Breaking Fast in Cambridge and its Environs

While we appreciate, and wish to encourage others to enjoy, the finer and more august aspects of the palate, we are yet moved, altogether too often of a sunny Saturday morn, to hie ourselves down to a local toasterie and make our way outside of one or two rashers of bacon, slices of toasted bread, banger-sausages, and lightly fried chicken-eggs. We are fortunate to find ourselves among an abundance of establishments ready to ease over a yolk and home-fry a potato on demand. Herewith we shall provide a rounding-up of our local experiences, both positive and negative, of breakfasts eaten under and around the local weekend edition.

We caution the reader that the vignettes to follow are presented in no particular order, and we urge our dear reader to infer our scatter-shot rankings only from the content of our opinions.

Cora

With a Montreal pedigree and double-digit price range, one might expect something special from Cora. One will inevitably be disappointed. For this breakfast-house -- and they do, we assure you, specialize in breakfasts -- seems to have put the sizzle mostly forward, and the steak, if indeed there is any such thing, securely in a back room, defended by an angry, and possibly armed, leopard. On our two visits to the place, our breakfast was accompanied by a rather embarrassing construction of sliced fruits; the breakfast itself, however, was not so much constructed as tossed, with apparent abandon, at the plate. For this we paid, on average, in excess of twelve dollars per diner. The coffee was also inferior. We recommend giving Cora, as you would any other strange Frenchwoman accompanied by tropical fruits, a respectful berth.

Toasters

It was here, we can say without fear of contradiction, that we first encountered the term "Newfie Steak". While we were more than cognizant of these terms' individual connotations, we were at a loss to understand what their combination might signify.

"Fried bologna", our server explained when pressed, which seems unfair to Newfoundlanders, living, as they do, only slightly to the right of a large population that seems equally dedicated to the consumption of the very same emulsified luncheon-meat. However, we felt that any establishment wishing to hide its Bologna-style-sausage-related preparations must have some sense of discretion, and we became instant fans of Toasters. Having dined there numerous times, we wish to attest to the friendliness of their servers, speed of their service (even amid the Saturday morning crowds), appropriate temperature of their coffee, and enjoyableness of their food. We hope they continue there for some time.

Country Boy

We have heard rumours of ill-treated staff and inadequate food-safety procedures at Country Boy; this does not, it would seem, dissuade the punters a single jot, as they line up manifold at Country Boy to attend his breakfast-hour. The breakfasts here are at least harmless, and at best adequate; however, we cannot help but feel that said Boy has confused us with his cattle, and expects no more than to milk us and shove us heartily in the direction of the pasture. We find the food edible, but the loud and crowded atmosphere slightly less than tolerable. We expend the effort to make our way here very rarely indeed.

Cambridge Restaurant

Near the entrance of the Cambridge Restaurant is a photogravure from the inter-war period that depicts Preston's Main Street; a shingle proclaiming a restaurant may be clearly seen by any keen-eyed viewer. This attests to the establishment's fine and long-standing claim to the august address among Preston's finest and longest-standing businesses. Here, if one can find a table, it is well worth one's while to hail a passing waitress and order up an egg or two, accompanied by both sausages and hashed-brown potatoes.

However, we hope our reader will permit us a slightly amusing and thoroughly horrifying aside. On one visit to the Camb., we requested of a server some milk for our coffee (the coffee, we maintain, requires such doctoring to be consumed with appropriate weekend gusto). We were surprised at the alacrity with which she fulfilled our request, proffering in a quarter-second or so a small glass of the blanc-et-froid. However, we goggled -- yes, our dear friends, goggled is indeed the appropriate term -- when our dining-companion notified us that the speed was due to the server's acquiring the milk from a nearby table whose occupants had recently vacated. Upon a brief inspection, we ascertained a noticeable amount of women's lip-pigment affixed to the rim of the glass. We cannot say how we proceeded through the meal, but we assert that little more coffee was drunk that morning.

C.C. Family Restaurant

Under the tiger's head that adorns the C.C. Family Restaurant shingle are the words "BEER" and "ICE CREAM". While we cannot think of a way to combine either food, much less in the presence of a tiger, we were swayed by the nearly constant crowd at C.C. to attend there for breakfast.

