Reader, take a seat. Get comfortable. Put your feet up on your ottoman -- or the pilfered California citrus crate you use as an ottoman -- for the story of Banu is a story of love, in all its beautiful and horrible manifestations.

Let us pretend for a moment you have just had your heart hacksawed from your chest by the love of your life and fed to ravenous birds of prey. You are tired. You are tender. Your tear ducts have long since dried up and you are fairly certain they resemble the ancient wisps of yarn hanging off an aunt's whimsical Christmas sweater. You have eaten and drunk everything in your house, including a package of Crabtree & Evelyn potpourri and the remnants of a bottle of 13-year-old cooking sherry.

So off you head to Banu, with its clean lines, tranquil teal and cobalt mosaics, gently streaming water fixture and airy floor-to-ceiling window that catches the odd gust of warm city breeze from Queen Street West.

Samira, Banu's gentle, quietly exacting co-owner, delivers an unfussy, yet carnivorously esoteric menu. With caveats. All cuts come in kabob-form, certified organic from the neighbouring Healthy Butcher. There are nuggets of silky flash-grilled liver ($12) and impeccably seared beef tenderloin filet ($25). There is lamb ($21); there are prawns (market price). And there is heart ($10).

"It is like the most tender steak you've ever had," Samira assures.

But no. Now is not a time for heart, no matter how fervently you believe in xenotransplantation. Tender heart is what got you into this deathly mess in the first place.

No, now is a time for balls.

Samira explains that the preparation of these superb lamb testicles ($11) -- or, as they're called on the carte, "urban oysters" -- is difficult. No need to launch into the literal ins-and-outs of the process, but once marinated for two days in premium vodka, grilled and christened with sea salt and pepper, sheathed in warm, pliable lawash bread, and doused with a healthy squirt of lime, you'll wonder why you've avoided being a baller for so long. They are delicate, similar to kidneys, but paler and softer. And you get lucky, because they're served in sevens. (Insert orgy joke here.)

For you chickens, Banu takes the flightless bird to surprising heights -- the wings ($13) are meaty and squidgy, slick from a bright saffron-citrus marinade. The meat lays on taftoon bread, ready for assembly alongside sprigs of basil, mint, a sweet grilled tomato and one eye-popping, pleasingly astringent radish.

And for those seeking to ease into the meal with a little catharsis, the nan o paneer ($9) is imperative -- thick slices of dark barbari bread flanked with fresh jade stems of mint, an artfully carved shallot, dry-toasted walnut halves and generous slabs of smooth, salty sheep's milk cheese that discreetly zings like a Bulgarian feta's sexy blue-blooded cousin. Tears, if available, could have -- should have -- been shed over what might be the best incarnation of eggplant I've ever shoved into my gaping maw: the kashkeh bademjan ($7), a whipped goopy mixture rounded off with whey paste and a beautiful combination of ingredients I was too dazed with magical satisfaction to ask about.