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
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 . 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 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
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 Provence
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
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 .
