Dammann’s latest project: gastro pub
Partners with uber celeb chef Jamie Oliver to offer Brit staples and some interesting cocktail options
4720 Marquette St. (corner Gilford St.)
Phone: 514-507-0555 Open: Wednesday to Sunday 6 p.m. to closing; weekend brunch 10:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. Licensed: Yes Credit cards: All major
Wheelchair access: No Parking: On the street
Vegetarian friendly: Yes Reservations: Not taken
Price range: Starters: $6-$16; mains $12$26; desserts $6-$10.
Note: Menu changes often
W hat’s the worst thing you can walk in with when entering a restaurant? An empty wallet? A poorly dressed dining companion? A list of dietary restrictions sure to annoy the chef ? No, the worst thing you can walk in with are expectations. As much as I try to avoid them, it’s practically impossible not to feel some inkling as to how the meal is going to unfold, especially when it’s a chef whose work is familiar. But as this week’s review proves, sometimes those preconceived notions throw you for a loop, resulting in an experience miles from what you had hoped for.
The name of the restaurant is sure to be familiar. Derek Dammann, formerly of DNA, opened Maison Publique last September with his partner and friend, none other than uber celeb chef Jamie Oliver. Maison Publique is an OLF-friendly translation of the name “public house,” better known in its abridged version: “pub.” As fun as it sounded (English-inspired cuisine is as rare in these parts as Ethiopian), I was somewhat surprised to hear Dammann wasn’t going in his usual direction of charcuterie, offal and homemade pasta. No, this latest project would be a gastro pub — Dammann style!
So with visions of pub scenes dancing through my head, complete with tweed-wearing old farts at the bar gulping lager while discussing hedgerows, I first entered Maison Publique last September soon after its opening. I had no intention of reviewing; I just so happened to be in the ’hood looking for dinner. I knew the room well (formerly the resto YoYo) and admired the way Dammann had renovated, adding a handsome bar, as well as floor seating divided over two rooms. There’s a TV and local brew on tap, yet despite the distressed look, it doesn’t feel much like an English pub. Add a cheeky barmaid, vintage cricket prints and a deeply ingrained aroma of Carlsberg in the air, and we’re talking. But for now, it feels like a small Montreal bistro.
The draw, then, would have to be Dammann’s cooking. The ginger-haired and Croc-wearing Victoria, B.C., native has a style best described as Canadian Italian. Having drawn his influences primarily from Peter Zambri of Zambri’s in B.C. and Jamie Oliver’s 15 in London, Dammann also staged at Fergus Henderson’s famous St-John restaurant in London, mecca for nose-to-tail cooking. Dammann became a partner at Old Montreal’s DNA in 2008 and quickly garnered rave reviews for unique dishes like horse tartare and duck testicle pasta.
Though the gastro pub concept is not an unreasonable stretch for Dammann, I’m not convinced this kind of cooking shows him off at his best. When I ate his food at that first visit, it was unremarkable, nothing like the old DNA Derek. So I opted to wait, a full six months, before returning last week.
First off, the no-reservations policy is a bummer. As the room was pretty full by 7:30 p.m., our only option was cramming three of us in a table for two. Dammann said wine would be underplayed at the restaurant, and so it is. There are several interesting cocktail options (our gin with homemade tonic was great), but the wine list is short and features only Canadian bottles. I’m all for the Canadian angle (long Dammann’s preference), but many of the bottles are pricey.
Instead of printed menus or the usual blackboard, the food is listed on papers pinned to the wall near the washrooms. The descriptors are simple, but the wait staff is good at providing guidance. The selection is quite small and besides a guinea hen terrine, there are no charcuterie options. And why not even one pasta dish from the guy who makes the best in town?
After ordering close to the entire menu, we polished off some delectable devilled eggs, and plunged into three starters: marinated herring, guinea hen terrine and smoked salmon. Can’t say an unkind word about the herring, which was firm, tasty and enhanced with a few dabs of sour cream. The terrine was slightly chunky, full-flavoured and rich. Simple but scrumptious, it earned a big wow.
But the wows came to a halt at my first taste of the salmon. Served with cabbage and potatoes, and enhanced with a shot of fruity apple cider vinegar, the makeup of the dish was fine, yet the salmon was extremely salty. I tasted several bites, and all were off-the-charts salty. How strange, I thought. Then the main courses arrived and it hit me that excessive saltiness would be the downfall of this meal.
A dish featuring boudin blanc consisted of two velvety white-fleshed veal sausages, both highly seasoned with nutmeg. Good enough, but the sauerkraut served underneath was incredibly salty, as were the accompanying fat bacon bits (lardons). The problems continued with a dish of seared quail served with aioli and foie grasspread croutons. The meat was succulent, but the skin was — way-hay! — too salty. The croutons were spread with that much-too-much foie gras mousse (two bites and I was done) and, frankly, I didn’t know what to do with the aioli. Odd.
Happily, the last main we tasted, ling cod, was the Dammann I remember. Per- fectly cooked in that breaking-apart-into-silky-chunks manner, the fish was placed on a bed of braised lima beans and served with a salsa verde made with mint and coriander. Gorgeous.
But just when I was feeling upbeat, along came dessert. First, a mush of a steamed lemon pudding that tasted more of uncooked flour than lemon. Then a treacle tart that was not only salty, but topped with whipped cream that was salty as well. And finally, swirled soft serve ice cream served (Joe-Beef-style?) with rainbow sprinkles in an ornate tea cup. Sound good? Would have been had the dulce de leche ice cream not been so — you guessed it — salty! Does Dammann have a Sifto endorsement I’m not aware of ? After being denied a coffee (they serve it only at brunch), we requested the bill, which came to more than $100 per person. Never have I finished a meal so utterly confused — not to mention parched!
So, what’s the deal here? I have no doubt Dammann is a great chef. Zero. None. Which is why I entered with expectations — perhaps even with great expectations. Yet my meal turned out to be more in line with that other Dickens novel, A Tale of Two Cities. Or in this case, A Tale of Two Chefs, the one I know and the one who cooked for me last week. Not the same guy.