Susur
601 King Street West
416-603-2205
Dinner for two with all taxes, tip and four Salty Dogs: $300
My friend Max gently reminds me, as my birthday approaches, that I’d totally forgotten to get him a present last year. Never let it be said that I’m a welcher. But I am an opportunist. Inspired by the win/win theorizing of the comic-book villain Yellow Claw who once quipped, “perhaps the heads of two could fall with but a single stroke," we find ourselves opening our wallets to a six-course tasting meal at Susur ($110) as a joint birthday present to each other.
Perhaps as some yin and yang tribute to the menu’s trademark regional duality (executive chef Susur Lee is admonished for his marriage of Asian and French techniques) the first course marks the best and worst of the meal. A luxurious foie mousse topped with preserved currants is sublime, but a ramekin of perfect gazpacho is unimproved by mounting a gazpacho gelee (sic) on top. It’s like Superman and Bizarro fighting over the TV remote in my tummy. Spoonfuls of creamy tuna tartare seal the deal and produce the wordless head nod that says, “We are about to have a dynamite meal.”
Plump B.C. prawns arrive with the tail-end of the shell removed like they are wearing a little helmet. I yoink the sweet, soft flesh out in one feral motion. Lurking in the vibrant tarragon broth underneath are littleneck clams packed with smoky chorizo. To the side the individual components of the dish are highlighted on top of a trio of crostini.
A squab breast, smoked and juicy, sits next to its leg, deep-fried with strands of potato wrapped around. They’re paired with a bitter chocolate sauce akin to an Asian mole. Max is shocked to find out that squab is pigeon. My allergy to raw bananas prevents me from sampling the most interesting pairing on the menu, a torchon of foie gras with a banana centre. But if it’s as elegant as the white asparagus and wafer-thin bison carpaccio on the plate I’ll vouch for it. Bison striploin comes perfectly seared, the soft meat inside warm but still near raw. The coffee marinade promised isn’t prevalent in aroma or flavour (someone once gave me the advice, “If you’re gonna call it beet ravioli stuffed with chestnut ricotta make sure they can taste the beets and the chestnuts. Otherwise just call it ravioli stuffed with ricotta.”).
Long expanses of white walls and cloth accented by dim luminescence bouncing off hints of chrome and glass form a bold, intimidating aesthetic I can only call Super-Villain Chic. At the stroke of 8pm Lee struts through the dining room with the pride of a Bond-villain inspecting his giant laser or gold machine. It’s not clear if he enjoys it, but this is part of the job of a celebrity chef.
A terrific intermezzo of tart passionfruit sorbet with gooseberries swimming in lemongrass-infused pineapple juice is sabotaged by a garish presentation involving three plates, a wicker boat, and dry ice. It’s pretty Benihana.
The server informs us with unnecessary humility that the bartender will be unable to accommodate our request for a pair Salty Dogs (vodka and grapefruit juice with a salted rim) but returns later to proudly declare our drinks are on their way (and subtly infer that the bartender was being a snooty prick). I am not a millionaire. I am what Forbes Magazine defines as a thousandaire. So the very act of trying to equate a value to the price tag of a meal at Susur is bourgeois of me. But let’s be honest. When we commit to spending a c-note on dinner it brings high expectations. It demands that our Wednesday night dinner be as memorable as Christmas. Our server is a classic pro. He subjugates himself just enough to not seem arrogant but playfully lets us know that this is a classy joint and we’re kind of being jagoffs for ordering Salty Dogs. He introduces the details of each course with a clear, newscaster’s cadence. Our food runners live up to their reputations by mumbling inaudibly and attempting to explain food they don’t understand.
Dessert is a stunning, strategic, concentrated assault of no less than a dozen different items on a two-tiered plate. They spiral in size all the way from a cup of boozy tiramisu for two and a dark chocolate box with a cache of plum gelato, to baby-sized morsels of tangy pomegranate mousse and a pinball of toasted pistachio that bleeds warm chocolate when we attempt to split it in half. Possibly there was a thirteenth item on the plate that was portioned too small for the scope of human vision. It’s an overload, a masterstroke guaranteed to bowl us over by volume and variety. Fortunately it’s all exquisite, too. Everything is as colourful as fireworks and dripping with unique flavours and textures. A perfect secret weapon. The meal’s few imperfections fade in the wake of its triumphs.
I wonder where they get the squab.
Sounds like a much more satisfying experience than going to Lee. I was there last summer and found it to be a bit of a let down. Not to say there weren't a couple of excellent items that we had.
Paul, while it's easy to enjoy the idea that serving squab is a way to keep your food costs low because you can just harvest a crop from the alley out back, this is unlikely. The Feral Rock Pidgeons found on Toronto's streets probably taste like Doritos and cigarette butts. The farmed and hunted species of pidgeon or dove (same thing peaceniks) used in cooking can be purchased from a distributor like La Ferme or Butcher Shop.
Sounds entertaining (foodertainment?), not sure if that's good or bad but it sounds like there are enough quality ingredients to make it worthwhile. I love your term "super-villain chic" and I am inspired to buy a whole new wardrobe to fit that esthetic.