BY KATHRYN BOREL
Corn is not something that typically initiates grand gestures of
affection. Creamed corn especially. It is soggy and gross and beige.
Creamed corn is not usually something that would motivate you
to rush up to a chef on his break and then use every iota of restraint
to stop yourself from throwing your arms around his greasy,
sweat-saturated chef's coat. Chefs, after a hectic night of cooking,
are soggy and gross and beige.
This is not the case with Cory Vitiello. Or, to clarify, this
is not the case with the creamed corn the Drake sous chef crafts in his
kitchen. (Mr. Vitiello, though handsome, was actually quite soggy when
I ran into him, but still wholly deserving of a congratulatory
embrace.) He explained how he grills the kernels, bakes the kernels,
mashes them, then re-grills, re-bakes and re-mashes, until he's left
with a compact mass of hyper-concentrated, hyper-sweet sunny yellow
fierce corny ecstasy. Matched with an immaculate trio of plump Digby
scallops, their outsides smartly caramelized, the entree is, without
argument, the best on the menu.
At the beginning of the month, the Drake kissed their old Queen
West menu template goodbye, jettisoned some kitchen personnel and
brought in a big gun with a big press release-friendly background.
("Culinary passions awoken under Marc Thuet at Centro!" "Worked under
New York luminaries Jean-Georges Vongerichten and Jonathan Waxman!")
And while this means precious little to people who don't
follow the celebrity chef world, the Drake's new executive chef,
Anthony Rose, delivers the proof of his experience in his pudding. And
his dumpling. And his cold-roasted foie gras.
The new MO is farm house cooking, focusing on local and
organically grown seasonal foodstuffs. And, amazingly, the spirit in
which the food is cooked adds a human texture and warmth to a space
that's been fingered as ground zero for the glossy hipster influx.
Dishes are delightfully free of froths and foams and befuddling
juxtapositions of flavour, delivered by a staff that's efficient,
attentive and without pretension.
Creamy tiles of cold-roasted foie gras lie pink and pert on top
of a fresh peppery tangle of rocket, best appreciated when smooshed
together with juicy accompanying bits of vineland peach and jagged
crumbles of dry-toasted hazelnuts. Fried green tomatoes come crunchily
acidic, encased in a golden panko-like crust of glistening bread
crumbs, served with more baby greens and salty, eggy aioli. For those
prone to bouts of depression caused by those wooly raw tomatoes
normally served in caprese salads, you can hold off on the Wellbutrin:
the streaked slices in the heirloom salad are wet, taut and fleshy,
dotted with excellent olive oil.
Entrees, unsurprisingly, are at the higher end of the
bling-o-meter, but are accordingly generous. Nowhere is this more
obvious than in the Herculean portion of pig wrapped in more pig that
is the loin and bacon dish. A fat slab of crimson-striped pork belly is
fitted snugly around a man-sized fist of white pork loin, served
Hawaiian-style, with grilled pineapple.
The only misstep of the bunch is a slightly dry piece of black
cod served atop unappealingly glutinous and under-seasoned basmati
rice. A small head of baby bok choy is flaccid, and the advertised duck
that comes with it is a no-show. Still, it's a thoughtful combination,
in as much as it's an endearing failure.
Last year, as most of you know, the Starbucks at the corner of
Queen and Dovercourt was tagged by vandals. "There goes the
neighbourhood!" was the sentiment; "Drake, you ho, this is all your
fault!" was the written message. But thanks to Anthony Rose and
company, it seems as if this particular ho is evolving. If not into a
fresh-faced purebred debutante, then at least into a creamed-corn-fed
hooker with a heart of gold.