. What is Nonya as in Nonyaís peppered beef tenderloin? Answer: someoneís Malaysian grandmother. Another question: why is it always assumed that grandmothers were good cooks? Pakora (vegetable fritter) mash invites. We hover over the lobster and seafood bisque but coconut cream tends to drown other tastes. We share and enjoy the fresh acid tinctures in spicy Afro Samurai, slices of seared raw tuna on wakame (Japanese seaweed) , crunchy jicama coleslaw, quartered figs and a black sesame seed cone. Pomegranate seeds and slivers of pineapple are strewn on the plate and they seem to pop up on other plates too.. We pick duck and wonder. Michael says ìduck itself doesnít taste of anything.î Surely Lucknow Breast, suggesting the influence of the greatest of all spicemeisters, the Indians, will correct that. Too bad then that the sliced duck breast, while tender and rare, hasnít been tea-smoked long enough and the sticky tamarind, pomegranate and star anise molasses doesnít register beyond sweet. Zanzibar Rubbed Berbere lamb is very good indeed. An incendiarily-spiced rack of lamb glazed with tomato, jaggery (unrefined sugar), and fig and cooked perfectly to order, medium rare. ìFinally!î cries Michael sneezing happily. The free range young chicken doesnít have the chops of lamb, which can hold its own with any spice. Even so, a dip in a bath of yogurt, cardamom, garlic, green chili and coriander isnít enough to give it coherent flavour. At the same time cous cous pearls with mango and date are a nice idea. We end with Japonaise Orange Blossom, a tower of praline meringue and mascarpone which is an excellent way to end a spicy meal, if only the meal had been more spicy. I’m too impatient. The restaurant has been open only three weeks and itís still finding itself as Mr. Couillard is quick to tell customers. Fair enough. Spice Room is also a reminder that dining out isnít just about the food, itís an experience involving all the senses - including memory. The past is another country; they do things differently there ìwrote the novelist L.P Hartley. Fusion may be yesterday but Mr. Couillardís take has the freshness of nostalgic naivete ñ like taking a trip to eat schnitzel in old Vienna. **Thanks for the memory. Spice Room & Chutney Bar, 55 Avenue Road (Hazelton Lanes) 416-935-0000. Dinner: Tues-Sat. Food: dinner for two with tax: $150. Reasonable wine list. Glasses start at $7. Wheelchair accessible. : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : Saturday, April 7
VERTICAL
by
Gina Mallet
on Sat 07 Apr 2007 07:03 PM EDT
Scaling the Heights
“Where is Vertical?” I ask the security guard at Canadian Place. “You go left, then right, then left, then up the escalator then right and then left.” I step off the escalator to be anesthetized by the fermented soy and multicultural grease billowing from the fast food joins in Canadian Place’s vast food ghetto. But “where’s Vertical?” I ask a cleaning lady.” Well, you go left, then right, then left, just beyond Jimmy’s.’ My eyes uncross just enough to spot the little sign Vertical. If it took me more than ten minutes to reach Vertical via the yak route, it took Ken who’s meeting me, double that. He took the Lhotse Face route by following signs on King Street that led him to hike up outdoor steps to the mezzanine and a locked door. It wasn’t until he threatened to break it down that kindly Food Court personnel let him in. Once we remove our oxygen masks and rehydrate, we look around. Vertical is a square room with views you wouldn’t want to see shrouded with sheers, and a scarlet-tented ceiling punctuated by fat lozenges of lights. It’s a riff on a sultana’s boudoir. But after initial amazement, we don’t laugh. The room works. It’s friendly and it’s relatively quiet considering it’s packed for lunch with Bay Streeters celebrating TGIF with bottles of wine and lots of gossip. Best of all, from the moment the fresh baked bread lands on the table with a glass of prosecco, I get this niggle of anticipation that the food here is going to be good. In fact, it turns out to be excellent. Ken earns his living by watching TV. He eats vicariously via the Food Network. He says he’s looking forward to the real thing. “ Nigella just opens the fridge door and pulls out everything and cooks it.” How about St Jamie (Oliver). ‘He’s got chubby.” His eyes roll back at the mention of The Barefoot Contessa. “I thought I’d