The Queen and Beaver Public House 35 Elm St., Toronto, 647-347-2712, http://www.queenandbeaverpub.ca $100 for dinner for two including tax and tip
Of all the cuisines of the world, British food seems an unlikely candidate for revival, but, in Canada at the moment, gastropubs are the new tapas bars.
The term gastropub started showing up in Britain in the early 1990s to describe a kind of upscale pub that strives to take classic British fare and improve on it. The concept became a hit when big-name, Michelin-starred chefs such as Gordon Ramsay, Heston Blumenthal and Marco Pierre White got in the game.
The trend reached Canadian shores a few years later, but it has really taken off only recently. Vancouver has seen the arrival of the Irish Heather, Calgary kicks back at the Belfry, Halifax has welcomed Minstrels and even Montreal (not exactly a hotbed of anglophilia) sees them lined up at the Sparrow for devilled kidneys on toast. Over the past six months, Toronto has witnessed the arrival of Ceili Cottage and the Roy in one neighbourhood alone.
Now, throwing its crown into this increasingly crowded ring is The Queen and Beaver, a stylish new gastropub from Jamieson Kerr, who also owns Crush Wine Bar on King Street West.
The ambitious menu is chockablock with trendy ingredients and buzzwords: velouté, beet tapenade, curry emulsion, banyuls vinegar, Meyer lemon oil, house ketchup. This makes for a fun read, especially when you spot things like potted duck with wild cherries, smoked ham knuckle and pickled lamb's tongues.
When it comes time to eat, though, the kitchen all too often seems intent on returning British food to its traditional reputation as bland and monotonous. In The Queen and Beaver's case, it has the pub part figured out, but the gastro element is way off.
That ham knuckle, so intriguing on the menu, turns out to be little more than a bony and underseasoned pâté. At least the piccalilly (vegetable relish) it comes with is delicious. Likewise, the largely forgettable potted duck is salvaged by the presence of the preserved cherries that appear alongside.
As for the lamb's tongues, they never do arrive, owing to an odd exchange with a server:
"Can I get you anything else?"
"I think we ordered the lamb's tongues."
"Those are the lamb's tongues," the server says, pointing at some beignets.
"Oh, uh, well, where are the beignets?"
"Oh, those are the beignets. What was the other thing you said?"
"The lamb's tongues?"
"Yeah."
"Can you bring us the tongues, then?"
"Okay."
A little while later, someone else arrives with cod tongues.
It worked out all right in the end, as the cod tongues - with their pert red-pepper and mustard-seed gastrique and panko crust - were light, texturally intriguing and flavourful. In fact, most things deep-fried had some appeal. Ontario troutlings tempura were dry, fresh and more than lived up to their crispy billing. The sorrel crème fraîche they came with was flat, though, and the chorizo salt didn't bring much to the party either.
Black pudding and chorizo beignets traded a crisp exterior with a soft, steaming middle, but they were meek and timid where they should have been bold and gutsy, tasting only faintly of either chorizo or black pudding.
The kitchen is at its best when it keeps things simple. A straightforward battered haddock was, once again, expertly fried, its crust airy and its accompaniments - a bright, creamy tartar sauce and thick, golden fries - nicely done.
The devilled quail, unfortunately, was a sad, lonely little bird, overcooked (it's hard to overcook quail) and about as devilish as a daffodil. The eggs and mushrooms on toast would have been enjoyable if they weren't saddled with bread as thick and tough as a Welsh coal miner.
An otherwise delicious steak and St. Ambroise oatmeal stout pie, meanwhile, was served lukewarm, while the dry pickled silverside of beef was more dry than pickled.
And the shallot sauce that comes with the steak and chips? It tasted like what Campbell's cream of coconut soup might taste like if such a thing existed.
On one visit, an order of steamed mussels smelled so rank that other tables noticed. No server inquired about them and, when it came time to clear the plates, the fact that they were untouched also didn't warrant a remark. How they ever made it out of the kitchen smelling like that is a mystery.
But while the food needs some work, that's only half of the gastropub equation and The Queen and Beaver definitely gets the second part right. There's delicious cask-conditioned ale, unfiltered and lightly carbonated, as well as several excellent draft beers from Creemore Springs, Denison's, McAuslan and Fuller's. The wine list, while brief, is carefully edited and about half the selections are available by the glass at a reasonable one-fifth the price of the whole bottle.
The main dining room is a plush green-on-green space with portraits of various queens hung on the walls, an antique fireplace with a sturdy mantel and a jumble of mismatched furniture. Upstairs is a kind of Withnail and I rumpus room furnished with plush couches, big comfy chairs and framed vintage portraits of various athletic teams. A compact but well-stocked bar, large flat-screen TV and booming stereo complete the effect.
I can see why restaurateurs are eager to jump on the gastropub wagon. The food at most regular pubs is hideous in the extreme, but updating these traditional rustic and hearty dishes requires more than throwing a few French culinary terms around and scattering truffle oil and balsamic vinegar willy-nilly.
The gastropub might seem like an easy concept, but it is far from easy to do well.