A place like Vesuvio’s reaching its 50th anniversary is an accomplishment (See “The original slice,” Food, Oct. 25). But in a town as competitive as Toronto, a restaurant surviving for one year is a feat worthy of a mazel tov, particularly in contrast with the overabundance of mediocre restaurants clinging to life like a brunch patio run by Wile E. Coyote.

Hello, Restaurant Makeover? Sometimes it would be wiser to tell owners to save their money and energy and declare bankruptcy twice.

Toronto has a glut of mid-range eateries, glorified pubs kept afloat because we’re too lazy to cook for ourselves or leave our neighbourhoods in search of something new. It takes more than overcharging for a hunk of poached organic salmon to bridge the gap between grub and fine dining. It requires a serious respect for ingredients balanced with a lack of ostentation and, above all else, a touch of class. Which is why we decided to take another look at Seoul City on its first anniversary.
Our server goes to great lengths, unnecessarily, to demonstrate his awareness of wine-serving, wiping the lip of the bottle after each pour. The dining room is decked out in elegant earth tones and late 20th-century Kryptonian light shades, but the menus on folded card stock say, “We’re not wasting money.”

The first thing to hit our table is oxtail ravioli ($7). We’ve told the waiter that we’re sharing and he’s eager, bordering on obsequious, to accommodate. Four ramekins arrive (there are three of us), each housing a fat ravioli floating in its own steaming broth. As we rip open the little packages and sweet, pliable oxtail slides down our throats, we relax our shoulders and release our apprehensions about the meal-to-be. Then we set about squabbling over the remaining dumpling.

Three more appetizers materialize, clarifying chef Jonathan Leung’s French and Italian prowess. Korean scallion pancakes with house-cured salmon ($11) turn out to be a play on blinis and caviar, the crispy-on-the-outside bindaetteok saddled with crème fraîche, petals of fatty lox and tobiwasa (wasabi-infused roe). Carpaccio of beef sirloin ($8) fans out like a poker hand across the plate, a light drizzling of ponzu shifting the intention away from its Italian roots, cubes of Asian pear (an over-esteemed, watery fruit) soak up sesame oil to complete the theme. Then Leung pops the claws with a marvellous trio of kimchi-studded crab cakes ($10). The discs, sided with a gochugaru aioli and coated in panko, are generously loaded with two types of briny goodness, shellfish and pickled cabbage wedding uncannily well.

A rice bowl, the only underwhelming note of the evening, comes topped with pungent nuggets of chicken and pea shoots ($12). Its inelegance marks it as the less-loved child of the kitchen. It seems remaindered from some not-so-ambitious chef’s menu. With only four entrees and four rice bowls offered, Leung needs to have his seams sewn up tight.

Juicy, braised short ribs ($20), glistening with demi-merlot and mirin, balance on top of a kick-ass, deep-fried, citrus- and sesame-scented rice cake. The meat, as we’ve come to expect by this point, is expertly braised, pulling off the bone like breakaway pants off Gob Bluth. And the same for black cod ($20), glazed with sweet miso, seared and broiled just until its fat, buttery flesh is almost falling off in shingles. Crunchy pieces of hearty tatsoi make a cameo.

Dessert follows the theme with a red bean crème brulle ($5) served warm. A nice idea, and vanilla wafts off the beautifully orange caramelisation on top, but the centre, where the welcome infusion of red bean puree is found, is still a little cool.

We slightly miss the multitude of banchan, the entourage of side dishes (heaps of kimchi and kongnamul) that usually accompany a Korean meal. But there’s a whole strip of Bloor, from Bathurst to Christie, devoted to just that. A year in, Leung and owner Shaun Park are still offering something unique: an amalgamation of sweet, spicy, Korean flavours with European methods in a warm, luxe Queen West lair with a hint of super-villain chic minus the pretension.
Hey, look at that, no one said “fusion.” D’oh!

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