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Vertical

First Canadian Place, 100 King St. W. 416-214-2252. Dinner for two with wine, tax and tip, $110.

That Vertical is adjacent to a food court is the first challenge. The second is that it is almost impossible to find for anyone not an habitué of the tunnels and towers of King and Bay. But once inside Vertical, having run the gauntlet of the sharp-edged young financiers who populate the bar, the dining room is much more than pleasant.

Thanks to tall windows on three sides, the room feels like a floating box in a sea of light. Sheer curtains spare us from the sad reality of being a floating box inside a fluorescent-lit office tower. The ceiling is covered in squares of gathered red fabric, which is clever for a restaurant (other restos please take note) because of their sound-absorbing property. This is important at lunchtime, when captains of industry, wannabes and other assorted money-business mavens flock to the place.

At dinner, however, when the financial district turns into a ghost town, Vertical is a bit like a morgue. Which it does not deserve. But you know what old hands in the restaurant biz say are the three things that determine a restaurant's success: location, location and location. Which suggests that the charms of Vertical's Mediterranean menu may not suffice to drag foodies way downtown, underground to park, and wander the empty halls of First Canadian Place.

Chef Tawfik Shehata, who has bounced around a fair bit in Toronto kitchens, has crafted a very attractive menu, and he does a (mostly) credible job executing it. His best appetizer is a clever remake of the Portuguese pork and clams classic, wherein he edits it with grace minus its habitual overcooking. Shehata's clams and chorizo are perfectly cooked clams with ungreasy chorizo in light but spicy broth with just enough olive oil and fennel to be noticed.

His butternut squash gnocchi are sweet, light and splendidly accompanied by oodles of freshly toasted hazelnuts. His charred octopus salad is equally correct: tender tentacles nicely dressed. Only the mushroom, rapini and parmesan "gnudi" disappoints. Gnudi is just what it sounds like (the "g" being silent in Italian). They are naked ravioli: pasta-less. What arrives are two brownish spheres somewhat larger than golf balls whose physical appearance calls to mind something that Borat might make fun of. Not so appetizing.

They taste lovely, however, especially when slathered in their basil-scented butter sauce. But chef would be advised to cover them up next time.

These days, grilled Mediterranean fish is all over town, and thus no longer so special. Chef Shehata riffs on that creatively: He bakes a whole orata (a Mediterranean bass) with cherry tomatoes, big fat vinegar-sharp caper berries and olive oil, so that it comes out moist, its flesh made to seem more sweet thanks to the piquant garnish. Wait staff filet the fish graciously, so one has no need to duel with fish bones.

Chef's other finest hour is organic chicken harira, a perfectly cooked plump bird, robustly seasoned, accompanied by an exuberant Moroccan stew of potatoes and chickpeas made hot with harissa and subtly sweet with cinnamon and coriander.

It's downhill from there. The filling inside lobster and crab ravioli tastes like what happens when you open a can of crab and put it on a plate with a few bits of lobster of uncertain provenance. It has the same flavour punch as its accompanying lobster tomato sauce. Disappointment deepens when the potato-wrapped tuna arrives, for its heart is not red but barely pink.

Dessert arrives, as unpredictable and inconsistent as the rest of the proceedings. Espresso panna cotta is good, silken textured and happily married to remoistened dried cherries with flavour oomph. But lemon semifreddo (meaning half-frozen mousse) lacks citric punch and bittersweet chocolate cake is dry and its crème fraîche is far too sour for fun. We're starting to wonder where the captains of industry keep their taste buds.

jkates@globeandmail.com