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| - Oh, Kingyo. A dinner reservation (a recommended must) ensures my walk across to the wrong side of the Don River to this Cabbagetown izakaya was not a waste. Then I have to contend with the mesmerizing flashy Japanese pinball-esque machines (pachinkos) as decor that I can never figure out how to use quickly enough, even if my life and a free meal depended on it (I'm told you can get $10 off if you win).
It's a more dim and classy atmosphere than, say, Guu, and not as noisy. Our service was slow at first but only seemed to pick up as the night got busier. Like other such upscale Japanese eateries in this fine city, you have Japanese waitpersons whose English is a tad better than my mom, but nonetheless make the effort to deliver high friendly service with a bit of quirk that makes going to these places so fun without ever going overseas.
Many of their dishes are a fusion take on Japanese food. After getting past the the overwhelming exoticness of their menu options and the fancy platings, I found many of them to be a delight of flavours of all sorts. We went all over the map: tomato kimchi (cherry tomatoes with a bit of heat and umami), tako wasabi (kind of an octopus ceviche with a kick of wasabi), seafood and sea urchin don (hot mixed rice bowl with a light buttery and seafood-slimy taste haunting you), and the frozen matcha crème brûlée (kind of like the green tea ice cream many Japanese restaurants serve for dessert, but done in clever crème brûlée form with that burnt fragile top layer). And whatever else that sounded disgustingly exotic (stingray? stingray!). We were mesmerized by what other diners had, like beef slices grilled live on a hot stone.
Watching all that food and the bill add up (to about $50/person), still I was hungry against all odds. I had been eying something in the menu all this time: "Kingyo style Death Chicken." The name sounds as menacing as its accompanying description: "Deep fried chicken tossed in original diablo chili sauce. Do not order if you aren't too good with spicy food!" Even our server seemed shocked with my request. "You sure? I think it's very hot! I can't believe you." Which only piqued my curiosity further.
When the HELL'S CHICKEN (as this dish is referred to in the receipt--yes, in all caps) arrived, I braced myself and took a bite. It tasted like your average bar suicide wings-and suicide wings to me taste like nothing extreme. There was sufficient heat and the greasy batter texture of suicide wings, but as hotness is subjective, I have to remind myself that chili novices (and clever marketing names) tend to overexaggerate the level of spiciness of many hot foods. Fellow chiliheads should skip this one.
That definitely-not-deathly chicken was the only major disappointment of an otherwise savoury and fun night. The men's room downstairs is stocked with dental floss, mouthwash and other such toiletries so you can freshen up. Keep a cheeky eye out for some dirty magazine covers displayed in a dark corner.
{TTC: Winchester Street ????????????? [65] ?????????. Or just take the 506 to Parliament/Carlton and walk further a couple blocks.}
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