be seeing a rerun of the Ava Gardner movie –instead she’s a Hamptons hostess.” Vertical’s menu is posh Italian which means hold the cheese and canned tomato and don’t overdo the “evoo”– “What is “evoo” and why does Rachael Ray slosh it on everything?” asks Ken. Chef Tewfik Shehata uses Extra Virgin Olive Oil discreetly - he has compiled a menu of austere but robust flavours. Hard to decide what to eat from this tempting list. Twice cooked pork belly garnished with mustard, or gnudi, ricotta gnocchi made with mushrooms rapini and parmesan. Grouper is roasted and comes with blood orange marmellatar (a rare slip into menu bafflegab), a slowcooked veal breast….Finally, Ken picks two big scallops, cured so they’re tangy, then seared to perfection with blood orange vinaigrette. Ken thinks that Martha Stewart did scallops interestingly, but he’s gone off her. “She’s patronizing.’ No wonder. Celeb-mad Food network has robbed Martha of teacher-diva status and made her put up with jokester stars like Oscar,Tony,Emmy,& Grammy Award Winner Whoopi Goldberg. I pick lobster and crab ravioli and cross my fingers. This luxury mixture sounds great but is often cloying, rich paste, richer sauceHere they are light and lucid, two large ravioli stuffed with salty strands and fibres of shellfish and draped with tomato-lobster sauce, yes you can have tasty fresh tomato sauce in these days of ever-advancing tomato technology. Branzino is the Venetian’s favourite fish, one of the many bass that swim the sea. You can call a fish anything and get away with it – there is no fish-naming protocol. The little pan-seared filets come from a fish farm-raised in the Mediterranean and flown here from Greece, but the fish is still sweet and tender and complemented by the bitterness of sautéed arugula. I order lamb osso buco which is terrific, lamb melting off the bone and if I use my knife I can winkle out a little bone marrow, accompanied by a few wellcooked green beans and little chunks of roasted celeriac. “When I watch Emeril, I feel full before he’s even cooked anything” says Ken who is sending for the dessert menu. Mr. Shehata not only has a nuanced food personality but he has a delicate touch: after two courses, we feel satisfied but not full, a tribute saved for the finest eating experiences. And how great it is to have a food’s identity stamped firmly on a single big plate, rather than lots of little mix’n’match plates that often seem interchangeable. More surprise to come. Desserts are usually grace notes, the end of the arc of a meal. “Who’s the pastry chef?” I ask our peripatetic waiter who covers the room with élan. He says “Carla – but she’s not here.” He adds hastily “ But she was here this morning to make the desserts.” He then delivers two superb plates, an airy but smooth chocolate cake with sprinkles of sea salt and crème fraiche, and a caramelized pear with hazelnut gelato. CarlaTK has beautifully balanced the sugar with the taste of the ingredients. The icecream is revelatory, full of crunchy chopped nuts. Pastry cooks are too often marginalized as specialists. I hope Ms. TK is ambitious, perhaps even channelling Michel Richard, author of this year’s cookbook phenom Happy in the Kitchen. Mr. Richard is a pastry chef turned master chef and restaurauteur – he transforms and reinvents savoury dishes with pastrymaking techniques. We’re reluctant to leave and rope up for the descent. Climbing down is worse than climbing up according to Everest summiteers. From the bar, Canadian Place’s Hillary Step looks daunting, a crazy pavement of steps going in all directions. We make the street safely full of praise for Vertical, - and advice. This chef deserves better access. Go horizontal, get a street storefront and call it Safe Harbour. *** Not to be missed.. Vertical. First Canadian Place, mezzanine at 100 King St. W.416 214 2252. Lunch plus tax: $115 Wines by glass:$8 up. Good wine list; BYOB $45. Wheelchair access |
PRAISE FOR LAST CHANCE TO EAT, The Fate of Taste in a Fast Food World Gina Mallet is right about absolutely everything. Part explanation, part memoir, part manifesto, Last Chance to Eat explains where it all went wrong - and what we can do about it. An invaluable antidote to the dark forces who want to deprive us of the good stuff..... Anthony Bourdain, author of Kitchen Confidential. This Month
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