Fisherman’s Friends: Chris Nuttall-Smith reviews Maléna and The Atlantic
The season’s most anticipated openings are two seafood-centric spots
Toronto is a raw bar town. We’re over-served by excellent oyster houses, and we probably consume more sushi per capita than any city east of Vancouver. But cooked fish is a problem here; we’ve never had a standout seafood spot. This spring, Nathan Isberg, of Czehoski and Coca fame, opened what early adopters described as a nose-to-tail disciple’s take on the life aquatic on Dundas West. And in Yorkville, a neighbourhood that’s desperate for a few more decent places to eat, front-of-house kings David Minicucci and Sam Kalogiros launched Maléna, a flashy fish spot. It looked like Toronto might finally turn into a seafood town.
Kalogiros and Minicucci, who also run L’Unità, the casual Italian place near Av and Dav, are masters of engineering atmospheres that are loud, exclusive and democratic all at once, with service staff who are expert at navigating it all. Maléna is done up in high-homely style, with barnboards, glossy-framed mirrors and Hellenic-themed dinner plates on the walls. The two-storey space is jammed most nights with a mix of middle-aged glitter girls, criminal lawyers (Clayton Ruby and Brian Greenspan one night, dining separately) and boldface names both minor (Senator Pamela Wallin, designer Sarah Richardson) and major (Jessica Alba, who, one blaspheming regular noted, looks a lot like an ugly version of Jessica Alba in person). It has quickly become one of the toughest reservations in town.
Kalogiros learned the trade in New York, where he was captain at Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s Mercer Kitchen. Minicucci, meanwhile, managed Xacutti and Annona at the Park Hyatt. And no one is better than Zinta Steprans, Maléna’s young, disarmingly down-to-earth sommelier, who patrols the room in a cotton boyfriend blazer, working from an oddball-fabulous list that’s strong on fish-friendly Greek and Southern Italian wines (I loved the northern Greek sparkler made in the French style from moscophilero grapes) and making a point of stopping at every table.
The kitchen gets a lot of things right. The menu is Greek, mostly, by way of Sicily and Puglia, so the tzatziki is seasoned southern Italian style with only a little garlic, and the sheep’s milk feta salad gets fennel and white balsamic vinegar. Chef Doug Neigel marinates fat sardine fillets in lemon and good vinegar so they’re bright, balanced and nicely punchy, and then stacks chopped romaine on top as a smart, if trashy, refresher. Soft-shell crabs—not Greek, exactly, but no one’s complaining—get the tempura treatment, sizzling from the fryer; only Nota Bene’s David Lee, who was eating at Maléna one recent Friday, does them better.
Neigel sources fish so fresh you’d think you were in a seaside town. Though the cooking is inspired by the shores of the Ionian Sea, he forgoes the usual farmed and dubiously sourced southern European seafood for an Ocean Wise–approved list that few other east-of-the-Rockies restaurants could match. Neigel buys live spot prawns, firm-fleshed wild salmon and line-caught ling cod direct from Organic Ocean, a B.C. fishermen’s co‑operative, plus impeccable soft-shell crabs from the East Coast, and mackerel that tastes mild and delicate instead of the usual funky and badly in need of a shower. Plenty of other restaurants feature one or two great seasonal West Coast fish selections these days. Neigel seems to have them all. And then, as if to apologize for his good fortune, he does what just about every otherwise competent chef in Toronto does with seafood—he cooks the bejesus out of it.
