Treadwell, Port Dalhousie

Treadwell, Port Dalhousie
Wednesday June 25

Treadwell is nestled into a river weir at Port Dalhousie (pronounced "de Lucie") on Lake Ontario, which is generally more noted for its stunning lakefront, twin lighthouses, beautiful old carrousel, and unfortunately loud patio bars, than for sophisticated dining. Nonetheless, Treadwell is apparently making quite a name for itself among local foodies, and boasts "farm to table cuisine." The back of its menu lists all its local suppliers, from swineherds to (blessed are the) cheesemakers to ramp-gatherers; but it's nonetheless a friendly and down-to-earth (literally) place, and we had no problem getting a table when we strolled in this evening.

Following our custom established and hallowed in New Zealand, once we'd decided we'd have both meat and fish, we asked for a Pinot Noir. The sommelier, who resembled a nerdy but sophisticated high school student, willingly guided us toward a local choice, Lailey 2006, a bright, slightly acidic wine that went very well with all our choices.

We started with an amuse-bouche of sweet red pepper soup and fresh dill in an espresso cup. There were slices of baguette and "ancient grain" bread and a familiar-looking puddle of oil and balsamic, but the oil turned out to be "cold-pressed canola," with all the heaviness of olive oil but less of the fruit.

One appetizer was "surf & turf" (thanks, Thomas Keller, for inspiring all the cute names): unctuous balsamic-glazed Berkshire pork-belly alongside a slice of tender lake perch. It was supposed to be entwined with Storasko's wild ramps, though our waitress said that the enormous green curl on top of the plate was in fact a garlic scape. On the other hand, we've tasted and hated garlic scapes, and this oniony curl tasted much milder and better.

The other opener was spinach gnocchi under a similar wild garlic scape, showered with smoked ricotta, toasted almonds, and parmesan foam. There were also greens lurking under there, unidentified as to origin, but very tasty nonetheless.

Of course, we fell upon the main course of truffle-dusted Lake Erie pickerel with cries of "new fish!" (and several verses of doggerel about a liberal pickerel and its fraught relationship with a cynical mackerel). It turned out to be meaty and succulent, like some freshwater monkfish. It came with buttered chanterelles, fava beans, and leaves of little gem lettuce in a tarragon citrus butter.

The other main was two perfect little chops from a rack of pesto-crusted Cumbrae farms lamb, even its fat tasting very light, without that mustiness that lamb (okay, mutton) sometimes exudes. It came with buttered "linguini" (really angel hair, and we couldn't see the reason for it anyway), bits of chorizo (ditto), fava beans, in a puddle of mint jus and mint leaves. This was a bit schizoid, but all the individual flavors were good anyway.

At the end, the waitress brought what the Greeks would call "spoon sweets" - jellies of fresh pomegranate and strawberry, served on spoons - as lagniappe. A sweet ending to a wild and entertaining meal.