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Toronto Life - The Dish

The latest restaurant buzz, including what’s opening, what’s closing, and where to eat, drink and be seen

Aprons & Icons, Opening Soon

State of the Union: Teo Paul talks about opening his Ossington restaurant

Come together: after nearly a year of delays, Union opens on Ossington Avenue (Photo by Davida Aronovitch)

Come together: after nearly a year of delays, Union opens on Ossington Avenue (Photo by Davida Aronovitch)

Inside Ossington Avenue’s long-awaited Union restaurant, diners find a Parisian oasis. The room smells of fresh baguettes, and Gilles Vigneault’s “Champs Élysées” floats over fin de siècle accents and a brasserie-style horseshoe bar. A look at this soothing atmosphere reveals nothing of the struggle chef-owner Teo Paul had in putting it all together, though readers of his Opening Soon blog, hosted here on torontolife.com, know better.

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Opening Soon

Union opens tomorrow, and I’ve lost my lucky stone

The interior of Union, last month (Photo by Jessica Darmanin)

The interior of Union, last month (Photo by Jessica Darmanin)

I am opening Union tonight and I’ve lost my stone. I lost it a while ago, sometime in the middle of preparing the restaurant. It was a half stone, which is why I kept it. I figured my grandfather had the other half. We were the same age when I found it—22. He flew those big Lancaster bombers in the war. He didn’t have a co-pilot, so he had to pee in a can because he couldn’t leave the controls. His name was Jack Gillies.

I found the stone at his grave, in a cemetery full of Canadians, in Harogate, England—my cousin and I drove out there when we were travelling. It was in the earth and leaves, with its smooth oval top poking out. When I picked it up there was just the half. It was shaped like a turtle’s shell. It was brown and smooth, with slight ridges on the flat side. We slept in the car that night, in a field, and woke up with a cop taping on our window. We ate an extra breakfast for our grandfather, like he was sitting at the table with us. I carried the stone for 12 years. It was my lucky charm.

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Opening Soon

Almost

The interior on Union, May 1, 2009

The interior of Union, May 1, 2009 (Photo by Teo Paul)

We were hoping to be open by May 5, at the latest, but the usual happened. One guy held up another guy from finishing his job, so yet another guy has to wait for that guy to finish so he can get done what he has to get done—and then everyone needs more money. It drags on and on. I don’t recommend gutting a place and trying to build a restaurant from rubble and dirt. Who knew such a sweet little spot could demand so much? It’s been tough to hold on to the spark that shot me into this thing when it feels like it’s just spitting me out. It bangs up your faith because you start thinking it’s you that’s making it take so damn long. It’s lonesome waiting for something to begin. You’re out in the wind with just self-doubt and a bunch of expectations to keep you company.

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Opening Soon

Raised and devoured

I’ve been pretty low and overwhelmed dealing with the final crunch. My head is so full of fumes and anxiety that I haven’t been able to write anything worth posting here. I’ve been so focused on trying to get Union built that I have become disconnected from what “union” means; multiple trips to Home Depot and dealings with builders will do that to you. But as scattered and worn as I feel, the restaurant is looking and feeling really good. The horseshoe bar is built, and it floats off the wall so you can nestle in on one side, just like the horseshoe I remember in Paris. The floors are in, Josh’s lights are up and Barbara Klunder has painted a mural on a 35-foot wall. She is an artist and old family friend. I grew up with her stuff around my childhood house, and having her do something has brought the place together for me. It reminds me of the Chagall painting on the ceiling of the old Opera House in Paris. It’s inspiring, and it helps me look forward to what this place will become. I need to think beyond this build, and the gut-pinching feeling that comes with it. I need to see beyond the rubble, the garbage, the dirt, the drywall, the posturing, the money and the debt to what this place can become: a place that gathers life.