This city’s kitchens can’t seem to abide fish that’s still moist, quivering and just the tiniest bit translucent in the middle. For the longest time, I thought it was simple pragmatism: we’re more or less landlocked (Lake Ontario doesn’t count, although it does produce some excellent pickerel), fish takes longer to get here, we incinerate it just in case. The fish that Toronto chefs have typically served, like sardines and Chilean sea bass (may it rest in peace), are fatty enough to hold up to a little overcooking (see also: black cod, miso marinated) or so hideous in its natural state (farmed Atlantic salmon) that not overdoing it would be a crime. But in the past few years, our supply has become nearly as good as what you can find on the West Coast. Much of the European stuff comes live in tanks, as fresh as it is in Lisbon or Majorca, and thanks to such B.C. suppliers as Organic Ocean and Mikuni Wild Harvest, jet-set Pacific seafood now arrives here a few times a week. These fish require precision cooking. Unlike meat, which you time in minutes, good fish can turn from perfect to hopeless in seconds.
At Maléna one night, my whole mackerel, reposed on an oversized plate with its head and tail lolling off both sides, looked so good it almost didn’t seem real. People at other tables watched with their mouths open as the waiter set it in front of me. My dinner mate, who has caught mackerel off the coast of Capri, said he’d never seen one so fresh here. It hardly mattered—inside, the fish was dry and inert. The cod was slightly better, a little moist and fragrant, but sad considering what might have been. Only the ahi tuna was done right: seared on the outside, rare in the middle. But then ahi is universally recognized as a sushi fish.
Both times I ate at Maléna, I just grinned and plowed through: even mistreated, fish this well sourced is more pleasure than pain to eat. But a man sitting next to me one night didn’t seem to think so. He sent his back, complaining it was overcooked. This was progress, I think.
On the other side of town and at the other end of the culinary spectrum, Nathan Isberg’s Atlantic Restaurant is nominally a seafood place, albeit one where the menu hearkens from “a little lower down on the food chain,” as the young chef has put it. Isberg is studying food security at U of T—essentially how to provide universal access to safe, culturally appropriate, environmentally sound and socially just nourishment. It shows. Both times I dropped in, there was no meat (he later added pigeon) and precious little of what most diners would readily call “fish” available, although there were nicely spiced grilled frogs’ legs, fried crickets (they tasted sort of like beer nuts, but with antennae), rubbery spiral-shelled sea snails simmered in red wine, and roly poly, which is commonly known as salmon head. Fair enough—it’s about time that Western chefs discovered that there is more to seafood than just lobster and tuna. But eating here felt a lot like a dry run for the post-apocalypse.
Isberg’s last two restaurants were buzzy, self-consciously stylish places (Czehoski’s $37 Second Most Expensive Burger in Town was adorned with gold leaf). He boasts that his initial renovation budget at Atlantic was $600. Given the Grapes-of-Wrath-meets-Beachcombers aesthetic, this is plausible. There’s little indication that he has invested in kitchen staff, either: one night, I saw just one other person working beside him in the partly open kitchen; another evening, it looked like he was cooking alone. This could explain the 30-minute waits between some of his small plates, even when the room was less than half full.
Some of the cooking was decent: simple grilled sardines, a perfectly blanched fiddlehead on an otherwise lacklustre risotto, an anemic but tasty fillet of poached Ontario lake trout. But so much else was poor or just plain awful, like that salmon head, which left a persistent film of tepid fish flab in my mouth.
Isberg is smart and admirably high-minded, and his early days on Queen West proved him a highly capable chef. Maybe he is just too far ahead of the curve. But until the oceans collapse, I’m happy to forget how that particular future tastes. The city, in the meantime, hasn’t quite yet become a seafood town.
Maléna
Mains $24–$34. 120 Avenue Rd., 416-964-0606
Atlantic
Small plates $5–$13. 1597 Dundas St. W., 416-219-3819
Mains $12–$25
I read this review in the original print version, and have been wondering what the following meant: “…and then stacks chopped romaine on top as a smart, if trashy, refresher.” Smart but trashy? What?
The state of fish coming from restaurant kitchens may be a function of clientele not knowing fish can be a little undercooked (just as we now realize pork does not have to have the bejeezus baked out of it). My mother-in-law insists that her salmon be “quite rare, please” and it arrives quivering almost every time.
We’ve never had a decent fish spot? What about Joso’s?
