Talking a walk on the Via Allegro

“How about lunch at Via Allegro?” I asked my daughter Jennifer a bit more than a year ago.  Jen had been wildly studying for a qualifying exam the week of her birthday and away the following weekend, making now the first available time for a belated birthday luncheon.

“Oh, yes, please.” Via Allegro in Toronto is one of our favourite restaurants, albeit one we can’t afford to patronize too often. Its over-the-top, sunny Italian garden/courtyard décor could make a terminally depressed person feel like singing. And its food? Mamma mia, its food is to-die-for. The rabbit pappardelle, infused with truffle oil? Mmmmmm……….I could eat a little of it every day.

I first discovered Via Allegro in 2000. Driving back from a day of business in Niagara, I decided I was too tired to cook. I’ll check out that greasy spoon in the plaza across from Sherway Gardens, grab a burger and read my book.  Well, when I pushed open the door of Via Allegro, what a shock I got! Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, I took in the starched white tablecloths, the mile-high wine list, the fabulous food being delivered to elegant diners, and changed my mind. The hostess quickly changed it back. “We’ll be happy to serve you in the dining room,” she said, “but if you insist on the bar, that’s wonderful, too.” I sneaked into the bar, ordered a glass of wine and tried to decide what would substitute for a burger. Veal chop? Oh, yeah! I cracked open my book and took my first sip of a very delicious Chardonnay. The bar attendant approached. “You don’t have enough light to read there,” she protested. “Let me get you a lamp.” Oh my God, I’ve died and alighted in Restaurant Heaven.

But more than anything, Via Allegro conjures up two words for us: foie gras. So we ordered  the foie gras  torchon to share as our starter. We would each have our own order, but I’m not supposed to eat it. High cholesterol and foie gras may not be the best pairing ever! I ordered a gorgeous sauterne to go with the gorgeous liver, the thinnest possible nut-fruit toast, and the most scrumptious accompaniments that make up Via Allegro’s Quebec foie gras plate.

“Good choice,” said the waiter, and disappeared to put in our order.

We were joined a few moments later by another gentleman, a long, slim bottle in his hand. “You ordered sauterne,” he said, “and that’s a classic pairing with foie gras, but I think I have something better.”

My children and I are food hedonists; we are all up for “something better”! Our ears perked up.

“Donald Ziraldo’s new icewine,” proclaimed our new friend, as if he were announcing the re-birth of Christ.

Donald, one of the brains behind Inniskillin Wines and now the owner of Ziraldo Estate Winery, is an old friend from my Niagara days, but I obviously hadn’t had much contact recently if I didn’t know that he had a new icewine. I’d seen him earlier in the spring when we both happened to drop by to visit my former partner, Ruedi Hafen of Niagara Helicopters. Donald hadn’t mentioned a new icewine.

“Just released,” he added, explaining why Donald hadn’t mentioned it.

He poured us a wee taste each. Exquisite sweetness, hints of apricot. We sipped and ordered two glasses. Icewine is normally too sweet for me (I’m more a cognac kind of girl) but this combined beautifully with the rich fattiness of the foie gras—a match like Bonnie and Clyde! Gold, pure gold.

In fact, the icewine we enjoyed is a re-release of Ziraldo’s 2007 Riesling Icewine. My daughter and I agreed that sitting in Via Allegro with each other on a rainy day, nibbling foie gras and sipping my old friend’s “new” icewine was about as good as it gets. And then she snapped a photo with her Blackberry and sent it to her chef brother in Halifax with the note: “Wish you were here.” Or did that message have a question mark at the end?

On Mother’s Day this year, my daughter invited me back to Via Allegro. I happily complied. Visions of rabbit pappardelle danced in my head.

The same warm greeting…..the same sunny courtyard…….new chef……..what would Via Allegro be like without long-time Executive Chef Lino Collevecchio? Well, in a word it’s torchon-less. There’s still foie gras on the menu, but it’s seared. Is the Ziraldo icewine stil available? Alas, that’s all gone, too, so we opt to share a carpaccio plate.

