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The retired judge is in fine voice today. “The last several weekends, I can tell you the meals we had were not fit for human consumption,” he bellows. “Even the plates on the tables are wrong!”

“Hear, hear,” a grey-haired woman at another table says. Then she snaps, “Sit down already,” at a woman who is gingerly lowering herself into a chair.

“I'm sitting, shut up!” the woman snaps back.

Heather Lisner-Kerbel, the social worker who called this meeting to talk about food at the Terraces of Baycrest retirement home, doesn't flinch.

The judge “has the floor now and he's making a lot of sense,” she says. “Everyone will have a chance to talk.”

And talk they do, complaining bitterly about everything from the seasonings to the serving staff's lack of finesse. They egg each other on, cheering each time someone scores rhetorical points against their common enemy: lunch.

“Every day the boiled chicken,” one woman grumbles. “We've got it coming out of our ears!”

“A piece of fish!” another rasps in heavily accented English. “Fish for the elderly – it is good for the brain, for everything.”

“Not fried, for God's sake,” a third resident chimes in.

If you want to rile up a group of retirement home residents, mention the food – and then stand back. Most people move to the Terraces in north Toronto for the reliable medical care, not the daily meal, but they never tire of complaining about it. Food replaces the weather as the go-to conversation starter, and just like the weather it prompts complaints regardless of whether it's too hot or too cold.

And it's not just an issue at the Terraces.

“The food might be good, but that's not the point,” says Christine Lever, a Toronto-based long-term care consultant who works with families to help place relatives in retirement and nursing homes. “Institutional food is different from the food you cooked in your own kitchen … nobody makes pasta the way mama makes pasta.”

What rankles the residents is not just the mushy spaghetti or the bland chicken; it's what the food represents. At the Terraces, as at most retirement homes, more than 80 per cent of the residents are women who for years were the ones responsible for family meals. They celebrated holidays with their grandmothers' recipes and baked comfort foods for their children. Food was more than nourishment; it was their responsibility, their creative outlet and a physical manifestation of their love.

“These were my mother's candlesticks,” 96-year-old Rebecca Hoch says, as she lights two candles on Friday night to mark the beginning of the Jewish Sabbath, the way she did for decades in her own home. Her late husband always said a blessing over the wine and her two sons, and they would all eat the traditional meals she prepared. “It was a lovely feeling,” she says.

When the food fails to live up to residents' expectations, it becomes a canvas for larger, unspoken anxieties.

“It's a control thing,” Ms. Lisner-Kerbel explains. “It's something so much a part of their lives, that they were in charge of. When someone comes into your home, it's like, ‘When do you want to eat?'”

The Terraces serves a primarily Jewish population for whom food plays a particularly important role in family life and culture. Trying to escape from a resident's apartment at tea time without eating something is taking your life in your hands.

But in a way, getting outraged about the meals, and then getting over it, is a rite of passage for new residents.

When Lawrence Sandy moved to the retirement home five years ago, it bothered him when the waitresses would pass dishes over his head instead of walking around to each seat. They would slap down dessert when he wasn't even finished with the entrée. He joined the food committee and raised a fuss.

The management at the Terraces says it tries to respond to residents' concerns but often has to settle for small changes or tradeoffs because of budget constraints. The dining room did stop serving hot dogs because of complaints (“tasted like wood” is one representative comment), and the food committee was able to get roast beef served once a week in exchange for giving up pop once a week.

But Mr. Sandy no longer rages against the food service. “What the hell, what am I going to do about it?” he says with a laugh. One of the secrets of living to age 93, he says, is learning how not to get upset about such petty matters.

Mr. Sandy's new crusade is people who leave their bottles and cardboard boxes next to the garbage chute. “That bothers me so,” he says.

He made little posters reminding his hall-mates to use the recycling bins downstairs. A week later, someone had torn down his posters – “but it's been clean,” Mr. Sandy says with pride.

Mealtime isn't only a source of complaint for the 187 residents who live together in the 11-storey apartment complex: It's also the main social event of the day. Everyone who's well enough attends, and there's a steady flow of table-hoppers. On Fridays, when there's a 5 p.m. meal to start the Sabbath, everyone dresses up. Challah bread and a shot glass of kosher wine are served (for sipping, not shooting). Usually, the dining hall is BYOB.

Small indignities (such as shot-glass-sized servings of wine) are balanced by small acts of tenderness.

“How are ya, hon?” a waitress asks a centenarian who's been feeling poorly, quietly slipping her an extra helping of food – she knows how much effort it took the 102-year-old to leave her room tonight. Across the dining hall, a male friend waves and winks at the elderly woman, prompting her to smile and blush.

“Oh, she has a boyfriend,” her table-mate whispers.

After lunch one day, a woman in a pink sweater pushes her walker over to a friend's table. “I thought I'd come over and talk to someone,” she says. They sit and trade stories about people they knew when they worked together in a clothing shop 40 years ago.

No one at the table minds if you repeat stories, says Bernard Rubin, 81 – their memories have made them forgiving of repetition. “Our age helps us out.”

At one recent lunchtime, Jean Goldstein discusses Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace with her friend and fellow book club member Norma Rubin.

“I was so disappointed with the ending,” says Mrs. Goldstein, 86.

“You like everything neat and tidy,” Mrs. Rubin replies.

“She doesn't do that,” Mrs. Goldstein says.

“She does not,” Mrs. Rubin agrees.

Meanwhile, at another table, four single men are trying to recall the latest Oscar winner for best picture.

“It's by the Coen brothers,” one man volunteers, but the name escapes him.

“They look like a couple of kids,” Seymour Hersch, 77, exclaims.

They all agree it's a western, but no one can remember the title: No Country for Old Men.

***

EXTREME MAKEOVER: SENIORS HOME EDITION

It's not your grandmother's retirement home.

Actually, it may be your grandmother's retirement home, even if looks and feels more like a hotel.

Choice and luxury are the strongest themes emerging in a wave of new seniors' residences springing up across the country. "People are more individualistic," says Gord White, chief executive officer of the Ontario Retirement Communities Association. "Five years ago, one-bedrooms were rare and two-bedrooms were unheard of. Now, they're building three-bedrooms with full-sized kitchens."

Older residences such as the Terraces of Baycrest are scrambling to adapt, tearing down walls to create spacious suites and revamping menus.

Unlike nursing homes, retirement homes are not government-regulated. The result is a range of housing from basic to superfancy. The newest homes use luxury hotels as templates.

"It's a different feel," says Cathy Wallbank, general manager of Tapestry at Village Gate West, a 168-suite residence that opened in Toronto last month.

The difference starts curbside at Tapestry, with valet parking. Inside, you'll see a concierge desk, a coffee shop with wireless Internet access and a 30-seat pub. The dinner menu includes a full wine list.

Even medical assistance is à la carte: daily or hourly, as needed. Monthly rent runs from $2,400 for a bare-bones bachelor apartment to $6,000 for a fully loaded package.

"We all want those choices," says Ms. Wallbank, who spent 30 years in the hotel business. "It's all about what they want to do and understanding who they are."

The industry is going upscale because seniors increasingly can and will pay for more choice in accommodations. The trend is expected to ramp up as affluent baby boomers hit retirement-home age.

But the current generation of 80- and 90-year-olds is not shy about demanding high-end options. "This group of people says, 'We worked hard all our lives, it's okay to spend money on ourselves as we age,' " Mr. White says. "They want to be served in the way they want to be served."

Rebecca Dube