The dining-room was packed with, as might be expected, diners; however, the servers managed new entrants with a cheerful mix of English and broken English, and we were never made to feel ignored or abandoned. Their menu is unadventurous, but the food was served at a speed and temperature that is to be marvelled at, even in this age of readily-available Tim Horton's Breakfast-Sandwiches. While the hash browns lacked seasoning, the meal was enjoyable and the buzz of other happy patrons around us was gratifying.

50's Diner

We have waited upwards of twenty minutes for a table at the over-large 50s Diner of a warm, clear Saturday morn; in the appropriate company, such delays are borne with a shrug and slight, permissive smile. However, upon being shown to our eventual table, we cannot help admitting that it is with a sense of a debt unpaid, because amid the erstwhile Buddy Holly and Big Bopper hits playing nearly without caesura, we cannot feel that the food lives up to its billing. Most meals are accompanied by a couple of ounces of seasoned baked beans; the eggs tend to be cooked well, and the hashed potatoes tend to be quite appropriate to the venue. However, we feel often that the lineup is not worth the hassle, and shuffle off to the Cambridge or Toasters instead.

City Cafe

What can be said of a bakery whose staff take such pains to serve their customers, whose bagels are hand-dipt in sesame seeds and baked with loving care in a wood-fired oven, whose coffee is pleasantly rich and safely organic and fair trade? We can only say that we despise the single-serving packets of cheese-flavoured edible oil products, and wish to eat City Cafe's bagels with a more appropriate condiment. Otherwise, however, the place is perfect -- indeed we understand the weight of such a judgement, and we stand by it! -- and we urge all who attend the establishment to happily round up the price of their purchase, and never request change from the workers there. We all must encourage this attention to both quality and humanity, wherever we find it.

Elixir, Bella: a Study in Contrast

This past evening, we chanced upon such bad fortune as to patronise a Mississauga restaurant known as Bella Cucina. That happenstance led us to think on another, slightly less recent visit to a newer Cambridge establishment, the transplanted Elixir removed from Toronto to reside on Main Street in Galt.

We remember, soon after venturing into our new Cambridgeshire home, finding a rather quaint Mediterranean-themed restaurant at that selfsame address; it was called Carnevale, and despite its ill-considered moniker it brought forth meals with bravado, which we appreciated, though it was inconsistent, which we did not appreciate. Carnevale failed, was replaced by we recall not what, and presently was converted to the new home of Elixir.

Having read a review of the place by Drew Edwards, the Record's current bull in the culinary china-shop, we were intrigued enough to try Elixir for ourselves. We enjoy the bistro approach to life: good and wholesome, yet close to home, with a relaxed air of camaraderie. Yes, we -- even we -- pocket the cuff-links, loosen the cummerbund, and exchange our freshest collar for a slightly less starched version on occasion. We donned our about-town ascot and sallied forth to sample the Elixir.

Our initial impression was one of deja vu; however, far from indicating some supernatural force at work, we simply found that the decor and chattels were exactly those of Carnevale, complete with tables containing a plaster rendition of certain Mediterranean islands in the centre. This unfortunate inheritance made the balancing of our San Pellegrino both difficult and annoying, and we hope the owners will consider new surfaces for their tables in good time. In addition, we found an unpleasant odour of must whose source we could not detect; this did detract from the dining experience, and accelerated an otherwise pleasurable repast.

And pleasurable indeed it turned out to be. We ordered the braised lamb shank -- the daily special, we later discovered, by virtue of one entire dollar being deducted from its menu price -- with a dish of calamari in white wine, tomatoes and herbs. Our dining-companion elected to attempt the spaghetti Bolognese, which, we hope it is not improper to indicate, was as we expected, for we know her preferences quite well.

The calamari appeared in good time, and in good humour. It was buoyed by an appreciable, but not overlong, exposure to heat; we have always contended that calamari benefits from either thirty seconds' cooking, or three hours', and we believe this to have been cooked with a baleful eye applied to stop-watch rather than hour-glass. The squid was tender and flavourful, the sweetness of the meat balanced perfectly with the acid of the tomatoes and wine, the savoury yet not overpowering application of herbs, and the pungency of the garlic. We were, we readily admit, impressed, and we impatiently applied bread to sauce in anticipation of the next course.

On that: we are a lover of the ovine flesh; we tend to hear the word "lamb" uttered by a server and agree eagerly at that point to whatever they might offer; we trust, therefore, to luck, and are oftentimes disappointed. This time, however, we not only avoided disappointment, but barred it from the building, ordering it in the sternest possible tones not to present itself again without written apology and letters of reference. The lamb, to be direct, was perfect.

