Unsung

I kind of don't want to say anything, because I don't want the word to get out. Maybe the word is out, and I just don't know because my ear isn't exactly to the ground, but still. I stumbled into what I had assumed might have been a cafeteria-style restaurant almost entirely by chance tonight, but which turned out to be, well, exactly that, but also a very nice surprise.

First, I wasn't sure it was a restaurant. From the window (there is no sign, there are no hours of operation posted) you can see a long counter with some beautiful pastries displayed in front of what appeared might be, could be some sort of dinner-type fare behind it.

I admit it. I was intimidated. I didn't have the secret password, and many of the other joints I've stepped into on that uppity stretch of Yonge north of Rosedale have given the distinct impression that no password, no service.

Today, with the mercury hovering a around 60 degrees, the front door was open and I found myself sauntering in.

I'm glad I did. I wound up with a simple salad combo, but I'm sure that everything else on the menu is equally delicious.

My salads? It was the green bean salad that seemed to be calling my name, but it was the most pedestrian of the bunch. Avocado, red pepper, a light, creamy dressing...no complaints, but it paled in comparison to the:

Endive and apple salad. I kid you not. Endive twice in two weeks in two wildly various guises. It was the sharpest, cleanest, most refreshing thing I've eaten in months. But even then...

I don't normally care for "curried anything" salads. Yet I was drawn to the curried chicken for some mysterious reason. And I was not disappointed. It had a sweet edge, with two kinds of apples (!) and strawberries (!) and (I even asked, and was proved right!) manadarin orange juice (mine had a sliver of mandarin orange in it, the canned kind I guess--let me tell you, I'm not complaining).

I was a little leery when I got my plate, because it didn't seem as though there was any place to keep a kitchen. I guess they hide it downstairs.

I can't tell you where exactly it is (north of Rosedale station, west side) or what it's called, but the lady's name is Linda.

There is no secret handshake.