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.
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.
posted by the Droll Bastard at 12:03 p.m.
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