65 Degrees
584 College St., Toronto, 416-588-7377. Dinner for two with wine, tax and tip, $180.
Despite its lukewarm name, 65 Degrees, a new steakhouse on Toronto's College Street strip, had us all hot and bothered. Finally, a restaurant in one of our regular west-end stomping grounds that isn't determined to bore us to death with pasta and less-than-stellar sushi.
We like a proper steak, but the trek into the bowels of the business district for a slab of sirloin can be disheartening (have you ever seen the tourists who eat at Ruth's Chris?), not to mention exorbitant, which is out of the question for a couple of self-supporting girls such as ourselves.
In charge of planning a goodbye dinner for a pregnant friend who's moving to Vancouver, we quickly settle on 65 Degrees: plenty of nutrients for expectant mum and red wine for the rest of us. It's not cheap but, hey, it's not Morton's, either.
Making the reservation over the phone, Leah requests a table outdoors (weather prevailing). When we arrive, however, we find our girlfriends seated at a table in the bar, sipping their cocktails in the dark despite the balmy evening sun.
By the time we are shown to our table, the patio is full. We don't complain, and no apologies are offered. Silent annoyance meets indifference. It's a very Toronto restaurant moment.
The bread arrives to cheer us up. Squishy sourdough with onions is warm enough to melt the sweet butter it's served with. Leah (a.k.a. the pickle-a-holic) goes crazy for the plate of dill slices.
"They taste like they're from a jar," she says crunching greedily. "Nothing special. I just love pickles. I can't stop." (She's the same way with calf's liver, but more on that later.)
Tralee opens the wine list and feels dizzy for a moment. The selection is impressive. Intimidating, really. She looks at the merlots and is reminded of that scene from Sideways. After some hemming and hawing, she settles on a 2003 Kenwood pinot noir from California for $50. Wine is a priority here, 65 degrees Fahrenheit being the perfect temperature at which the good stuff is served.
We settle into our surroundings, checking out the dramatic renovation. Opened by the owners of Coco Lezzone, the popular trattoria down the road, the room was formerly Brasserie Aix, a spot-of-the-moment that proved too formal for the College Street crowd.
The formality is still present, but with a more masculine feel. Gone is the Yabu Pushelberg airiness, replaced with tufted scarlet-leather banquettes, dark wood tables, velvet curtains and a torturously heavy-looking iron chandelier.
It is summer and we are women sitting in a room that screams "winter" and "men." We don't mind the macho décor, but the posturing is a bit much. Is it really necessary, for instance, to serve red wine in glasses as big as our heads? And what's with the all-male serving staff? They hover over us, eavesdropping, interrupting and whipping our plates away too soon in a badly executed imitation of good service.
"I'm feeling nervous," one girlfriend whispers.
When Leah tries to inconspicuously jot down something in her notepad (hidden under her napkin on her lap), the waiter materializes out of nowhere. "I notice your pen isn't working very well," he says, looking over her shoulder. "Shall I bring you a new one?"
The first course arrives and the mood brightens somewhat. The salads are savoury and Leah's ribs slide off the bone and are tender-sweet. The only disappointment are the rubbery, overcooked jumbo shrimp that taste like the inside of an industrial fridge.
For the mains, we head straight to the barnyard. All the beef, we observe happily, is AAA Canadian corn-fed and aged. Tralee has the girlie-sized eight-ounce sirloin (as does the lone male at the table). Another girlfriend has the filet. Both are decently cooked (medium rare) and agreeably seasoned.
A calf's liver aficionado, Leah gives the thumbs-up on her favourite bovine offal, pronouncing it delicately seared and firm in texture. (Her liver-love turns to liver-loathing with any evidence of mealiness -- think overcooked cafeteria liver 'n' onions from high school.)
The sides (ordered à la carte, or three for the price of one) are a mixed bag. Tralee likes the onion rings and fries (greedy girl), but Leah finds the rings a touch overbattered. The asparagus is . . . asparagus: tender, firm but so ubiquitous around town we find it hard to get excited. The creamed spinach is tasty, even if it does look like a Louisiana bayou.
Brimming with red meat, we order a simple selection of gelati and fruits for dessert. Distracted by some new patrons at the bar, the wait staff leave us alone for five minutes. We sigh, we savour, we digest. We remind ourselves to relax: It's summer, after all.
Summer in the City by Leah McLaren and Tralee Pearce runs until September. Joanne Kates will return Sept. 10.