By the Bye

Bloor Street and Bathurst is now a fascinating mix of Korean BBQ, cheap sushi, falafel/donair stands, and remnants of days gone by -- a Hungarian lunch counter still serves its authentic food, for example, and a well-lit department store appears to eke out a modest business.

Amid this colourful mosaic is By the Way, a bistro that has apparently occupied its corner for nigh twenty years. A couple of friends invited us to stop there for supper, and we obliged.

And what is this By the Way? Our friends indicated "Middle Eastern", but the menu felt otherwise. It was dotted with standard Lebanese fare -- falafel, baba ganoush, kabob, et cetera. But there were also hamburger sandwiches; and the daily specials promised not one but two pasta-based dishes, a grilled sea bass, steak, and other sundries. We entered, with equal amounts hope and fear.

The restaurant seating is cramped, in a word; one wall is dominated by an oil-painted mural, that is apparently meant to aid the viewer in identifying painters' difficulties with perspective. Thin strains of Mozart wafted through the air, and we were elated to find that -- yes! -- we were to be treated to all four movements of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Would Pachelbel's Canon be far behind?

But no matter. Important issues at stake: the menu. We could not be sure what to make of it; certainly, we could order falafel, but at $5, what would we receive? Would it make sense to order falafel with salad? Would they be served together? Would a couple of lonely falafel sit in their tahini and accuse us with sightless crust?

No, we could not do that to the falafel. We were heartened, waiting for the wait staff, to see food in very attractive presentation go past. We would wait our turn with anticipation.

The wine list was ignored in favour of a small sample of a micro-brewed "coffee porter" by some Old Mill or other. For the beverage list included a good number of draught beers, as well as a small number of inferior bottled beers -- for, we assume, the punters wandering in after a night on the town.

But the first sign of isn't-that-rather-oddness arose when the bread was delivered. We are not certain of the make or model of the bread -- somewhere between sourdough and focaccia, we estimate, with equal parts dryness and toughness. But served with it was apparently a type of butter; this revealed itself, on tasting, to be in fact a banana butter. While this is probably seen as a unique and attractive signature of the restaurant's character, we prefer to see this attempt's rarity as indicative of its relative success with diners. Although we are friends to almost all fruits and vegetables, we prefer that our bread should steer clear of mashed nearly everything.

In short order the entrees arrived. Our own selection had been the eggplant agnolotti with a (deep breath) provolone-chipotle-white-wine cream sauce. We are not used to ordering dishes with sauces containing more than three principal ingredients; however, the impenetrability of the menu was such that we were inclined to travel better-known avenues. We also enjoy displaying our rare skill in pronouncing "agnolotti" correctly.

The pasta itself was unfortunately undercooked -- an amateur mistake, we would say, if we felt charitable. And the filling put us in such a mood. We are not eggplant-lovers; we find the texture disconcerting. Yet these pouches brought out the best in eggplant: the curious sweetness of the vegetable, offset almost musically (was the Mozart having an effect already?) by a pleasant fresh parsley, and heightened by the sharp and strident sauce.

Provolone seemed to have been forgotten, not a jot of this favourite cheese in attendance, as far as we could tell (and taste). White wine, we find, is often in things these days, without making its presence felt; this was again the case in the pasta sauce, leaving only chipotle and cream as the dominant flavours in the dish.

This was not wholly a mistake, for the understated heat of the chipotles (heightened, we noticed, with the addition of dried chille peppers) rode the cream to a happy counterpoint to the sweet and perfumy eggplant and parsley filling.

The portion was of generous size without being obscene, and the agnolotti were each in pristine shape, without tears or breaks. They had obviously been cooked with some care, which makes the fact that they were undercooked even more inexplicable -- and unsettling.

While our meal was adequate, and at a reasonable price, we would express some hesitation before attending By the Way again. We might instead be inclined to stop at some small Korean BBQ establishment instead; we feel that such a place might be more understandable, and more honest.

In Infamy

As a prominent member of the local citizenry, we are often invited to attend events of note in the region. Our Fridays and Saturdays are often filled with overcooked beef, twice-cooked chicken, pommes Lyonnaises, and such mainstays of the Gala Dinner playbook. Tonight, however, we received a meal that so far exceeded our expectations of the institutional jacket-and-tie dinner that it shall surely live on in memory for some time.

The backdrop was the Miss Oktoberfest Ball, one of the signposts that warns of the looming Oktoberfest season. We contend that it says much about a community when said community endorses a nine-day bender, and we are most bemused by the annual proceedings. At the Miss Oktoberfest Ball, the charming young mistress who best represents the poise, intelligence, smile, and shapeliness of the area youth is selected -- not only to preside over Oktoberfest, mind you, but also the Santa Claus parade, perhaps a ploughing-contest or autumn fair, and sundry other crucial engagements.

Bingeman's is well-known in the locality as the premiere venue for large and exalted gatherings, due to its large size and, we wish to believe, its adjacent wave-pool. To serve a dinner at such an august function must take a great deal of time and effort to succeed, and the coordination of dozens of hard-working professionals. We look forward to seeing Bingeman one day muster the necessary tools.

We shall describe the fare as they were served: disjointedly, with no reference to the courses either before or after. We shall omit, however, the long pauses between them.

First course: Risotto

The look of the plate was somewhat akin to a small pile of dog's vomit, if the dog had eaten first a plant. On closer inspection, we learned that the foodstuff was in fact risotto, served atop a slice of roasted pepper squash, with a brunoise of lightly-cooked squash sprinkled about and a sage leaf and a shaving of parmesan cheese atop.

The slice of squash was cooked nicely, though its tough and bitter skin was inexplicably left on. The squash's relationship to the risotto was obscure at best, while the risotto was not completely without flavour, but unfortunately, that flavour was of glue. However, an interesting texture was gained by cooking part of the risotto to a mushy mass, and cooking part of it lightly so that hard grains of arborio made their presence known with every bite.

