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.