Walking north up along Young St. from Eglington station, I ran into the Silly Vogelfänger, and so we skipped off to lunch. We’d been laughing too much to choose a place as we walked north, and so we turned back south and stopped at the first restaurant that we came across: Uncle Betty’s.
Don’t eat here. Don’t give this place your money.
We walked in and grabbed a table near the front of the restaurant. A table close by was talking with the chef and what we assumed was the manager for a video promo, and both my companion and I stifled our giggles as we eavesdroped on some of the sound bites.
“We wanted to make an authentic diner experience, but with a twist.” The chef was wearing black kitchen whites with a ball cap. He nods with breathtaking vigour every other word. “So we have classic diner dishes, but with a twist, like something else. As Uncle Betty always says, you gotta make it your own or you gotta make it with a twist.”
The menu imitates a diner’s but misses the point of cheap comfort food in a simple, unassuming setting. The decor fails in its mimicry likewise, trying to be a diner but looking far too much like an uptown bistro.
The camera man loomed over us as we settled and asked if we wanted to give quote. We had not seen a menu, let alone eaten a bite. After more than a few minutes of quiet, I went and fetched menus. Not a minute after I returned to the table with the menus I had had to retrieve, our waiter appeared and asked after our order. We hadn’t yet chosen, and he scurried away. This was the first of 9 encounters with the black tshirt-adorned man.
The prices at Uncle Betty’s were high, higher than they have any right to be for the fare they were presenting. I don’t care what toppings you’re putting on it, your kitchen has a steep, bloody climb to justify a $16 hot dog. A milkshake sounded nice until I looked at the selection of ice cream, each overly ornate and complicated endeavours. Milkshakes should be simple, subtly decadent affairs, a treat to enjoy rather than challenge.
I settled on a pulled pork sandwich for $14 + $2 onion ring sub, while Silly settled on a breakfast plate ($9) of eggs over easy, sausage, home fries, and toast. And coffee. Many cups of coffee.
What came to me was a monstrosity of size and bland consequences, a tower of slaw and shredded pork lacking distinctive flavours beyond semi-salted meat. All the rich, earthy smokiness that characterizes southern-style pulled pork, its marriage of the light sweetness of BBQ to memories of fire and spice, that was all missing. And it was large, a tower of meat rivalling the high loops of the crusty onion rings. So large was the construction that I didn’t even attempt to pick it up, instead teasing stringy bites from beneath the bread lid with my fork and knife.
The waiter poked his head over the counter next to us as the Vogelfänger was laughing at my attempts to eat.
“I want what he’s having,” the waiter told us with guffaw. One confused and awkward look shared between me and the Silly Vogelfänger later, and the waiter turner and retreated to the end of his counter, thankfully away from us.
Once I had divested two-thirds of the pulled pork’s interior, I attempted to lift my sandwich, only to discover that what had once been the lower half of a bun was now a limp, meat juice-saturated soggy bottom. I managed to flip the ruse of a sandwich over to reveal the floppy slab of bun crushed wider than its top, like rolled out cookie dough. Its appearance was suspect, and to the tongue, the squishy bun bottom was like tonguing a shaved poodles skin.
The waiter appeared again to check up on our meal. We nodded and left. He reappeared minutes later to check our progress. We stared blankly until he left. Had he forgotten his visit moments ago?
As for the Silly Vogelfänger’s breakfast, the potatoes were a surprisingly pleasant array of seasoned crisp and soft crunch, and the sausage was good (though nowhere near enough to redeem her meal), but the eggs were subpar (eggs-over-easy half-cooked solid).
“When you order breakfast and the eggs are fucked up, what the fuck was the point?” Vogelfänger jabbed a triangle of rye toast at me. “Eggs aren’t hard to do; it’s just careless when they’re done wrong.”
After our mains was finished, we were harrangued by the waiter again.
“One of your donuts please,” I asked.
“I made them fresh two hours ago. Cinnamon or Powdered sugar?”
“Cinnamon?” I looked to the Vogelfänger.
“Cinnamon,” she confirmed.
“Two of both,” the waiter nodded, turning to walk away.
“Um, no,” I called to him. “Just one of the cinnamon, please.”
“So two of the cinnamon?” the waiter jeered.
“No, no,” I replied through gritted teeth. “Just one. Thank you.”
Our singular donut appears, and it is uneventful and bland in a way that perfectly encapsulates the meal: a dull sweetness enough to remind one of better meals elsewhere, overpriced for what it is, and heavy in the mouth without filling the stomach.
As I’m paying and the Vogelfänger teases me, our waiter decides to intrude one final time and follow up the tease with his own. Both my companion and I sat there in a stunned silence. Who was this waiter? We hadn’t developed any comraderie throughout the trials of the meal, quite the opposite. What a finish to Uncle Betty’s.
I don’t know what’s worse, that they did it their way, or did it with a twist.
Uncle Betty’s Diner
2590 Yonge St, Toronto, ON M4P 2J3