LAIDE (138 Adelaide East, at Jarvis, 416-850-2726) Complete meals for $60 per person, including all taxes, tip and a cocktail. Average plate $12. Open Tuesday to Thursday 5 to 10 pm, Friday 5 pm to midnight, Saturday 7 pm to midnight. Bar open till 2 am. Closed Sunday and Monday. Licensed. Access: three steps at door, washrooms on same floor. Rating: NNN
Rating: NNN
Above our clandestine booth at Laide, the über-downtown sex-themed lounge that recently celebrated its first birthday, a bound and gagged Bettie Page, dressed in only a brassiere, black stockings and a girdle, is being spanked by a second scantily clad female wielding what appears to be an oven mitt.
“I think I see bush,” whispers former club kid Jennifer Convertible, referring to the grainy black-and-white film being projected on the wall overhead and not to the 43rd president of the United States.
From our wobbly perch, it’s difficult to make out exactly who’s doing whom. An after-work gang of regulars ringing the intimate storefront lounge-cum-resto’s circular bar don’t seem too concerned and keep their backs to the hot – if blurry – girl-on-girl action unspooling behind them.
As the inevitable Buddha Bar compilation of ethno-jazzy triphop oozes over the sound system, our eyes adjust to the candlelight and take in chef Sam Gassira’s somewhat stained and crumpled lineup. We’ve been following this innovative young cook since he first made a splash at Focaccia, and later enjoyed his equally spectacular work at Bloom.
Since Laide opened last December, he’s been doing double duty. Once busy Bloor West Bloom closes, he dashes across town and finishes the night cooking for the cocktail crowd. Most chefs would phone in this type of gig, but Gassira is in complete control of the kitchen, and the results are often staggering. Pub grub this ain’t.
Though Laide’s Web site (www. laide. ca) insists his menu consists of tapas, the trendy restaurant buzzword that generally translates as less food, more money, Gassira calls his tasting plates “quality in small portions.” Whatever they’re called, by the time two of the oversized dishes get plunked in front of us, there’s hardly enough room left to shake a swizzle stick. And it might actually be nice to see what we’re eating, flickering candles be damned. Of course, then we’d likely notice the cigarette burn on our otherwise bare tabletop.
But first, Convertible scans the drink card for an appropriately licentious libation, considering the Nymphomaniac (spiced and Malibu rum with peach schnapps), the Deep Throat (Frangelico, vanilla vodka and cream, both $8) and the Pure Ecstasy (champagne, vodka and absinthe, $19), before opting for a Kinky Kitten (sour raspberry liqueur, apricot brandy and orange and grapefruit juice, $14). I sensibly stick to Stella ($5.13).
Our first bite of Laide’s sole salad – whole buttery leaves of baby Boston lettuce layered with thinly sliced ripe pear and deliciously crunchy candied walnut brittle rocked with a light Roquefort cream ($8) – elicits a mutual orgasm on the tongue. “Oooh!” we simultaneously gush, blush, then break out laughing, much as we do in our sex lives. It’s outstripped by a hefty cress-garnished flour-tortilla-wrapped enchilada stuffed with first-rate shredded snow crab and cheesy Monterey Jack in a nippy jalapeño sauce ($10).
We follow with wanton wonton, Gassira’s signature Asian-inspired ravioli – here, sweet butternut squash and smooth ricotta ($12) cleverly coupled with a sweet, citrusy syrup that recalls Chinese plum sauce.
Generally a try-anything-twice gal, Convertible is reluctant to taste the chef’s astoundingly succulent braised veal osso bucco ($16). Yet after her first wary forkful, living up to her name she’s soon a convert and sops up every last drop of its sage-scented cremini mushroom gravy and addictive marrow with her finger.
But no amount of convincing can get either off us to finish his barbecue-glazed baby back ribs ($14), a stack of meaty porkers sauced with what tastes awfully like ketchup and paired with store-bought potato chips. I later ask Gassira how he came up with its, er, interesting glaze.
“It’s very Couillard,” he explains, mentioning his stint at Stelle with the acclaimed spicemeister. “You just open a bunch of fucking bottles and see what happens.”
If that’s the case, in future I suggest he stay clear of the red squirt bottle marked Heinz 57.