Thanks Kathleen. I wondered that as I was writing the piece: steakhouses always ask how you want your meat done, why not fish places, too?
Don’t you think romaine is a little trashy? It’s delicious, but its just sort of unfashionable these days.
Todd: Joso’s is good but incredibly expensive if you want market fish. And don’t you think the whole boobs thing is a little much?
Agree that the general state of attention towards fish is lacking in our city when it comes to how long it’s cooked. Just came back from Restaurant Week in NYC & had lunch @ Eric Ripert’s Le Bernardin. My main was skate & my partner had the halibut – all cooked just right.
is this the new direction Fulford wishes to take TL’s food section?? I suppose it is in keeping with the rest of the magazine. Chatto could have never written such a bitter review ( or poorly worded). Maybe Nuttall-Smith has never been to Chiado, a well respected seafood restaurant in this city. Glad i cancelled my subscription last year!
As a concierge (and foodie), my job is to know food and restaurants in order to provide the best dining experience to my guests. The author obviously has no clue what he is talking about and is unnecessary mean and vitriolic in his review. Maybe you did not enjoy those places sir, but you lost all credibility with this poorly written and pompous article.
joso’s 100%. expensive, you’ll have to travel to europe to duplicate this experience. now that’s expensive!
About time someone called it as it is on fish in this town. With the exception of Kaji and other high end sushi spots, I’ve seen more fish ruined in this town than the Gulf of Mexico. Nuttall-Smith is right. Let the fish quiver. You can always cook it more, but can’t cook it less. This is what criticism is folks.
James Chatto’s Review of Malena
One of the most perplexing questions you’re ever likely to hear is whether there is a decent Greek restaurant in Toronto. My old answer was no. My new answer is Maléna. I first met Sam Kalogiros six years ago, when he was a server at Luce, the Rubino brothers’ deliciously idiosyncratic foray into Italian cuisine. Kalogiros comes from Corfu, the Ionian island I know best, and he mentioned at the time that he had a long-term ambition to open an Ionian restaurant. He said the same thing a few years later when he and co-owner, co-manager, David Minicucci opened L’Unita at Avenue Road and Davenport. L’Unita’s food was Italian, convincingly interpreted by young Canadian chef Doug Neigel. Now the same team has opened Maléna, just a few doors south on Avenue Road, in the premises that used to house Pink Pearl. Already mighty popular, it has a casual, quirky charm that isn’t as obviously cool as L’Unita. And aside from Chiado, Starfish and the top sushi contenders, it’s Toronto’s most serious seafood restaurant.
But is it Greek? Canadians used to the opa!-Zorban-burnt-meat-‘n’-baklava enclaves of the Danforth might not think so. But sophisticated Athenians and Corfiots will give a shrewd smile and a nod of appreciation to Neigel. His menu (strongly favouring seafood over meat) is laden with Ionian references, not slavishly copied but judiciously appropriated and translated.
Sea urchin crostini is one example. I always associate sea urchins with the Ionian because of a particular morning when my friend in the village where we lived, Philip Parginos, taught me how to go snorkelling for octopus. At lunchtime we pulled ourselves out of the water and onto some flat, gently sloping rocks to dry off in the scorching sun. Philip had gathered some sea urchins and now he opened them with his knife, took out the lemon he had hidden in his diver’s pouch, squeezed some juice into each urchin and we ate them just like that. However many Japanese uni treats I’ve had since, that remains my seminal urchin experience. At Maléna, Neigel takes very crunchy toasts and spreads them with a little puréed avocado (these days, they do farm avocado in the Aegean islands). Then he lays the sea urchin on top, strews some red amaranth seedlings over them and finishes it all off with a sprinkling of black salt. The avocado is a great idea – echoing the texture of the urchin but too bland to impinge on the purity of its flavour – but it’s the salt that brings the dish to life (and reminds me so forcibly of that seaside lunch, I suspect).
