Terroni and the Apocalypse

For the past few months every time Allison and I walked down Queen West one of us would turn to the other and say, “You know we really should try this Terroni everyone’s talking about.” We’d seen the lines out the door on Friday nights; we’d read the glowing reviews; heck, we’d even heard Susur Lee’s kids love frequenting the place for lunch. Being the intrepid foodies that we are, we decided to round up the troops for an early dinner late last week. All the waiting, I am happy to report, had not been in vain.

Terroni is a bustling Italian joint with a décor that sometimes-Vanity Fare-contributor Wilson describes as “cute without being kitschy.” Cool Italian-language posters on the walls, nifty fresh parmesan-grating contraptions on the tables; the restaurant exceeds in the aesthetic department. Especially, I am sheepish to admit, if one takes into account the attractiveness of the staff. “Is everyone who works here hot?” someone at our table was heard to remark, eyes glued in particular to a staff member behind the bar. A debate ensued regarding the prudence of writing a phone number on the back of a TTC transfer. Caution won out, however, when the only thing left on the table at the end of our meal was the tip.

But I digress.

Now, it is the source of endless frustration for me when only one person at a table orders an appetizer. Clutching your growling stomach, you must watch helplessly as your thoughtless tablemate savours every bite of his apristomaco. Sure, you may make small talk and nibble on a few slices of bread but in your mind you are issuing ultimatums: “Finish that carpaccio in the next 5 seconds or my fork is making a new home in your eye socket.” Fortunately for our thoughtless tablemate (with the initials, as my middle school music teacher used to say, Wilson L.), the service at Terroni was exceptional. Before my fork could pierce eye jelly, the empty carpaccio plate was whisked away and our second courses materialized like edible angels. And what second courses they were! The farinata di ceci (a wonderful argula, tomato, and tuna salad served with a slice of chick pea pancake), bucatini all’amatriciana (long, pipe-cleaner shaped homemade pasta in a slightly spicy pancetta sauce), and mangiabbun pizza (with rapini and homemade sausage) delighted; the gnocchi alla simi and li picuri pizza were tasty, if uninspired.

The verdict? Rustic Italian done well. Unlike some restaurants who are jack of all cuisines and masters of none, Terroni knows its stuff.

Although we at Vanity Fare do enjoy food, it is not all we do. To prove this point, we hit up Kozyndan’s Tales of the Bunnyfish show to enjoy the couple’s whimsical work and, er, take advantage of the free cookies. Kozyndan’s print photos and paintings are hard not to like. This particular exhibit tracked a bunnyfish – half rabbit, half fish, hence the name – on its around-the-world adventures. I liked the two small paintings from “Bunnyfish and the Beach”: the bunnyfish appears nestled between breasts (with a bikini tan line) and resting against buttocks. The work is so intimate; you feel like you’re stealing glimpses of the couple’s private world. Which helps to explain the atmosphere of giggling reverence at The Magic Pony. I think just about everyone at the show, having followed the couple’s travels through their blog and flickr photos, had a crush on Kozyndan. And, really, who doesn’t want their lifestyle? Traveling around the work, making art, being in love; sounds pretty sweet to me.

Tales of the Bunnyfish reminded me of the garden gnome in Amélie or, closer to home, the set of photographs entitled “My European Adventures with David Miller” at the fantastic King West café, Morning Glory (the Toronto mayor’s face is superimposed onto photographs from European hotspots; go for David, stay for the scrumptious breakfast sandwiches). A tad gimmicky, you say? Perhaps. But isn’t it nice to know that in our crazy mixed-up world the exploits of a mythical creature can attract such a devout following?

Or it’s a sign of the apocalypse. I’ll let you be the judge.

- Andrea