It's all about branding, and these days the brand is della nonna all the way. The cooking of Italian grandmothers owns Toronto. If someone were to open a restaurant selling, let's say, nouvelle French or British gastro-pub, they'd have to serve pretty spectacular food to get buzz. But offer the three big P's (pasta, pizza and polenta) and the crowds beat a path to your door. It doesn't even have to be very good.
Witness the success of the new(ish) Parkette across the street from Noce on Queen West. Parkette's menu is the standard cucina della nonna. But the standard we've come to expect (as set by Campagnolo, Buca and Enoteca Sociale) is M.I.A. here.
One wishes that Parkette's polenta were not so dry; and infusing it with olives was not a good idea: They turned the cornmeal an unappealing blackish colour and did not set off any flavour fireworks. The olive pit in the paste didn't help either. The lamb and currant sausage was similarly uninspired; it takes a page from the master charcutiers of the town, but is bland, lacking the meaty sharpness of the great sausages that have taken Toronto by storm. Manipulated meat acquits itself far better in the smoky ham hock that adds value to nicely crisped Brussels sprouts in light vinaigrette.
As for charred octopus, Houston, we have a problem. The critter's texture is about as tender as shoe-leather. Neither fork nor knife penetrates this baby. Small recompense is derived from the leafy pleasure of nicely grilled escarole jazzed with orange segments and a hint of mint.
But nothing of Parkette's opus matches their pasta. This kitchen knows noodles. Their ricotta gnocchi are superbly light and gracefully partnered with rapini and small succulent pork meatballs in deep-flavoured broth. Rabbit packages with a hint of sweet (dried apricots) and salt of pancetta and melted pecorino are properly al dente. Malfatti are excellent house-made "ill-formed" fat noodles whose sauce does less than full credit to its lovely pasta: The mushy combo of olives, roasted red peppers and over-cooked chicken under a sheet of melted Taleggio cheese does no credit to noodles.
And a pasta master doth not a pizza practitioner make. Maybe the problem with the pizza here is the absence of a 900-degree-Fahrenheit pizza oven from Naples. Parkette's pizza is flaccid and floppy rather than crisp and stiff. It could use either a dose of Viagra or ultra-high heat to cook (and crisp) the crust before it absorbs liquid from the topping and goes soft. Margherita topping is made marvellous by very fresh bufala mozzarella, good strong tomato sauce and fresh basil leaves, but floppy crust doesn't cut it.
The salads are the most interesting items on the menu – interesting not only in their actual flavours but also in that they demonstrate the kitchen's (largely) unrealized potential. Salad of lightly grilled red onion with thinly shaved fennel and baby arugula is a great flavour combo, and salad of radicchio with apple, pistachio and seedy mustard vinaigrette is perfectly balanced: sweet, sour, crunchy and smooth. Surely a kitchen with the artistry to compose these clever salads can do better than not-quite-Pavlova for dessert – especially with only two desserts on offer (the other a pleasant banana crème brulee). Pavlova is a classic meringue and cream cake with a soft interior. This rendition is two plain and rather sturdy meringues with orange and grapefruit sections and a nicely boozy orange sauce.
Meringues ought not be sturdy. Pizza ought not be flaccid. Octopus ought not be tough. All of which are painfully stern indictments of Parkette, but hope springs eternal, especially when the pasta is such a pleasure and the salads evince culinary talent. And the room itself is charming – we like the thick naked-wood tables, the retro city pennants, the huge vintage Coca-Cola sign and, of course, the très chic long communal high-top. So here's the deal, Parkette: Delete pizza, sausages and octopus. Sell salads and pasta. Dinner will come in at under $70 for two. The people will beat a path to your door.