Time in TO

It had been awhile. In the past we’d been frequent Toronto visitors, often three or four times a year. In the years Jennifer lived in Toronto and sublet a room in her place to us, we were often in Toronto every other weekend. More recently we went elsewhere spending time in LA, NYC, SF and DC. Time to renew acquaintances had definitely arrived.

Our default world class dinning spot in Toronto is Canoe, the beautifully appointed restaurant on the fifty-fourth floor of the TD Center featuring gorgeous views of the nighttime cityscape. We walked there from the Hilton via the Underground. Cocktails at the bar, martini and bellini, then seated. And sad to say, we feel that Canoe has lost a step.

“The chef has a taste for sweet,” Shelley said offering a sample of her Bibb lettuce appetizer. The crouton had a cinnamon taste, the vinaigrette dressing, what little there was of it, was tangless. My fluke crudo was accompanied by crème fraiche, tiny white grapes and a plum sauce all but burying in sweetness the pungent oily taste that anyone who grew up on the Jersey Shore knows is the true taste of fluke.

My entrée was lamb. I prefer my lamb crispy and garlicy and this was neither and rather bland. It was accompanied by pedestrian pieces of sweet and white potato and a bite sized bit of carrot.

”I’m dropping Canoe to two stars,” I said.

“I’m only dropping it to three,” said Shelley. “My salmon was quite good.”

She had also ordered a side of sautéed mushrooms which we shared. They were the saving grace although, truth to tell, Shelley’s cooked at home version is their equal.

 

Saturday arrived, a sunny and mild late winter day.  We’d no plan for the day. We’d done the ROM, done the AGO lotsa times. And besides on a Saturday, they’d be full of families which means hordes of bored kids. A quick search turns up the Aga Kahn Museum, just a short drive away.

The aim of the Aga Khan Museum will be to offer unique insights and new perspectives into Islamic civilizations and the cultural threads that weave through history binding us all together. So says the Aga Khan, 49th hereditary Imam of the Shia Ismaili Muslims and founder of the museum.

The museum, opened less than a year and a half ago is a striking building in a lovely setting. There are gardens and reflecting pools, but they’re all put to bed for the winter. Inside, there are two floors. The first is an extensive collection of Islamic artifacts from several different Islamic cultures and several eras. There’s next to no depiction. Instead the pages from the Qur’an, the decorated vessels, tiles and metal work are all about the design, compellingly intricate, often incorporating religious text in complex calligraphy.

We weren’t there long when a musician playing an electric cello began filing the gallery with mid-eastern inspired, clearly improvised music.

Taking a break in the café, we agreed that while we were quite taken by all we’d seen, it wasn’t easy to get an overall sense of the culture from which it all emanated. The captions we agreed weren’t very helpful. The Aga Kahn’s desire for “new perspectives” needs a touch of tweaking.

The second floor is dedicated to contemporary art from the Mideast. One exhibit was an installation by acclaimed (we’re told) Iranian photographer, poet, and filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami titled “Doors without Keys”. He had photographed doors: old, mostly wooden doors, all locked somehow, most often with a padlock. The photos were processed for effect giving them a remarkable depth. Blown up to full size they were mounted along with scraps of Kiarostami’s poetry in a sorta labyrinth. As I wandered through, pausing before each panel, an altogether pleasant feeling ensued. Art can affect you that way sometime.

This is the second time recently that I’ve encountered contemporary Iranian art. The first was last year at MOMA. Both times I was struck by its modernity and creativity. I’d grown used to thinking of Iran as backward theocracy where artistry is stifled. Clearly there’s more going on there than suspected. It is after all, Persia.

 

The Winchester Street Theater, our destination Saturday night, is an old converted Cabbagetown church.  Performing that night was the Toronto Dance Theater presenting a program titled “The New York Toronto Project". Two choreographers from New York City had come to Toronto to create pieces for the company. Seated in folding chairs on risers, we faced a large brightly lit unadorned space, no wings no backstage, all a clue as to what was to come. Both pieces turned out to be more theater than dance, performed without music, without lighting, without costuming other than eccentric street clothes, without any real continuity. High marks to the performers who displayed real athleticism in very strenuous parts that must have been hard to learn without any musical clues. Otherwise not our cup of tea. We did our part for the art.

 

One more default. Our choice for late night dinning in Toronto has for decades been Le Select Bistro going back the days when it was located on Queen St in a tiny space where because the tables were so small and crowded together the bread baskets hung from the ceiling above them. Now there’s a much larger new location on a quiet stretch of Wellington Street. We arrived a little past ten and were seated immediately in a comfy booth in the bar area, just what we prefer. The subtlety lit room was warm, comfy and welcoming, loud but not too loud, just enough to know that we were in convivial surroundings. Another default is the whitefish terrine. Could it possibly be as good as remembered? No, it was better. The special was short rib “braised for three days,” advised the waiter. I consider myself a leading expert on ribs; show me something new and different.  And they did. And it was delicious.

Toronto, how we’ve seen it grow and change over the years. We resolved not to be away so long again.

 

Footnote: There ought to be some way of warning pedestrians in Toronto that I’m in town. They step off the curb confident that their fellow Canadians will be looking out for and defer to them. They don’t even look up. If they did they could tell by my license plate that I’m from New York where we consider pedestrians prey. I’m the one behind the wheel of a ton of steel and where I come from that means I rule. I haven’t run any of them down. Yet.