At The Only Café, the narrow clutter and clatter of late night east end bedlam transforms weekend mornings into a Zen den of waffles and comfy couch brunch. It wouldn’t be the one and only if evenings weren’t crammed full of unemployed computer programmers and ex-cokeheads playing Scrabble, and there’s always at least one recent release from the east general psych ward down the road. A few too many pints of Alberta’s finest, Big Rock Traditional Ale, means you’ve got to watch out going down the narrow stairwell to the washrooms below. And in the crowded room, use caution against the walls- they’re covered in fine art, from Van Gogh to Miro to Grateful Dead concert posters, corner-to-corner, ceiling to floor.

There’s certainly appeal to the dusty, casual decadence of this noisy watering hole, but daylight breathes new spirit into the space. You can actually see the bric a brac, for one thing, the wonky elf boot lamps and crooked frames and ceramic do dads and assorted coffee mugs with bingo or Double Bubble motifs. There’s a lot to look at, which is a good thing, because you’ll be waiting a while. No one hear is in a hurry, let’s put it that way, but they’re all sweet as pie.

Brunch starts at nine, and it’s best to get there early because by mid-morning the place will be jam-packed. Most people have come far and wide for the Belgian waffles. Not your average toaster Ego: these come piled high with strawberries, bananas, blueberries, oranges, kiwi, grapes, blackberries, melons, whipped cream, chocolate shavings, and maple syrup- seriously.

You may prefer the French toast and ham, or the not-quite-generic Cowboy Breakfast, featuring the usual lineup. But if you happen to fancy baked beans and fried mushrooms, they’ve got that, too. The huevos ranchero plate is loaded with refried beans, salsa, guacamole, eggs, and sour cream. If you had nachos last night, you’ll want to sleep in instead of devouring this spectacular number: it can wait until next Sunday.

If you’re one of those strange people who prefer to eat light, you can get an open-faced pesto, cheddar and tomato sandwich with green salad.

Wash everything down with house coffee or better yet, a Bloody Caesar, whose clammy thick tomato goodness suits the egg-y dishes better than coffee could. If you didn’t get enough beer last evening, there are unusual kinds from the world over to spin you right round before the caffeine interrupts your flow. You’ll probably be having breakfast with the Beatles- seems to be the only band they play here mornings. But everyone loves a little bit of Yesterday, and those who don’t won’t mind dining with the fab four when all meals are awesomely under eight bucks.

The Only Cafe
972 Danforth Avenue
Toronto ON M4J 1L9
www.theonlycafe.com

Author, Artist, Poet Lorette C. Luzajic's website is www.thegirlcanwrite.net. Browse her books at Amazon.ca

The Real Dish...

You may have seen her at the last wine tasting- it was hard to miss her. She was the only one in sneakers and jeans, jeans she was busting out of, bangles jangling as she scarfed back corned beef and pickles, toasting everyone who walked by: “Praise the Lord and pass the Chardonnay!”

Yeah, that was me. I confess I’m a little unrefined. I hardly know my pate or canapés from canopies (but I can spell hors d’oeuvres without looking it up.) I speak locavore, but that’s only because I was born and bred in Niagara, and the celebrated vino runs through my veins. I’m not remotely comfortable in restaurants with truffle glace and white linen napkins and and white jazz. Oh, I don’t mind the odd balsamic reduction, don’t get me wrong- but I’m more likely to order jalapeño mayo and eat the yam frites with my fingers. I can’t dine without spilling Dijon on my knock-off Pucci scarf and knocking over the Perrier. And my editor would be shocked to see that most of the essential utensils are missing from my pauper’s kitchen, where I can barely fit the dish rack.

But I’m passionate about food. Like most of my habits, good and bad, I do it to excess. That’s just the kind of girl I am. Over the top, with zany, unapologetic appetites. I’m voracious to learn about food. I write regularly about eating, and I resurrected my body from lifelong illness by learning all I could about nutrition. I’m an enthusiastic advocate of eat to live, live to eat. And I’m fun!

I’ve got seventy spices in my crammed cupboard and create soul food from all over the world. I make food that nourishes the body and proclaims my love for life. And I’ll bet my sole ladle that I’m not the only foodie or reader who feels most at home in dingy hole in the wall diners. And I’ll bet my prize wooden salad bowl that the rest of you would love to try some of Toronto’s ethnic adventures, but just aren’t sure how to get past the unfamiliar menu or customs, or your fear of grime. So, I’ll take you there.

Once in a while I pull out my French cooking school manual, to pay homage to the gourmet universe. But then I thaw out a rack of chicken thighs- forget the boneless, skinless crock we’ve been force-fed- I cook with skin! And I pour on sweet paprika from Croatia, bought at the Eastern European deli on Pape, with salt and yogurt. And I chop up a few red onions and toss them in red wine and the dried up piece of Genoa salami in the far corner of the fridge.

Oh, yes, I can drop six dollars on one bite of truffle hazelnut crème chocolat - generally, I have to, because I’m celiac and avoid soy like the plague, so most cheap chocolate bars are off limits. But I can stretch that six bucks into a spectacular symphony of flavour for two, or spend ten discovering the joys of Kenyan corn bread or raw meat from Ethiopia. In Toronto, there’s a whole underworld of unsung gourmet, diners with menus in Swahili and faded Formica tableaus that translate into mind-bending flavour. Let me show you the real dish.