The shank, overall: trimmed masterfully, so that there remained an appreciable amount of fat and collagen, but never so much as to offer more than an accompaniment to the meat.

The meat itself: tender, flavourful, delightfully seasoned, braised within three or four microns, we estimate, of perfection.

And the sauce. There was a fresh, vibrant, and personable tomato sauce, of that we can be sure. The rest we must consign to that marshmallowy part of the memory wherein we store our first opera, our first kiss, and our first realisation that we might actually skim Dickens rather than read him. We retain the memory not in particular, but only its pleasurable surrounding sensations. To the point: it was a sauce conceived of pure and true understanding; prepared by the deft, nearly unconcerned attention of a master; and applied with the sure hand of the friend and confidant.

Our dear friends, we urge you to order the lamb shank.

Our companion found her pasta dish equally agreeable, and although we tasted it and found the ragu exceedingly agreeable, our recollections of that night tend to return to that beautiful, perfectly-balanced, perfectly-applied tomato sauce accompanying the perfectly-cooked lamb shank. We understand that there were mashed, or whipped, potatoes involved also; we cannot account for those, except to note that our plate was cleaned of every speck of dinner-related evidence before we allowed the server to retrieve it from our earnest grasp.

And now, for the contrast.

We were in Mississauga, on business; is there any other excuse to venture there? Our fellow traveller and we felt a modicum of peckishness, and we recalled, previously having journeyed through the area, an Italian-themed restaurant near the intersection of Hurontario and Eglinton Avenues. We suggested this, found assent, and arrived at Bella Cucina Italian Ristorante. Our friends, do not let yourselves be misled as were we; there is indeed a kitchen, of a kind, on premises, but otherwise the sign is an outright perjury.

We will dispense, as far as we can, with detail. We entered, were offered a table, ordered a boite or so of mineral water, and selected the lamb fettucine for ourselves, and the lasagne for our companion. The water arrived soon; the bread, accompanied by its rather tiresome plate of cheap, nearly flavourless and completely characterless olive oil and balsamic vinegar, less so. And then arrived the meals.

We shall dispense with details regarding our companion's lasagne, except to note that it was ruthlessly microwaved; was swimming in what a certain Chef Boiardi's estate would have considered a sauce; and contained a layer of, if one is willing to believe us, mashed potato. While we have now heard of ham as a component of the Calabrian lasagne, we defy anyone -- anyone -- to explain this incomprehensible inclusion.

Our own dish was just slightly better. There was lamb, and there was fettucine, and there was a tomato sauce, all of which had been promised on the chalk-board of daily specials. But the pasta was undercooked -- that it was undercooked only slightly is of no consequence in an expressly Italian venue, for there is either cooked correctly, or failure. And the sauce was of an unpleasantly strident acidity, completely lacking any comprehension or knowledge of the lamb it was to accompany, and completely obscuring the flavour of the several bits of julienned vegetables that were also in the dish.

And there was, apparently, lamb. It lacked flavour as abjectly as it lacked seasoning; it was braised, but the braiser was, we contend, either an idiot or a vandal. For meat, gristle, and fat were in approximately equal measure throughout the dish, and in completely unequal measure in any given forkful. We might find an ounce of meat here, clean and pure; then a stringy bit of gristle there, accompanied by a morsel of fat; then a half-crown-sized slice of fat wrapped around a ha'penny-worth of mutton-flesh.

It was inconsistent; it was difficult to consume; it was unfortunate in nearly every way. And as we picked through it, determined to derive sufficient sustenance from the meal to propel ourselves away from the place, and Mississauga itself, we thought on the lamb we enjoyed with such gusto in Cambridge, and how very far away it was, and how the chef at Bella, such as he might be, has farther, so much farther, to go.

We have added Elixir once or twice to our diary for the upcoming weeks, so that we will not fail to see them before we depart the sunny shores of the Grand and the Speed. While we might find other tables worth attending in our new locale, it is important, we believe, for both the intellect and the soul, to remember with fondness and enjoy unreservedly those tables that have borne meals worth savouring; for there lie our true selves. If we may not be the ones to create beauty, we can all, we hope, perceive it, appreciate it, and, if we are of sufficient character, offer a taste to others as well.