The arrival of a basket of breads and a dish of hummus/olive tapenade reminds

Jennifer that she’s miffed that she’s been recently diagnosed with a wheat allergy. She sneaks a little bite anyway and I graciously allow her the lion’s share of the dip.

At our request, sommelier Wendy Votto arrives to consult with us on our wine choices. We explain what we plan to order, and after tasting a couple of  suspects, we settle on a California pinot noir that proves to be quite a hit.

The carpaccio is amazing, as usual, with dribbles of wonderful olive oil, shavings of aged parmesan reggiano, and dressed arugula. If we ate nothing else, Via Allegro would be worth the visit. Their carpaccio is my measure for all others.

Jennifer orders the salmon, I decide on something other than my old rabbit standby: Tuscan ribs with a pasta/cheese/pork osso bucco casserole. The dry ribs are lovely, tasty and meaty, but the accompanying casserole evokes “Oh, my God” responses first from me, and after a purloined forkful, my daughter. I eat as much as I can and decide I can’t bear the thought of leaving it there. It must come home with me.

Jen’s not elated about her choice. “The salmon smells off, Mom,” she says. “You sniff.” I’m a Newfie and if I know anything, it’s fish. The salmon is definitely fishy-smelling and a taste test shows it’s fishy-tasting as well. Not exactly Via Allegro standards. She eats the side dishes, and snitches off my plate. When our waiter, who hasn’t been exactly fawning, comes to remove the plates and Jen’s almost untouched salmon, we tell him our concerns abut the salmon—just so the kitchen knows. His attitude is, “Oh……REALLY?” Not much concern there.

We order the mixed gelato/sorbet plate. The decision prompts another: what to drink with it. Sommelier Wendy ushers us up to the bar where we sip on five choices from grappa to ice wine and decide on the medium sweetness, which happens to be a golden sauterne. That’s when I notice the gentleman who recommended the icewine on our earlier visit. When our waiter delivers the ices, I point out this man and ask, “Who is he?”

“That’s our manager,” he replies. We don’t get his correct title.

“My friend told me that the next time I’m here, I should introduce myself and say hi,” I say.

“And who’s your friend?”

I tell him. Seconds later, our gentleman is at the table. We chat about our mutual acquaintance for a few seconds, then he asks if everything is all right. Jen is about to say sure, when I think, what the hell, and tell him about her salmon. We assure him we tell him only so the chef knows there may be a problem. He is most disturbed. Has she had enough to eat, should he bring her something else? No, she nibbled on my food. Then should he bring me something else? We assure him we’re just fine. He says he will talk to other people who ordered the salmon.

The ices and the sauterne move us into cat-stretching-in-a-patch-of-sunshine mode. We are feeling very well-fed indeed, despite missing one protein!

When the bill comes, Jennifer’s offending fishie is not on it and the waiter, who has treated us deferentially till now, concentrating more on the tip-heavy tables of four and six perhaps, is most apologetic for not having immediately remedied the situation. We leave happy. As Jennifer pointed out, even good restaurants may occasionally have a “fail”, but the measure of a better restaurant is how they deal with it. Because of our gentleman friend’s handling of our problem, Via Allegro will remain one of the gems in our dining repertoire. We have learned a lesson: If there’s a problem, report it right away. The waiter has learned a lesson: If a guest reports a problem, deal with it right away. Bravo, Via Allegro!

Till next time, enjoy your night out.
Ev


Copyright 2011 by Ev McTaggart

Via Allegro

1750 The Queensway West (across from Sherway Gardens)

Toronto, ON 

416 622-6677

http://www.viaallegroristorante.com/

To be Frank, It Was Quite a Treat

It’s Wednesday and I have decided it’s time for my semi-regular mental health night. On mental health nights, instead of cooking dinner, I wander off by myself to explore some of Toronto’s newest and most glorified restaurants. (And later, ideally, write about them.)

