Toronto

Toronto for the 2009 NACUA conference.  A city of vast geographic scope, large and diverse population, prime lakefront location, obvious wealth, myriad other qualities of a supposed world-class city, and yet, when you get down to the details, memorable for its mediocrity.  The lakefront is well developed with fancy new condominiums, but lacks a fine harborwalk or lakefront park.  The harbor islands boast “yacht clubs” that look like they belong on Lake Bomoseen or Sunapee.  Even this city’s version of Union Station – which the guidebooks dutifully tout as an architectural gem and evocative monument to the glory days of rail travel – is weak second cousin to even Union Station in Washington DC, or 30th Street Station in Philly.

But there some good moments here.  Exploring the vast underground network of concourses that allows you to travel all over the central downtown area while avoiding, in my case, the pouring rain.  Jogging up University Avenue through the heart of the academic center of the city.  Walking down Queen Street, west of University, which is like a longer, younger, grittier version of South Street in Philly. 

And enjoying some of the finest of both high and low cuisines.  The former was had at Canoe, billed as one of the finest restaurants in Canada, and worthy of the hype.  It breaks the general rule that restaurants atop tall city buildings cannot have food that is as immensely pleasing as the view.  From the 54th floor of one of the downtown bank buildings, we look down on the harbor and its islands and the small planes that land at the airport.  As one of my dinner companions says, it’s a rare event when you have dinner in a place where you are looking down on airplanes in flight.   And the food was creative, beautifully plated, and delicious.  An appetizer plate of smoked salmons, caviar, a bit of lobster salad, a quail egg, and little bits of this and that – it looked like the vibrant palette of a painter in love with pinks and reds.  An entrée of squab was spectacular.  Two small, luscious pieces cut from the side of the breast were unadorned and perfect. A gorgeous whole breast, poached in Nova Scotia “screech” (rum) infused with maple syrup, then roasted perfectly.  The two small legs prepared confit.  The best duck you ever had was not half as good as this.

The low cuisine?  The famous poutin, which I got twice, from street vendors on the harbor and on City Hall Square across the street from our hotel.  A “small” poutin costs three-fifty or four bucks Canadian and comprises about a half-pound of good French fries, topped with a cup or so of cheese curds, and then drenched in hot brown gravy.  The first bite or two it seems like an odd combination.  By the third bite you can’t stop forking the hot, hearty mess into your mouth.  It’s got regular fries beat all sorts of ways, not least the fact that the gravy, ladled out of the steaming kettle, keeps your snack hot all the way through.  Reason enough to smile when I think of Toronto.  (2009)