Crab is another rare pleasure in the Ionian. In the market in Corfu town we once saw a big kavouromama, a female crab with her glistening eggs. Greedy gourmets were arguing about which of them had the right to buy it. At Maléna, they serve a single huge stone crab claw, still in its shell, and pair it with avgolemono sauce. Not your usual avgolemono – a liaison of egg yolk and lemon juice stirred into chicken broth – but a stiff version with the texture of an aïoli and mixed with masses of chopped dill. Scrumptious.
Then there’s the Ionian seafood soup. It contains cod (I’ve never heard of cod in the Ionian) as well as clams, mussels and spot prawns, all nicely undercooked to preserve their freshness and delicate textures. The broth is a thin tomato consommé flavoured with fresh oregano and basil leaves and lots of ground pepper. Slices of grilled ciabatta lie on top, which means they’re soggy by the time the dish comes to table.
I could go on – there are so many delicious things on the menu – especially whole fish of various kinds, simply and flawlessly grilled – and you can’t get more Ionian than that. They do the same thing around the corner at Joso’s, of course, though there it’s seen as Dalmatian. Same wind and water.
And in lieu of a cheese course, Maléna suggests a finger of saganaki – salty kephalograviera cheese fried and served hot with a curiously bitter orange and ouzo marmalade. It’s an unusual combination and I will have to taste it a couple more times to figure out whether or not it really works.
One last treasure Maléna presents is the talent of sommelier Zinta Steprens who gets to play with a really original little wine list that features a number of unusual white wines, all available by the glass. From Greece, a crisp, aromatically floral blend of moschofilero and rhoditis is made by Skouras. From Friuli come three stunning wines from Bastianich – a malvasia, a tocai and a blend of chardonnay, sauvignon and picolit. A glass of either would be the ideal partner to a light dinner sitting at the bar, conversing with half a dozen oysters (from P.E.I. not Corfu) or a crudo of Qualicum Bay scallops: true Canadian-Hellenic détente.
Maléna is at 120 Avenue Road (one block south of Davenport). 416 964 0606.
James Chatto’s Review of The Atlantic
Dundas and Brock weren’t looking their best the other night when my family and I met up for dinner at The Atlantic (1597 Dundas St. W., 416 219 3819). There are barricades along the sidewalk (water main repairs, not G20) and odd blue hoses sticking out of the pavement, perfect for tripping unwary feet. Flags, vuvuzelas and the other gaudily gimcrack trappings of the World Cup are for sale everywhere (Portugal and Brazil are the favoured teams in this neighbourhood and both are still involved, though other nations are not (sob)). The Atlantic is chef Nathan Isberg’s own place, formerly an unpretentious Portuguese family restaurant, now renovated on a minuscule budget. Pretty it ain’t – dark blue walls, rough boards to hide the ceiling, plain old wooden tables, vintage junk-store knick-knacks – but it is hip and wry and casual enough to bring a smile of approval from its cool 30-something clientele. There are a couple of model ships to admire (one built by Isberg’s brother) and good music from some Indie-lover’s iPod. An extraordinary old black-and-white photograph of a harvested whale on a slipway will dismay sensitive diners; others will see it as a sombre reminder of the blood-letting that underpins most acts of eating.
There are other nice touches. A blackboard over the bar offers an unusual cocktail list including an “All day breakfast: cold slice of pizza, ½ btl of beer and a deep sense of foreboding” or something called “The Terrorist” – it’s a cup of mint tea. “Yes, it’s quite a funny list,” agreed the waitress, “though I’m not sure how practical it is.” The dozen wines offered are all temptations and delightfully inexpensive – Daniel Lenko’s 2006 Unoaked Chardonnay for $39, for example, or a sensational Catalan “Syrahnnosaurus Rex” from Domaine Ferrer Ribiere at $60.
