For once the choir of local critics sings in tune – a hymn of praise to Frank’s Kitchen – with only Toronto Life’s warbling tenor sounding a little sotto voce. I must add my voice to the general harmony: this is a super restaurant, conceived and operated with pride and passion. One owner is chef Frank Parhizgar, who put his shoulder to the wheel as second-in-command at Centro for six years in the Bruce Woods era, but also spent a more inspirational year in Marc Thuet’s kitchen. The other owner is his wife, Shawn Cooper, formerly General Manager of the ACC’s very posh Platinum Club and now running the front-of-house here.
All that experience is immediately apparent when you walk into the long narrow space they renovated and opened at the end of the summer. The welcome is gracious, the tables set a decent distance apart, the noise levels well under control (even though the tight little kitchen is open to the rear of the room), the lighting flattering. I like the look of the place – the walls taken back to old brick but then partially clad in handsome wooden panelling that rises up to form the sturdy bar, carved and finished almost like the chapel of a church. One of the kitchen team happens to be an artist and his spare, whimsical canvasses lift the mood nicely. The place seats around 45 and is always busy, especially on Sunday nights when other chefs and industry types crowd in for the $28 three-course prix fixe.
They are right to come. Cooper and her servers are most attentive hosts, eager to talk about the food, fully engaged in their mission to please. The kitchen, too, is committed to excellence, its standards and attention to detail much higher than we’re used to on this strip of College Street. Looking back on the meal we had the other night, I’m left scratching my head at how high the food costs must be, for prices are by no means steep (mains $15-$30) and yet Parhizgar isn’t stingy with the foie gras, fresh truffles and lobster and his meats are as carefully sourced as any. It helps, no doubt, that he does everything himself, from the array of fresh, warm breads (four or five very distinct, beautiful kinds including focaccia topped with roasted garlic and roasted cherry tomato, a soft sphere of eggy brioche, epi bread, etcetera) to the last envoi of tiny chocolate truffles and freshly baked madeleines that he takes out of the oven just as we ask for the bill.
And dinner starts with another gift – a three-part amuse gueule comprised of a shot glass of leek and potato velouté that really is as thick and smooth as velvet, topped with a dribble of herbed truffle oil; a deep fried ball of tangy goat cheese the size of a marble balanced atop a spoonful of cucumber and tomato salsa; and a tiny taco of oniony tuna tartare crowned with a green beret of vodka-lime guacamole.
It’s been a while since I last saw oysters Rockefeller on a menu. Parhizgar asks $13 for six, each one smothered in lemony hollandaise, diced bacon and wilted spinach – rich, but in an elegant old-moneyed way as opposed to vulgar opulence. His house-made charcuterie avoids the via salumi with finely sliced lamb loin like snippets of rose-coloured silk, delicate lamb carpaccio and a terrific, rather firm chorizo finished with Chianti.
Another appetizer fans out translucent beef carpaccio around a little puck of foie gras torchon that has the big, discreetly boozy, meaty flavour I associate with Marc Thuet’s Alsatian torchon recipe. A salad of chopped green beans (just blanched, almost crunchy) refreshes everything though the scent of truffle in the shallot vinaigrette dominates the dish’s subtler flavours in a bossy, bullying way. The waiter credits a Portuguese sous chef with another appetizer of lobster and shrimp ceviche, the lobster in its tenderest, almost raw state, the seafood served chilled on a brick of seaweed set in ice and adorned with kalamanzi limes and a half lemon wrapped in muslin for those who wish to up the acid.
Lobster is a house speciality. We didn’t order the whole beast, but the kitchen uses slices of tail meat as the filling of delicate ravioli that arrive in a pool of vibrant tomato broth spiked with basil olive oil. Meats are also beautifully handled. My friend ordered the striploin steak (aged 68 days) and asked for it “medium.” Which is exactly how it came, juicy and slightly crusted from the grill, attended by a corps de ballet of miniature turned vegetables and with a side order of excellent rather chewy frites dusted with finely grated parmesan. I had the elk loin, a lean, dark crimson piece of meat that chef had moistened with a faux fat cap of foie gras and brussels sprout leaves before slicing it thickly. There was shaved truffle on top and whole roasted chestnuts in the mahogany-coloured foie gras jus and a jumble of baby carrots, brussels sprouts, tiny onions, beets, purple potatoes and dimes of sliced baby zucchini.
And later there was cheese, of course – a trio of Mimolette (still my desert island cheese) and two Quebec forms, the ever-reliable Benedictine Bleu and a lush, sweet, tangy, snow-white goat cheese from Fromagerie Le Détour in Notre-Dame-du-Lac that threatened to ooze out from under its surface coating of grey ash. The cheese is called Grey Owl after the renowned writer, proto-environmentalist and pretend Native American who wrote Sajo and her Beaver People and other enchanting fables of the north, and it is my new favourite goat cheese in all the world.
We didn’t really have room for dessert but we had some anyway. Piping hot little beignet doughnuts were spongey and fluffy and glossy as milkweed inside, dusted with icing sugar and glazed with a honey syrup. “Tart tatin” came deconstructed in a bowl, the disc of pastry smothered in a compote of darkly caramelized black plums and topped with vanilla ice cream. It looked like a mess but tasted divine.
The short wine list has the look of a work in progress but our server suggested a couple of new treats that hadn’t yet found their way onto the card, including a dark and brooding Primitivo that worked excellently with the meats.
Every decade, College Street offers an unexpected jewel – Palmerston, back in the day, Trattoria Giancarlo, Gamelle in it sprime… Frank’s Kitchen is in that class, a sophisticated grown-up in a neighbourhood of brash children. I’ll be going back there whenever I can. Frank’s Kitchen is open every evening except Monday. 588 College Street (at Clinton). 416 516 5861. www.frankskitchen.ca.