Neither the Strange Baker nor I could decide on what to eat. I had thoughts of Chinese, cheap Chinese food on crumpled white plastic table sheets in some basement restaurant along Dundas, but wasn’t feeling like hunting down a new dive. Strange wasn’t specific to any type of food; they didn’t like making decisions so long as it resulted in food to enjoy or mock, with somewhat equal balance. At a loss, we reached out to two other—the Sassy Lass and the Cackling Barmaid—who were finishing up a movie together. After some pattering about, we settled on Italian in Kensington. Near the park (currently under construction) there were two restaurants I’d always walked past and never tried. Shrugs and tepid nods from my three companions, and we began our respective travels to Via Mercanti, the northern restaurant adjacent to Kensington’s concrete park.
The night was pleasant as the Baker and I walked, though an edge of chill chased us to the restaurant. Bright laughter and the commotion of many dinners greeted us at the the open door. Our companions were already seated inside. Via Mercanti was humble and self-aggrandizing in the way that family-run businesses can too often come across; its decor was faux-rustic, with knickknacks on the walls that called back traditional Italian meals, while the serving staff wore matching bright blue polo shirts that made me cringe on their behalf.
The Sassy Lass’s smiled like a dry white wine as we sat. The days previous had been busy, though sparked with enjoyable diversions. The Cackling Barmaid, only a few hours awake as she joined us for her first real meal of the day, was slumped and propped up on her elbow, still partially hung over from her night and morning before. The Barmaid vacillated between subdued giggles and monosyllabic replies. We ordered and chatted.
Our first appetizer appeared within minutes, dough rolled over cheese and sliced sausage. An approximation of pizza pops, the Lass offered, that didn’t bring much more. She wasn’t wrong, I thought, teasing mine apart. the dough wasn’t as sour as a pizza dough’s though it tasted like a cousin of the same patch. I was hard pressed to identify the cheese within (supposedly bocconcini and ricotta), though its stretching tendrils reminded me of the last time I’d shambled together a cordon bleu, only this cheese had nothing of the sharpness of the Emmental I had used. I was left staring at the plate of crushed, bruised arugula upon which the pops had sat. To my left, the Baker spoke of their work’s troubles with the Lass.
The Barmaid and I zoned out, our thoughts drifting elsewhere. Our next course came.
“They’re just like mozzarella sticks,” said the Sassy Lass, holding up our second appetizer.
“Only balls,” the Baker followed.
“And without the mozzarella,” I mused, after a bite. They were certainly fried balls with a gooey substance within, but lacking any of the salt or flavour notable to the snack. I remembered several weeks earlier with the Cackling Barmaid eating mozzarella sticks in the early hours of morning at Golden Griddle (something I can’t in good conscience recommend anyone to do). Those nubs of salt and fried cheese had more of a personality—an abrasive, depressing personality that made one long for a bottle of cheap, over proofed alcohol, but flavours none the less. Via Mercanti’s substitution was somehow lacking from that. Never a good comparison of which to fall short.
Our mains arrived. The Barmaid’s pasta Bolognese was devoured with little fanfare. Pizzas arrived for myself (Ciambella Ripiena) and the Lass (Margherita), and a third pizza for the Baker, whose order of the Pollo pasta return the Pollo pizza instead. My request for basil on top of my pie was answered with a singular disheveled leaf that had melted into the soup of cheese and sauce. Too hungry to argue and send meals back, we set to dinner.
Conversation lulled as we devoured our dishes, though each more eager for sustenance than the flavours presented. We finished and paid, heading out into the cool of night.
It was several blocks north that discussion turned back to our meal. none of us could pull out any significant flavours we’d experienced. The tomato sauces had been hot, but in temperature rather than spice. The Barmaid’s pasta had been food, and devoured as she hadn’t eaten much over the last day or two. The Lass’s pizza had been a dripping mess, “pizza soup only not quite,” as she’d put it. The Baker’s pizza was at once very greasy, yet somehow hard to cut; its crust excessive thick breadsticks while the crust underneath its toppings scarcely thicker than its thin-sliced mushrooms. What sausage had been secreted away in my pizza’s crust had been a welcome change of texture, but it could have been replaced with any generic salami and I wouldn’t have been able to identify a difference.
“It could have been could had they just salted it a bit more, ” the Baker said. “It felt like they had good ingredients, but they didn’t quite know what to do with them.”
Such was our meal lacking in flavour that when we wandered north on Augusta past Wanda’s Pie in the Sky as it was closing in, we dashed in and emerged minutes later with half a pecan pie and a small apple crumble, which we ate on the stoop of the greek yogurt shop next door.
As for Via Mercanti, while I’m glad to cross another restaurant in Kensington off my list of “walked past but never tried,” I should have left it in that list. “Tried: disappointing, lacking, or to avoid” is never better than “potential delight.”
Via Mercanti
188 Augusta Ave, Toronto, ON M5T 1M1