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| - Diners who frequent the stretch of Eglinton between Yonge and Spadina are a fickle bunch. Le Pain Quotidien does a brisk brunch trade, and Seven Numbers is filled most nights, but for the most part the neighbourhood is known for it's failures: Wolfgang Puck once teased us with the promise of fresh California cuisine before abandoning the strip; Gladstones and Umami failed in their attempts to bring upscale kosher dining to the masses; Lichee Garden retreated to the wilds of Thornhill, and now exists only online, threatening a return to the downtown core.
The Green Eggplant follows a pair of high-profile efforts at brand extension; the Meron Brothers, and Dipamos. The original Green Eggplant may be found in the Beaches, if you're so inclined.
Dinners follow the pattern set by better Mediterranean restaurants around town; a garden salad soaked in sweet dressing, followed by chicken schnitzel (Big As Your Head) atop enough Basmati rice to feed a village. The schnitzel arrives golden brown, it's crust flecked with sesame seeds. The interior disappoints. The chicken breast has not been pounded flat, so cooking is uneven. Instead of a thin, tender fillet, the bird is alternately dry and chewy. It demands lubrication from the alleged garlic dip alongside.
I'm picky about fish in Toronto restaurants; but the Zoomers at the table are made of stouter stuff. They survived wars. What's a little freezer-burn? 8-inch fillets of rainbow trout arrive, announced by the sound of their crisping skin on hot platters (good) and the smell of days spent pining for the fjords (bad).
Lobster and Jumbo shrimp pasta is similarly portioned, although one hunts for the seafood like Ahab on the high seas. Protein and vegetables are lost in a mass of overcooked angel hair, which is inexplicably cream-sauced. As the meal progresses, the pasta unionizes; one can't take a forkful without engaging the whole bowl.
Be warned; the kitchen may have recently acquired one of those tools that turns ordinary vegetables into long, thin ribbons. They appear on everything. The salad comes topped with a tangle of carrot string, and my dinner ran with the blood of wiry raw beets. It's a neat visual trick, but challenging eating, since raw veg is harder to twirl around a fork than say, cooked pasta, and attempts to cut them down to size yielded pieces that rested uneasily on the fork. It was cute, then, wildebeest-ie, and would otherwise violate the principle of North American social eating, that one never wants food to hang from mouth to plate in an uninterrupted line.
Chicken shish kebab and grilled vegetable salad repeat the pattern. Nobody can finish their plates. To-Go packs are offered as a matter of course. My Schnitzel winds up going home with somebody's grandmother. I can only hope it was set free on a farm out in the country, where it can play with the rabbits.
This is middle-eastern food repurposed for the Cheesecake Factory set. And they flock. This crowd arrives early. We are seated promptly at 5;30, to accommodate the geriatrics, The staff are short, blonde and cute, though snippy once orders come rolling in.
I leave the Green Eggplant as more families pour in; one kid asks his parents why they come here so often. I almost want to answer for them "because that's just what we do".
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