The rectangular white plate bears three pieces of seaweed wrapped tuna and yellowtail encased in transparent tempura, garnished with lentil cole slaw and lemongrass mayo….

Ok, I’ve trolled this picture gallery before. It’s classic Fashionista, global fusion rendered as Mondrian or Picasso or Riopelle. Too stunning to eat. But Michael, the pro taster who’s come along to George this evening, declares there’s atleast six textures/flavours in this minimalist beauty and they’re lingering happily in the taste zone. I am meanwhile having my own epiphany with a Dutch still life, an upturned saturno holding a tender butter poached chunk of lobster with roasted pumpkin, quinoa relish and gooseberry jam. We’re not quite sure we’ve grasped all the flavours because the garnishes are so small but Stephanie, our server is infinitely helpful. Even so, I challenge anyone to say they can actually taste quinoa or goosefoot, a bland pseudo-cereal from the foothills of the Andes.

But what’s one flavour among so many we agree as we sip a Renoir of a Languedoc Viognier, The chef Lorenzo Loreto carries the Fashionista banner with élan. George is housed in Verity, the woman’s club on Queen St. E., an old curiosity shop of a restaurant, a renovated industrial building with a low conspiratorial ceiling, candles and twinkling window panes. The Dickensian motif is continued in the steps-down open kitchen where skullcapped cooks toil away under the gaze of lolling diners. The open kitchen is the equivalent of breaking down the fourth wall in theatre, in this case bringing cook and eater closer together the better I assume to communicate.

Yes, everything about George shouts politics. Great. Finally food has escaped the stifling embrace of Betty Crocker and all those cover girls in gingham aprons hugging apple pies. Now it’s controversial, part of the conversation as we argue over the what’s, the where’s the how’s of the food we’re eating. Loreto himself is on the Benriner blade of culinary politics. He’s at once a Fashionista and a paid up member of Pasionara – the locavore, organic-head army. He offers weekly commentary on food in Ecclesiastes 3 (www.georgeonqueen.com). This is chef as advocate and egghead – thank goodness he hasn’t forgotten how to cook. For lunch I taste his rare veal foie burger – sublime.

Fashionista, which also includes molecular cuisine, is a significant trend in Toronto. It is paradoxical. Global fusion is reactionary, a retort to the individualism that defines our moment. On the other hand, Fashionista caters to individuals by sorting small plates and small portions in several courses. You can eat as much or as little as you like.

The flavours are sometimes undercut by a chef’s own limitations. The chef has to have a perfect palate to fashion startling combos that wow the diner without turning her off. I still recoil from the memory of the nauseating sugared salmon made by TV Fashionista, Iron Chef Morimoto. Guy Rubino, Toronto’s seminal fashionista at Rain, where Loreto used to cook, does much better with a caramelized crust on squab. At C5 in the ROM, Teddy Corrado, another Rain alumnus, has his own global riff: Tuna Tataki, Tuna Tartare with Edamame rice, charred watermelon, ponzu gelee. I know I know. How do you char watermelon and still have melon?

The unresolved conflict in global fusion is between east and west. French cuisine, still the root of European cooking, subtly blends ingredients, herbs and spices. In Asia, the assertive peanut, lemongrass, ginger and coconut are what make street food so alluring but they can easily dominate complex recipes. Loreto is endlessly inventive with east-west permutations. Sometimes they work brilliantly. I inhale astringent iodine from the lobster squash broth, just a few spoonfuls with a little arborio rice cake and lump of lobster and a puff of cilantro foam. But lemongrass, an off-lemon flavour, overwhelms the Thai Curry Romano beef broth that accompanies an otherwise juicy duck confit. On the other hand, the chick pea curry glaze enhances rare muscovy duck breast. Now that’s novel – a grapefruit glaze on crispy lobster and turnip fritter. Hold the costive turnip I say when my fork sticks in the dense fishcake balanced on braised boar belly.


Pasionaras have the Nanny Tendency. Eat those organic greens including lean grassfed meat. I prefer my grass straight. All the same I’ve never eaten elk, a nanny-okayed meat. Another skinny plate - this time from the atelier of Francis Bacon. Three thick pink slices of elk shortloin are admirably tender but don’t taste of grass or for that matter anything else. Thank god for the genius of the system that was French classic cuisine – it has left chefs a core of superlative basic recipes aka lifesavers. The elk gets a second chance from the rich, dark, haunting demi-glace sauce, one of the system’s mother sauces. Fiona Lim, the executive sous chef, is in charge of the kitchen tonight, and she tweaks the sauce with tarragon. Some of the plates arrive with surprises. A tasty little stuffed artichoke accompanies the elk. And Michael’s duck breast is garnished with a spoonful of a uniquely delicious ratatouille, tiny diced vegetables, each one with its own distinct flavour, rather than the usual grey glop embittered by the nightshade family, eggplant, peppers, tomatoes.

I look for a flyaway Fragonard among the desserts. At dinner, a gallimaufry of pears and cactus pears dies on the plate, and the chocolate chestnut millefeuille sinks under its own weight.Lunch at George instead for absolutely OTT cinnamon-dusted beignets with hot chocolate filling.

GM Noise rating: No music; chat tolerant when resto is not full.

*** George 111 Queen St. E.416-863-6006. Open Lunch weekdays, Dinner Tues-Sat. Dinner: Food plus tax $154