1. Eigensinn Farm
Michael stadtländer’s Heaven on Earth Project was the most resonant, thought-provoking culinary art of 2005. He and his team spent months building 10 monumental sculptures across his 100-acre property. On hot August afternoons, groups of 40 guests walked the six-hour route through meadow and forest, discovering a different dish at each installation. We saw vegetables picked, washed and turned into soup in the Paradise Garden, ate clay-baked splake drawn from the womb of an earth mother oven, and suckling pig from a barbecue shaped like a scrap-metal sow. In the Human Nest, a giant tree house jutting over a deep ravine, we gorged on duck breast with hemp seed spaetzle and duck confit with wild ginger and maple, then stood and sang while an unseen trombonist played “O Canada”—surreal but strangely moving. Almost every ingredient came from the farm. Removing the commercial lines of supply, the walls, kitchen and usual personnel of a restaurant, Stadtländer stripped the long meal to its essential elements—respectful sharing of the gifts of the earth, the role of the chef as interpreter, intermediary and artist—and gave new meaning to the term “dining out.”

2. Susur
Two sittings an evening can make early diners feel rushed, the wines cost more than Toronto is used to, and I preferred the old cream-coloured banquettes to the new ones, but who cares? Susur Lee kicked it up a notch again this year, integrating Western and Asian ideas more seamlessly than ever, trusting his intuitive sense of food. Silky squab liver mousse on a five-spice cookie is a flavour bomb, and only one element of a four-part amuse. A steamed daikon plinth is puritan-plain under sablefish that separates into buttery petals. As lights change colour in the understated room, the courses keep coming. Here’s a frothy meditation on vegetables and Thai spices—lotus, sunchoke and other roots nudged into splendour by a sweet green-curry foam. Next, he’s playing with Chinese traditions: a hefty hot-and-sour beef consommé sweetened and refreshed with tomato brunoise—such a delectably simple, culturally startling idea.

3. Splendido
Have a bellini from the champagne cart and nibble a teeny tartlet of leek and molten raclette cheese while admiring the humane structure of David Lee’s menu—big appetizer, small one, main course—exactly the right amounts of food. Slip in a sorbet, frame all with an amuse, great house-made breads, then cheese, dessert, mignardises and you’re done. Splendido grows grander by the year, each detail and nuance of the evening pondered and buffed by host Yannick Bigourdan and his team, like chauffeurs polishing a royal Rolls-Royce. Thus the discreetly lit room runs as smoothly as the parsley emulsion Lee spoons beneath slow-roasted Dover sole fillets. He’s a fan of sous vide cooking, so flavours are vivid, tenderness a given. Thyme-scented rabbit roulade is daintily pink, but there’s nothing effete about the accompanying slow-simmered rabbit leg with wild boar sausage, soft, sweet onions and a swashbuckling cacciatore sauce. Who says a luxe establishment restaurant can’t be hearty and arty both?

4. Senses
Claudio Aprile is the unsung hero of the current scene, the conduit for Europe’s latest micro-gastronomical notions, a global adventurer who never fails to astonish and delight. Science, not magic, lets him poach puréed peas into a fig-shaped solid with a runny centre, garnished with crème fraîche, caviar and minced radish salsa; he serves it on a spoon set on toasted coriander seeds, and one or two find their way into the mouth, adding perfumed crunch. His tasting menu might include a dozen such courses: tuna with yuzu and six other pungent ingredients couched in a block of ice. Soybean and sea salt sorbet. Awesome squab satay with black vinegar foam. Remedial lighting has cheered up the oddly shaped restaurant. It should fill nightly with pilgrims, but Toronto still clings to a foolish prejudice against dining in hotels. How ironic. Aprile’s food forms the avant-garde’s leading edge, cutting into the future.

5. Scaramouche
It may be my imagination, but Keith Froggett’s cooking seems a tad lighter on its feet than it used to be. When I ate there last fall, his parsley root soup was suave satin, just thick enough to float chives and a greedy man’s morsel of sautéed foie gras. Salsify, chard and a sauce of horseradish and cream danced nimble attendance on hickory-smoked roast white sturgeon, its flesh memorably juicy and sweet. His foie gras terrine is currently the city’s most flavourful. And if your tastes run no further than oysters and steak, the kitchen also covers those bases admirably. Scaramouche had a very successful 25th year—a just reward for the owners’ ceaseless efforts and a sign that Toronto is maturing into an appreciation of thoroughbred quality over razzmatazz. Tear your gaze from the famous view of the urban skyline, and the two-tiered space still looks sleek and contemporary. Is there a portrait of the restaurant growing old and withered in the Benvenuto attic?