The trouble with a great food city is that temptation is always around every corner. Two dinners aren’t nearly enough to satisfy anyone’s hunger or curiosity about all the good things to eat in Toronto, but with a little research, and the help of Chris Nuttall Smith, the former restaurant critic for The Globe and Mail, I recently squeezed as much noshing into 48 hours as I could—including two stunning meals on opposite ends of the restaurant spectrum.
    Before my wife and I got to those restaurants though, two obligatory stops were in order: first, at the world famous St. Lawrence Market, home of Canadian artisan cheese purveyor Olympic Cheese Mart (left). Even for an old caseophile like me, the selections at Olympic can be overwhelming. It displays hundreds of wheels from every cheese-producing country in the world, but the things to sample are the artisanal Canadian cheddars. A giant board lists these in-house-aged beauties, some of which have been two decades in the making—and you will want to sample every one. (Try to go early, before the lunch rush, and you’ll find the cheese mongers very generous and informative.) There is even a "guilt-free cheese" section for those who recoil at the thought of lactose-laden, animal rennet-coagulated real cheese. Be forewarned, however, that having those aversions and coming here is like swearing off sex and strolling through a bordello.
      Our second stop was at the more bohemian Kensington Market, where, interspersed among the raggedy storefronts and vintage clothing shops, are two foodie meccas next door to each other: the Blackbird Baking Co. and Sanagan's Meat Locker (right), both founded within the past five years by local chefs looking for a career change. Simon Blackwell worked in the iconic River Café in London before becoming inspired by the work being done at Amy's Bread and the Sullivan Street Bakery in New York, while Peter Sanagan took an old butcher shop and turned it into a showcase for the exceptional meat and poultry being grown by small Ontario farmers. We were trying to save our appetites for dinner, but our willpower faded as soon as we confronted the European-inspired charcuterie, pâtês and terrines of Sanagan’s, and the aromas wafting from Blackbird.
    Resistance was equally futile when we stumbled upon Aloette (left; 163 Spadina Ave.), just a few blocks from Kensington Market. which Smith had urged us to check out, and at that point it would've been rude not to. Besides, by then it had been at least thirty minutes since we had munched on the succulence of Sanagan's lemon and mustard headcheese and the tangy crust of Blackwell’s sourdough.
    Billed as an upscale diner serving "comfort food with a twist," Aloette is long narrow room that seats only 38, but it oozes serious foodie cred from the bow-tied bartenders to the bustling staff eager to give you the provenance and technique behind every dish. As we were only there for an aperitif, the delights of the menu were mostly seen rather than tasted, but there was no faulting the warm brioche bread with brown yeast butter, or the briny, sparkling oysters—both raw and grilled—that paired perfectly with a crisp Pearl Morissette Chardonnay from the Niagara-on-the-Lakes wine region.
     By then it was time for dinner. Given our carb and charcuterie consumption, we probably should have walked up the 54 floors to Canoe, (66 Wellington Street W) but instead we elevated to this spectacular room in the TD Bank Tower and were lucky to catch a dramatic sunset over Lake Ontario. What showed up on the plate was every bit the equal of the scenery. Canoe is now over twenty years old, but the room, service, and cuisine feel as fresh as they did when I last visited in 2001. Executive Chef John Horne uses the entire palette of Canadian flavors to craft a cuisine that is classically rooted but very much of its place. Seasonal and local are the watchwords that guide this cooking, and even if those terms are overused these days, they seem right at home when the bounty of Ontario is laid before you.  Everything from the vibrant green bean salad with wild ginger, pickled onion and sweet pea hazelnut vinaigrette to locally foraged roasted mushrooms had that hand-picked brightness that shines through when the vegetables come from no farther away than the next county.
     Horne's take on s'mores was also a relevation, as he parked a generous slab of Canadian duck liver (right) on a Graham cracker "crumble" (more of a small square cake) beside which sat a generous dollop of toasted marshmallow cream. Some swirls of chocolate sauce completed this grown-up, lip-smacking deconstruction of the campfire classic.
    The main courses—Great Lakes pickerel with smoked oyster mayonnaise, and Québec red stag with foie gras sausage, beetroot and berries (left) were also so on point it was a bit astonishing, as were the premium Canadian cheeses that finished our meal. Cooking this high up is not supposed to be this focused, this much fun, or this good. Calvin Trillin once famously remarked that the higher you get off the ground the worse the food gets, but the cuisine of Canoe is all that and more.
    From the tallest meal in town to a humble cottage, our second dinner in Toronto couldn't have provided a nicer contrast. Where Canoe is a philharmonic of panoramic sights, giant open kitchen and a thriving cocktail bar, Edulis (right; 169 Niagara St.) is more like a pitch-perfect string quartet playing in a minor key. The impression upon approaching Edulis (another name for the cepe mushroom) is one of a prettified small inn where the family cooks everything from the farm and cossets you from  the moment you enter. It may look casual but the food is super-serious, and the feeling you get is of peaceful expectation—a gentle knowledge that you're in the hands of chefs in full control of their vision of the perfect restaurant.       
     Those chefs—the husband-wife team of Michael Caballo and Tobey Nemeth—created Edulis as an homage to the French-Spanish food that they love. It is small (32 seats) and very personal (when Caballo and Nemeth can't be in the kitchen, they close). Nuttall Smith told me I'd be blown away by the food, and I was.
    Fresh-off-the-boat Nova Scotia Albacore tuna (left), hinting at the lightest of cures, began our meal, followed by chunks of sweet lobster adorned with tomatillo bits and wood-roasted poblano peppers.  Sanma (Pacific Saury fish) grilled over binchotan charcoal showed a light hand with both the grilling and the use of fresh green chili, and seaweed-smoked coho salmon in sorrel sauce (a sly Troisgros-meets-Toronto reference) was further evidence of why you should never order salmon below the 49th parallel, this specimen being breathtaking in its mahogany hue and fork-dropping in its intensity.  Ling Cod with cherrystone clams was followed by tender young goat cooked with wild grapes and served with Brussels sprout leaves and chanterelles.
    Everything came with a different sauce—a real sauce, properly proportioned beneath the star ingredient, not bare schmears or ribbons from a squeeze bottle—each a marvel unto itself, with no repetition of spice, liquid or accent. "Absolutely stunning," was all I could think through the progression of dishes. Three Canadian cheeses at the peak of ripeness ended the savory courses; raspberry sorbet with buffalo yogurt was the ideal intermezzo and the finale was a simple-yet-exquisite baba au rhum with Chantilly cream (right).
    The food was simple but not too much so, and the progression of dishes so seamless and balanced that we regretted ordering the shorter tasting menu ($90). The wine list is as eclectic as the food, with interesting, well priced bottles from all over Europe and Canada.
     Edulis is one of those rare finds: a place where you can feel the passion being served on the plate. These young chefs are at the top of their game, and their game is nothing less than an almost preternatural sense of how to blend the best European technique to their own refined, delightfully Canadian idea of what a restaurant should be. There are very few restaurants in the world I can imagine jumping on a plane for, just to see what the chef is cooking up, but Edulis is now one of them. 