It was with hope for better things that the risotto was returned to the kitchen.

Second course: Salad

A fresh, clean salad of mesclun mix, balsamic vinaigrette, goat's cheese, and candied walnuts surely cannot fail, can it? In this case, no, we were quite appreciative of the salad. We do, however, question the company it keeps.

To the side of the salad, on each plate, sat a small cylinder of the following composition: fine egg noodles; shredded and cooked carrots; avocado; slime. The flavour, such as it was, hinted at the starchiness of the noodles and the rawness of the avocado, while the texture was equally surprising on the second bite as on the first. What process resulted in this monstrous concoction we dare not speculate, other than to note that it must have been either random, or malevolent. We might have discovered more on the third bite, had we dared take it.

Third course: Main

This was not some run-of-the-mill, lackaday event; this was the Miss Oktoberfest Ball! A source of pride and self-respect throughout Waterloo County! Why, it is quite synonymous with "gala dinner" out in our manusquire. We deduce the reasoning to have been: at that price, diners should receive both chicken and steak. Therefore, serve: chicken supreme, stuffed; steak, gravied; vegetables, steamed, unseasoned; and potatoes, scalloped, gravied.

The chicken promoted the one theme common to the evening, being both coated and stuffed with varieties of wallpaper-paste. The strange starchy textures did, however, provide a fascinating counterpoint to the rubbery skin and twice-cooked meat. Also swimming in the glue were the vegetables; on our plate, roughly half were almost completely raw, and the remainder were soggy and limp. Others at the table reported varying rations of the raw to the cooked.

But the chicken was also served on that staple of haute cuisine: a bed of steak. Indeed, the steak was small but toothsome; ours, though cooked to medium-well, was reasonably tender. However, the flavour was inexplicably combined with that of a gravy which had been liberally ladled over top. This gravy, obviously, could not have been created from the juices collected from the cooking meat; thus its ingredients were limited to corn starch, monosodium glutamate, and dirt.

Other diners at our table were not as lucky as we. The table was a pastiche of steak doneness options: a pleasant medium-rare, a daring medium, and in one unfortunate case, barely cooked at all. Indeed, our host for the night received a steak for which the cook, if indeed such a label can be applied, had felt the mere presence of open flame in the room would be sufficient for this piece of meat. It was quickly dispatched to the kitchen for a replacement, with some sharp words sent with it.

Even more inexplicable is the addition of gravy to the hefty wedge of scalloped potatoes. These were flavoured with some obscure seasoning, tentatively identified as Aromat, which ensured that no actual potato flavour would actually reach the diner's palate. With the gravy, they became a vaguely potato-textured chemical cocktail.

The servers' trays were nearly as heavy leaving the table as when they arrived. But Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest.

Fourth course: Dessert

The arrival of the large, rectangular plates, attractively appointed with an assortment of sweetmeats, was something of a relief to our oft-offended eyes; however, we had learned to reserve our hopes, and were therefore no more disappointed than usual.

How often, we wonder, does the reader ask himself, "why are there so few instances of kiwi fruit being combined with chocolate?" We suspect that such a question does not cross the mind of the human in his natural environment; one is as like to ask, we think, "why are iced salmon drinks so rare nowadays?", or "here is the chicken; why have they neglected to add the hot, chocolate-covered gravel?" No, we think that the dipping of kiwi slices into chocolate is a kind of joke, a cosmic joke that reminds us that, even at these best of times, the escaped lunatics of Bedlam do occasionally design menus.

Even more disturbing was the other chocolate-dipped fruit on the plate. This was the fruit of the attractive plant sometimes known as the "Chinese Lantern". We were aware that this fruit is often called a "ground-cherry", but further research has revealed the alternate name of the fruit to be "bladder-cherry". We suspect that this name is the better descriptor; for upon biting into the chocolate-dipped offender, one was immediately assailed by a vile texture, equal amounts of sour and bitter, and, of course, chocolate, serving as a perverse reminder of what actual food tastes like.

On one side of the dipped fruits sat a couple of white chocolate truffles and a half-strawberry in a sauce that, despite the addition of coffee flavour, adequately carried on the mucilageonous theme. The chocolates, we can only assume, were produced off-site, and were included accidentally in a shipment of, say, pine needles and horsemeat; however, they were edible. The strawberry's flavour bore a passing resemblance to a pencil-eraser.

On the other side was what would, in a better world, have been a phyllo pastry cup containing a mascarpone mousse with a toffee shard. The toffee shard was crunchy and sweet; the cheese was lumpy and slightly grainy but palatable. However, our hosts could not countenance a successful component of the meal; they were forced to serve the phyllo uncooked, or perhaps cooked on another day and then liberally doused with dishwater; for the "cup" turned out to be several soft sheets of phyllo, rendered inedible by neglect or abuse.

Fifth course: Denouement

We were still reeling from the sinister parody of a human repast to which we had borne collective witness when the speeches began. Our evening was summed up in the following exchange:

[outgoing Miss Octoberfest]: I would like to thank you all so much for coming tonight.

[insolent wag at our table]: I would prefer a written apology.

For it is hard to imagine, without violating some international treaty or other, how a meal could be so far from the reasonable expectations of its recipients. Even with free access to such a meal, we felt cheated -- out of what, it seems hard to define, until one realises it was our very souls that were taken that night, in a flurry of culinary incompetence rarely seen.

De gustibus non est disputandem, as the Romans were wont to say; however, only if we find a single living human, possessed of his faculties, who could honestly enjoy such an abomination, will we retract a single jot of this review.

Until that day, Bingeman's, we remain your motral enemy. Fairly warned.