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| - The intersection of Yonge Street & Sixteenth Avenue is an area of Richmond Hill sprawling with busy restaurants, small businesses, and reasonably priced housing units. It is very much the town centre, only unlike its neighbour city of Toronto, there are no saggy jeans flashing gang signs, no music blasting from modified second hand vehicles, and certainly no forty dollar haircuts with ties costing up to the weekly salaries of the yuppies who wear them. This intersection is simply a hotpot for thriving businesses trying to make an honest living, in an honest town that represents 'Canada' better than Toronto could ever hope to.
Arrash convinced me to drive from my man-child basement dwelling to his new house way deep into the suburbs to meet with our friend Chris the Korean construction guy, and Arrash's new flavour of the week whom he insist is his girlfriend. Naturally, when we talked ourselves to a hunger, the only option was to hop in my Corolla, and drive half way back the way I came to find anything that would be open at 10pm.
We found ourselves at Tomo Japanese Restaurant after Harley (the girlfriend) pointed it out to us amongst the endless neon lights blinding me from actually reading any of the signs. We entered, we sat down, and we watched the expression on Arrash's face turn from nonchalant to concerned when he realized that this wasn't an AYCE sushi restaurant after browsing the prices on the menu. Arrash is one of those guys who despite being a very nice, kind, and laid back person; had cheapness down to his very bones. It's not that he doesn't make descent money, but we all have that one friend whose finances just doesn't make any sense to the rest of the world, and he happened to be that guy among us.
Chris ordered the bento box with generic bento box rations, Arrash and I opted for the spicy roll set, each containing twenty sushi pieces, divided evenly between the salmon, tuna, and dynamite rolls. I also added an order of the shrimp tempura, which came earlier than I hoped, and had a presentation which went slightly above any other Japanese restaurant cared to put into their shrimp tempura. I can't say the same about the taste, but it was far from disappointing. Harley ordered something insignificant, which eased Arrash's tension during his obvious session of sushi math. He didn't think I would notice, but no session of math escape my attention.
It took a total of twenty-five minutes for mine & Arrash's order to arrive, an amount of time which I wouldn't have taken notice of if only it were another time during the day, where my hunger could have been distracted by other things--say: better lit reflective surfaces.
The lighting was so amber it almost felt musky, as if I were in cottage Country or something. Amateur photographs of Toronto's skyline adorned the walls along with other generic art that had little to nothing in relevance to Japanese food. Booth seating, tables aligned to the walls, and elevated window platforms, the three options for patrons of this restaurant which added little to no individuality, and a team of Korean speaking service staff that are unexpectedly pleasant to engage with. The quality of the food undoubtedly trumps the shabby decor, but not to a point where it is unnoticed. The menu offers customers both an authentic (just) experience, and a satisfying array of food cooked just to the liking of less experienced palates. It is nice to see an actual selection of sake, unlike most restaurants that provide you with just one, and it's usually house.
A certain pride does go into the dishes, and is clearly visible with the presentation. To my surprise, this meant it was just enough for Arrash to quit his bickering immediately upon the arrival of our food. Kudos to the chef for turning a deeply seeded frugality to a hint of palatable sophistication.
I don't think Harley liked me much. Maybe it's my vocal conspiracies about the white men in controlling a media which they rightfully, but ultimately monopolize, or it could be my use of politically sensitive words that despite trend, I completely refuse to give up using regularly. It certainly wasn't my pathetic attempt to chat up the cute waitress, how could it be? I'm completely innocent.
What does Tomo mean? I think every answer to the question behind a Japanese restaurant's name has been met with an answer something along the lines of having to do with the name of the owner's mother. Are they Japanese so maternally fond?
It does seem to be reflected in their..umm, mature film industry, so I've heard.
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