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| - The Atlantic, on Dundas west of Dufferin, is unassuming from the outside. The plastic sign, with its generic lettering and palm trees and sailboat all blue on a white background, is a camouflage, blending in with the numerous sports bars, cafes, and family restaurants that line this strip of Little Portugal.
The interior, dark and wooden, is punctuated with decor that hints at the individuality and sophistication of the cuisine, while retaining elements of kitsch; on the wall behind our table, a small penciled drawing of a menacing thresher shark is bordered by two large, softly-coloured ballerinas. The cheerfully cluttered bar dominates the back half of the room, with a view into the tiny kitchen and a large poster on the wall: "Good Things Come to Those Who Hustle".
Looking at the often-changed menu, it is quickly apparent that dishes are adventurous and atypical - roasted salmon fish head is offered in proud defiance of squeamish palettes. We don't order it, despite the server's recommendations, but our table of four agrees upon sharing the majority of the dishes available, tapas-style.
Hummus arrives served with grilled flatbread and some flowery bitter greens. It is dark and full of spices, cinnamonney and flavorful. It would be great if there was more of the spread to go with all the bread, but who can complain for $3.
Tempura cod tongues are less fishy than expected, meltingly fatty and tasting of the sea, in a perfect light batter and skillfully paired with kimchi to achieve a wonderful umami balance.
Orwell cove mussels, small and tender, are devoured in their spicy green-juniper jerk sauce, which is first carefully spooned over the mollusks then greedily sopped up with Portuguese corn bread. It is refreshing to experience such a commonly standardized dish with a novel and daring flavour combination.
Pieroghis are masterfully executed: the sharp mimolette cheese, sebum edible flowers, goat's butter, pink beets, and young sage leaves create complimentary flavours, simultaneously delicate and fresh yet savory and full of depth.
Ricotta gnuddi dumplings, covered in ash and served with nettle masala, are spheres of creamy lightness followed by a subtle, sophisticated complexity of smoke and chlorophyll.
Hay-smoked trout is perfectly cooked, the skin crisp and delicious, on a bed of raw baby kale and sorrel-filled fresh pasta, bubbling on arrival with a coating of morel foam.
Grilled quail is succulent, perhaps cooked in a process more involved than basic grilling, with slender roast parsnips and burnt roses elevating an otherwise seemingly simple dish.
Fried chicken, somewhat disappointingly after such an impressive display of culinary prowess, is just that, and though the drumsticks are delicious and not overly greasy in their golden batter, and the whipped potatoes are creamy and perfect, and the bitter green token salad yet another example of skillful counterflavour, the dish is somehow a flat tone in the evening's gastronomic symphony.
The first dish not shared was dessert: each had their own excellent rhubarb tart, with a firm yet-not-too-tough whole wheat crust, the soft tart filling adorned with a light cream and more edible flowery goodness, with the only objection to them being the generous diameter - perhaps we should have shared, as we did to sample a tobacco brulee, which, even with it's perfectly textured filling, did not appeal to most with its strong lingering aftertaste and nicotine-induced buzz. It's probably perfect for smokers.
Service is friendly and well-intentioned, but lacking in polish - serving utensils are absent on arrival of most dishes, and must be asked for, or, often, obtained ourselves from beside the bar when unable to catch the server's attention; our timing of asking for new plates and cutlery is a careful calculation involving how residual flavours from previous dishes may affect those coming up; knowledge of ingredients and cooking methods does not stand up well to basic questioning, and promises to follow-up after asking the kitchen are not fulfilled.
However, these miscues in service, which actually do little to detract from a wonderful experience, cannot be solely attributed to the single waiter, nor the increasing demand on her time as the night progresses and the restaurant fills to near-capacity, but are perhaps reflective of the whimsical and creative approach of proprietor and chef Nathan Isberg. The components of the dishes often differ slightly from those portrayed on the menu, giving the sense that the words on paper are just a conceptual framework, with ingredients skillfully substituted and modified as seen fit. At the Atlantic, the food is art, stripped of intentional pretension and high price; Isberg is, without doubt, a talented artist.
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