    There’s nothing I like more than a good restaurant with a history, and I’ve lived long enough to dine at many of them, especially in New York, home to places that date back to the 19th century, like the Bridge Café, Delmonico’s, McSorley’s Old Ale House and Pete’s Tavern.
    Harry’s has only been Harry’s since 1972, when Greek immigrant Harry Poulakakis (right, with son Peter) turned the premises of what had been an eating house as early as 1875 into a 20th century financial district institution, and you can still see the lineaments of that history in the woodwork of this below-street-level room.
    Through several boom and bust cycles Harry’s was always there when Wall Streeters were ready to exult or when they needed to drown their sorrows; in the boom times when the brokers and bankers were flush and ordered $500 Burgundies on their expense accounts, and also when they were down on their luck, when they’d order wine by the glass.  Harry’s has figured in novels like Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities, Brett Easton Ellis’s American Psycho and Colm McCann’s Let the Great World Spin.
   
    Harry’s son Peter has recently altered the look of the rooms, now seating 240 guests, including a handsome bar (left), with very roomy suede booths with alligator trim and polished tables. There are photos of celebs who have dined there and an odd, glowing light fixture that made me think the Mother Ship had landed in the middle of the dining room, which is otherwise softly lighted.  Loud music no one actually listens to intrudes out of the background.
    Executive Chef Joe Mallol’s menu has a cast that a Wall Street restaurant might well have had a century ago, a sumptuous screed of seafood and meats from American waters and farms of the highest reputation. The lobster bisque ($13) is not thickened with flour but instead has the consistency of a velouté enriched with seafood and a touch of tarragon.  The French onion soup ($12) came piping hot, its golden crown of Gruyère seared, and beneath it a rich broth of caramelized onions. A seafood tower is massed with lobster, clams, oysters, shrimp and crab with several dipping sauces to choose from.  Using Jonah crab does not make Harry’s crabcake among the best in the city, though Peter says they may soon switch to lump crabmeat.
    The beef is, as you’d expect, USDA Prime, dry aged for 28 days and served sizzling in a hot pan, perfectly cooked, impeccably seared, with the deep flavor of fine beef.  Harry’s serves some of the best and most generously proportioned rack of lamb ($115 for two) around town, of a kind that makes you wonder why more Americans don’t appreciate our native lamb. Roast chicken with green beans amandine ($27) is a very reasonable, very juicy alternative to the beef and lamb. The strozzapreti pasta with short rib Bolognese ($24) would make some of  the better Italian trattoria chefs in New York jealous.
           

    Apparently for a very long time now, beef Wellington ($48) has been one of Harry’s top-selling items (left), though it is one I usually shy away from because the pastry crust is never as crisp as it should be and the interior beef gets steamy. But Peter urged me to try it and I’m glad I did. It will never be among my favorite dishes, but this was a well-crafted version and I trust it will stay on the menu for ages.
    Just as much attention is paid to side dishes like hash browns ($12), French fries ($10), a confit of fingerling potatoes ($11) and fat tempura-fried onion rings ($11) with just the right ratio of batter to sweet onion.
     Harry’s desserts ($10-$15) are legendary for their taste and largess, from a warm Dutch apple crumble to a lemon meringue pie, but the signature item, for good reason, is a monumental presentation of Harry’s ice cream sundae, which comes with enough additions of crisp, crunchy, salty, sweet, luscious bites and pieces—not to mention a jigger of Abelour Scotch—to supply a vintage pharmacy soda fountain for an afternoon.
    I could spend paragraphs going on about Harry’s wine list, built up since 1972 with what were once new vintages that have now become historic ones, with plenty of trophy wines left among the good values from around the globe. The bar collects its own rare bottlings, and guests are invited to purchase and store them at the restaurant in their own personal chamber.
    Harry’s remains where it is and attracts the clientele it does because it caters to people who like to eat and drink with gusto and depend on Harry to deliver everything with the same quality and bonhomie as ever.  Not even the horrors of 9/11 were able to snuff Harry’s out. Dusted off, cleared out, refinished and opened for business as soon as possible, it is still as much a beacon of New York endurance as any institution in the area. And it’s not moving anywhere else. 

Harry’s is open for lunch and dinner Mon.-Sat.