So, it’s Wednesday in mid-April, a designated mental health night, and I am standing in front of Frank’s Kitchen, 588 College Street, minus a coat (because the weather has been mild and why drag around an extra few pounds?) and cold. I’m standing outside because I arrive there quarter to six. I search all the accumulated reviews decorating the outside walls and display windows, the actual windows, and the door for some intelligence of when they’ll open. Nothing. I see servers congregating inside; I shiver and sincerely hope it will be sooner than later. All the recent publicity (inclusion in various Top 10 New Restaurants lists) keeps me pacing and shivering, determined to stick it out and bathe myself in the Frank’s Kitchen experience.

“Do you have the time?” I ask a woman who, like me, loiters on the sidewalk.

“Don’t have my watch,” she replies, “but I was watching the news. Must be close to six.”

 Two minutes before I give up and look for an alternate dinner choice, the front door unlocks.

Inside, Frank’s Kitchen is……….warm. It’s not sophisticated, it’s not kitschy, it’s not overdone. But it is a helluva lot warmer than the sidewalk. And so is the welcome. There arises the inevitable question: Do you have a reservation? This being mid-week, I never thought to call ahead. The hostess’ brow furrows. There are no tables. I assure her I will gladly sit at the bar. There’s just me. That will be OK, she says, as long as I vacate by 8 p.m. because they have a private party coming who’ve booked the entire bar. On a Wednesday? It appears the accolades in the press have snagged more than me!

The hostess shows me to a bar stool and introduces me to Jessica, who will be my server this evening. Jessica hands me a menu, which though short on items, contains some of my very favourite foods—several of them in one appetizer dish. I have chosen my dinner from an eight-page leather-bound book faster than I make tonight’s dining decisions. Oysters Rockefeller (one of MY signature appetizers back in the early 1980s)? Tuna Tartare? So many good things; so little room. When Jessica returns, I don’t even allow her to rhyme off the day’s specials before informing her that I’ll have the beef carpaccio to start and the St. Jacob’s pork (three ways) for my main. (Later, sitting next to an agreeable couple, I discover the special was black cod—which I adore, but make all the time at home, so no harm done!)

The hostess seats another acolyte beside me: the woman from whom I’d requested the time earlier. Her husband is out of town and she, like me, plans to eventually eat her way through Toronto’s best.

Jessica brings me a glass of very passable Chardonnay, followed by a bread basket populated by a herb-encrusted roll and a small round brioche. Nestled beside the breads is a small bowl; a quenelle of green olive tapenade and another of sun-dried and cherry tomato spread are surrounded by the sheen of some lovely olive oil and a couple of sun-dried black olives. Jessica explains that Chef Frank makes all the breads himself fresh every day. The brioche, my intended victim, is warm and delightfully fluffy. My seat mate, who gets the same treatment (including the news about Chef Frank Parhizgar), and I discuss and rate eating establishments, between sips and bites .In a scant five minutes, the contents of my small bowl disappear. As I tell Jessica, I could have made a meal of the breads and spreads. Oh wait, I almost had.

My seat mate wisely orders two appetizers--the carpaccio and a tuna tartare—and skips an entree. I, piglet that I am, am trying to shift my bread load to the very bottom of my stomach to accommodate the many victuals to follow, when Jessica arrives at my place with another plate—this time, an amuse bouche, a tiny glass of cauliflower veloute  and a spoon of finely chopped, perfectly seasoned fresh salsa topped with a teeny, hand-rolled crisp potato croquette. I’m rapidly filling up and so far, it hasn’t cost me a cent. Magnifico.

