Photography Jason A. Chiu

The tagline at the bottom of Black Skirt’s business card reads: “Southern Italian Cuisine.” Southern Italian, maybe; not so sure about the “cuisine” part — a word we foodies like to reserve for dishes with some kind of cultural and gastronomic integrity.

Formerly Wish, the Charles St. East locale has for years attracted clientele with a slightly more sophisticated palate than its neighbours; it was a hideaway in the seedy sidestreets off Yonge, where you could unwind with a trendy cocktail and some fine nibbles. Not since the all-night heydays of ’80s fixture, Chez Capuccino, has this corner been so popular. When budding chef Peter McKnight was at the helm, it was pretty much a guarantee that your food and drink experience would be more thumbs up than down.

But with his departure a while back, and the now reimagined and rechristened Black Skirt, there’s a good risk that this locale will go from dining destination to future site of an all-night dollar store. (Prescient it was for the owners to place a statue of St. Francis on the patio; they’re going to need his blessings.)

Once a place oozing with austere elegance, Black Skirt now evokes images of an old Italian woman labouring over her family’s secret pasta and sauce. Only shortly after ordering, it becomes crystal clear that Nonna has left the building.

What’s this? Toast topped with a mélange of mediocre mushrooms and melted brie — for $12? Tasty? Yes. But $12? A massive, golden-brown rice ball ($8) stuffed with sweet peas and a milligram of ground veal is serviceable as well. But you can get the same thing for a song at any Italian take-out deli in town – and you are guaranteed a San Marzano tomato sauce that actually has flavour.

Lamb skewers are juicy and nicely seasoned, but the cubes together barely make up a mouthful. Ditto with the prosciutto di parma sandwich ($13). Served on a warm Italian crusty roll, the wafer-thin parma ham is matched by an equally sheer coating of provolone and baby arugula. But, c’mon, there is something very wrong if you can actually count the number of leaves. The best that this kitchen has up its skirt is a bowl of butter-seared meat ravioli ($15) with sage. Alas, the butter is merely melted, not browned. A too-fatty osso bucco ($28) is pedestrian in spite of a beautifully rich gravy.

Even a deconstructed bruschetta, where instead of bread being topped with garlicky tomatoes, you dip it into a muddled mix in a mortar with pestle, is stolen from their sister restaurant, 7 West, a late-night mainstay.

We all know the adage if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Well, I wish someone had told the owners of Wish to leave well enough alone. Then we might not have had to endure the travesty Black Skirt calls tiramisu ($9). Sour cream blended with fridge-burned Philly Light is no “little taste of heaven” here on Earth. Sorry Albert.

A black skirt may be a timeless classic in any woman’s wardrobe, but this one should have stayed in the closet.

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