Isberg was one of the Queen West wunderkinder a few years ago, dashing across the road to stretch his culinary muscles between both Coca and Czehowski. His relationship with the owners ended in tears, however, and though things are patched up now, he is eager to go it alone as Atlantic’s chef-patron. And I do mean alone. There is no one else in the kitchen. Hence the structure of the menu – 18 small dishes ($3-$12) plus cheese ($13) and three desserts ($7) and the occasional G20 Special – that night it was “dinner served in a fake lake, $1.8m, free after 10pm.”
How to describe the food…? The overall mood of the menu is almost defiantly rustic, consciously domestic and yet slyly exotic – as if Isberg had gone back to school to take a second philosophy degree and was rustling up food one night for other students in his digs. A bowl of priest-strangler pasta with scarlet flecks of pickled chili and a runny Sao Jorge cheese sauce is surely in that basic league. Mussels with salt cod, chorizo and a big slab of toasted brao cornbread are dominated by the sweetish, garlicky, salty bacon personality of the chorizo – which is one way of doing mussels, just not very subtle. But that may be the point. Isberg seems to be chasing big, bold, simple, salty flavours at Atlantic. Fat sardines, grilled and smoked, are as robust as they can be, with nothing but a lemon wedge to mitigate the delicious pungency. Orecchiette are stirred up with tender chunks of braised duck leg, flecks of smoked mackerel (works nicely with the duck and boosts the umami), and lots of bitter, garlicky rapini. Another people-pleasing pasta dish stirs tiny spherical fregola with excellent chanterelles and tangy wild leeks.
Occasionally, a more delicate approach showed the value of finesse. A simple steamed fillet of halibut, for example, was gorgeous over a fine mix of roasted cauliflower and couscous with a smoked paprika dashi – restraint paying dividends. Lovely little steamed artichokes came with a bowl of bagna cauda into which each precious petal was to be dipped, but the rich liquid was so spiked with garlic, salty anchovy and caper that the flavour of the artichoke risked being lost. Cold edamame and mint soup, supersmooth and richly textured, was oddly sweet and overminted – and sweetness and mint only really go together in cocktails, candy or toothpaste. Or in one of the evening’s desserts – a lightweight chestnut-flour crepe wrapped around chocolate mousse and topped with caramel sauce that was crunchy with salt crystals. Fresh chopped mint was the dominant impression and here it worked beautifully.
Three years ago, Isberg and I spent a few days together in New York where we both admired the rustic, tapas-sized dishes at Blue Ribbon, Casa Mono and The Spotted Pig. Of course, it’s much easier to be quaint and simple when you can draw on the limitless resources and personnel of Mario Batali’s empire. Determinedly independent these days, Isberg goes it alone. The price point will keep the place more than busy (it was packed on the night we were there) but I’m looking forward to finding out what this chef will do next.
Thanks for posting Chatto’s reviews. It’s nice to be reminded what food “criticism” is like when the restaurant knows the “critic’s” coming, the chef and staff give the “critic” the royal treatment, and the “critic” will never, ever say anything critical, even when the restaurants are trash.
If I’m trying to figure out where to eat, I’m going to stick with the actual critics, who aren’t afraid to tell the truth instead of pleasant lies.
was david alone? or with a waitress
what The $@#34@
Morgan, the difference is that Mr. Chatto was the food writer for TL- not a food critic. It’s easy to criticize, but not so easy to write well. And Mr Chatto always made the reservation under a different name if he was reviewing. Once there he may be recognized, but if a place is truly terrible it would be too late to impress.
I Llove to have whole fish grilled perfectly with just olive oil , salt pepper and squeezed lemon , i was quite surprised when we went to BLD Restaurant on adelaide street , a new place nad they had Branzino whole on as a feature , it was done just as i like it , cooked perfectly, fresh tasting , apparently they bring fish in as features when feshly avaialble , served with gralic rapini , very nice , i hav had eaten at Josos and malena and both are equally as good , seafood needs to be fresh ,whole , and cooked simply , no sauces , thats how i think it should be .