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.
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