The carpaccio comes……… Oh, the paper thin slices of fine red meat. Oh, the delightful al dente haricots verts chopped in tiny green circles. Oh oh oh, the torchon of foie gras nestled over the beans and topped with a few perfect frisee leaves and a delicate but sharp citrus-y vinaigrette. Oh my sweet lord, the shavings of black truffle. It should have been announced with a thunderous fanfare. I could seriously live on this dish. Sure, the torchon could have been a whole lot chillier, but I suspect part of the problem was my leaving the best till last, then slowly savouring the carpaccio et al as if it were a condemned man’s final meal. Sure, there was one rather stringy spot in the torchon, indicating that the liver had been slightly inadequately prepared before being immersed in salt. Small price to pay for the rest of perfection. I wish I had saved some of the brioche, but I am ashamed to ask for more, having devoured the bread basket wholly. I carefully portion my truffle slices so they last till the ultimate mouthful. I don’t lick the plate, but I want to!

The last time I had foie gras torchon was three months ago at Provence. Although most of my evening at Provence is better left undescribed, I have to admit that the torchon was quite magnificent and somewhat better textured than Frank’s, though it was served with an unmemorable jammy something and plain, untoasted baguette slices. The Frank’s Kitchen plate is almost pure delight, by comparison. Atmosphere matters.

Jessica approaches again, this time with another small plate on which sits a tiny orange ball topped with a minuscule chiffonade of basil. Sorbet. The most wickedly delicious sorbet ever….the sorbet by which all other sorbets will be measured, even my own. (And I make a wicked champagne sorbet.) It’s lemon, it’s lime, it’s tangerine, all infused into one baby scoop. As my taste buds explode, Jessica explains that it’s kalamassa lime, and carefully spells it for me so I won’t forget. Not only my taste buds must have exploded, though. My brain must have been affected because later when I look it up on line, I only find an entry for calamansi lime. From the description, I deduce they are one and the same—and fabulous by any name. I am only a tad put out that I've never heard of it before!

By the time my main course arrives, I need another interlude of tummy tucking. A glistening puck of pork tenderloin, a barely done rib chop and a small slab of pork belly sit atop butternut squash puree and braised red cabbage. The plate is punctuated with roasted Brussels sprouts (how do they know I love Brussels sprouts?) and kumquat halves, a sliver of purple potato and a smear of sharp Dijon mustard. There’s just enough jus to moisten every mouthful with gorgeous flavour. I taste the pork belly. Oh. My. God. I vow to save the best for last again. In retrospect, I should have scarfed it on the spot because it continued to cook and when I finally am ready, it is overdone. Not the kitchen’s fault. The flavours are a symphony. I would never have thought to serve kumquats with pork, but they strike exactly the right note.

Why, oh why, do I feel I have to stuff myself further by ordering dessert? I never learn. I should. My defence is I am forever tempted by crème brulée. I am very particular about my crème brulée and very fond of restaurants that get it right. Unfortunately, this night, Frank’s Kitchen doesn’t. The custard is tasty enough, with essence and evidence of vanilla bean, but it seems to be way too fresh. It’s still slightly frothy; I like the custard to be uniformly set, with just a hint of heat from browning of the sugar topping. I like the sugar topping to be thin enough to easily break with a spoon without destroying the custard. This sugar topping is far too thick, requiring repeated heavy whacks to break into the custard beneath. On second thought, maybe that’s what frothed the custard? I’m half convinced it did.  I think, “I should have quit after the pork.” Then the bill comes, bearing a teeny irregularly-shaped piece of good chocolate dusted with cocoa. With the sumptuousness of melting cocoa butter bathing my mouth, I resolve to skip desserts in restaurants. Being an above average dessert maker, I am a far too critical dessert eater.

I won’t let the brulée disappointment colour my entire impression of Frank’s Kitchen. It’s inviting, the staff are pleasant and solicitous without being fawning, the food generally is excellent, the giveaways amazing. For what I had, the bill was surprisingly light at $84 (before gratuity) for two glasses of wine, starter, main and dessert. My one real beef is they are only open for dinner. I had dreams of my daughter taking me back there for Mother’s Day lunch. Rats!

Till next time, enjoy your night out.
Ev




Copyright 2011 by Ev McTaggart

Visit my cooking blog at http://www.welcometoevsworld.blogspot.com .