Six years on, this underground room is still the city’s command centre, packed through lunch and dinner with bankers and boldface names. Mark McEwan’s menu still offers something familiar but fabulous for nearly everyone—a lobster sandwich, say, a full lobe of foie gras, or beluga caviar and champagne. For all the menu’s hits, however, there are nearly as many misses. One dinner turns up a sublime poutine made with perfect fries, thick, juicy hunks of butter-braised lobster (clearly a favoured ingredient here) and a spectacularly rich, tarragon-kissed béarnaise—there is likely no more decadent dish in the city. But the veal cheek risotto is overcooked, and its flavour profile doesn’t stretch much beyond the white truffle paste it’s clearly spiked with. A plate of braised rabbit is nearly flavourless and dry beyond reason; the fillet of Tasmanian sea trout that replaces it is well judged, but topped with crisped spinach leaves that taste of nothing more than the vegetable oil they were fried in—a shame at $39 a plate. Dinner service, though gracious, feels clumsy much of the time, but the lunch hour is something to behold: it’s graceful and smooth, efficient but unrushed, and patrons in jeans are made to feel just as valued as the captains of finance seated nearby. For the most part, the food is better, too. Though crab cakes are dense and devoid of zip, a simple Asian salad of tangy shredded mango, crunchy carrot and fresh coriander finds its perfect partner in featherweight tempura shrimp. Cornmeal-dredged calf’s liver is pure comfort, expertly seared to medium rare and bedded on smoky du Puy lentils. The lobster-stuffed grilled cheese sandwich—crisp, buttery and laced with pancetta—is divine. Good house-made desserts include warm churros stuffed with dulce de leche, plus several wines by the glass. Mains $37–$54.