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Opening Soon

Bread is the thread

In Paris, even the dogs know good bread (Photo by Amy Paul)

In Paris, even the dogs know good bread (Photo by Amy Paul)

The barn floors are in, and Union is feeling like a French tavern. There is something about the way Paris eats and feeds itself that I’ve always wanted to capture in a restaurant. I wanted to build something from what I saw in the taverns, tabacs and cafés I used to frequent; something that would lift me up and give me refuge. I saw them as fuelling stations: the warm lights, the mirrors, the marble bars, the vested waiters, the coffees, the demis and the wine—the bustle and the clatter of it all. Just being there makes you hungry.

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Opening Soon

Making a menu for Union

Teo Paul mulls his menu

Teo Paul mulls his menu (Photo by Robert Brodey)

My friend Ten Gallon asked me the other day how I was holding up. I said, “I am getting nervous, but I’d be more nervous if I wasn’t nervous at all.” I’ve been trying to get the menu done. I’ve known it for a while, but now I have to put it down on paper. I want a menu for us to rally around, something simple and strong—a building block. The thing is, I haven’t done a restaurant menu in a few years. It’s different now. I have to explain it.

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Opening Soon

What it takes to open a restaurant

When I walked up to the restaurant on Monday morning, the only thing that greeted me was a dead pigeon, whacked on the porch, bloodied and broken. Nobody was working in there; it was dark, cluttered and depressing. Nothing had changed in a few days, except now there was a big pile of barnboard flooring that could have easily been mistaken for firewood. I lost it a little. I was feeling punchy, and the slush and snow were getting to me. I started calling people to see what was up. Or, more to the point, where the hell everybody was. Every conversation ended like this:

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Opening Soon

The detestable, wonderful celebration of brunch

I'll pass on brunch, thanks

I'll pass on brunch, thanks

“I don’t do brunch.” That’s what I tell people when they ask me if I want to eat out at midday on Sunday. Brunch just doesn’t work for me. Maybe what makes it unenjoyable is that I know what’s involved in getting it on the table. I feel it’s not worth the pain for something so fleeting. It takes too much effort and goes down too fast—it’s just too fragile and sensitive to try to get right on a Sunday. With Monday always coming on fast, people expect so much on such a helpless little day. If the orange juice isn’t sweet enough, the coffee’s too cold. And if the eggs aren’t runny enough, they need more toast, more water, more everything. Throw in a hangover (or a handful of hangovers), and it’s just painful. I have a friend who’s worked her fair share of brunches. She wanted to get a T-shirt that says “Your hangover is not my problem” on the front and, on the back, “But next week, my hangover might be yours.” That pretty much sums it up.

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Opening Soon

At any moment, something great could happen

While I was digging around salvage places looking for the finishing touches for Union (like sinks and mirrors and dishes), I came across some lights that used to hang in an old theatre in Collingwood. My gut told me to buy them and put them above me in the kitchen. I think all the drama, the concrete, the ’hood, the plumbing, the loans and the anxiety that have come with building Union out of an old karaoke dive have made me look at the restaurant in a different way. I now compare the undertaking with building a theatre on a lively street, where a play will run for as long as it can. Union—with its brick walls and barn floors and great lights and horseshoe bar and open kitchen—is going to be a big stage, an opportunity to perform, to dig in a little bit and see where it can go. If building Union had been smooth, easy and on time, I would have missed the chance to understand it this way, to see what it can become. Now I can define it; I can visualize the food and the flow and the acts. I want it to be a place where people perform and lift life up a bit and feel as if they could be anywhere.

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Opening Soon

Getting good birds in your kitchen

My brother, Chase, and I dropped by JoAnn the Chicken Lady’s farm last weekend. We were picking up a bird for me to kill, clean, pluck and eat for a photo essay Chase is working on for school. After she picked us out a nice Cornish bird, we started talking about what kinds of ducks to serve at Union. She’s been raising five breeds for the past few years and knows a few things about their characters—and not just how Muscovies, with their darker flesh, are more goosey than Pekin ducks. She has found that they tend to be a bit dumber, too, and a little more vicious with their claws. As she puts it, they are “just not as pleasant company.” Some types of Pekin ducks are like broiler chickens: “Eating machines,” she says. “It’s sad when you get to know them—you can just pick them up and toss them about like turnips.”

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