A three-day period that had originally been allocated towards rest and tending to backlog was interrupted by an impromptu family dinner, as relatives were stopping by briefly for the weekend.
Reservations could be made via Resy (no OpenTable), using one's Google account for sign in. Peak times of 6 PM - 7 PM were blocked off, though the slots could be secured by calling the restaurant directly. In order to secure the booking, 7 Enoteca required a credit card on file, along with billing address for pursuing the transaction. Any cancellations under twenty-four hours would be subject to a ninety-dollar no-show fee. In that regard, I would advise those looking to reserve to consider their schedule with care, being mindful of the advance notice policy.
Parking, either an asphalt lot or designated street parking spots, did not entail fees on Sundays. Free parking was available Mondays to Saturdays after 6 PM.
"She's probably older than you!" chuckled one of my dining partners.
As I retrieved my driver's license and displayed it towards her, I was curious. "Am I actually older than you?"
A smile came my way; I had anticipated as such.
My own glass wasn't exactly economic either at twenty-five dollars a glass. The Petit Chablis was refreshing, but nowhere as rich and complex as Jack Rabbit. A cooler serving temperature would have also improved the gustatory experience, especially seeing as the dining floor grew quite warm over time and with other patrons seated in close proximity.
The Crudo was simple yet exquisite. At first glance, the dish seemed a tad plain for its twenty-two dollar price tag. The ingredients were straightforward: lemon, olive oil, finely diced (brunoised) shallots, and a generous sprinkle of capers, but the final product was undeniably greater than the sum of its components. Citrus assisted in freshening up the sashimi-grade tuna, while olive oil paired spectacularly with its relatively low fat content. Capers contributed a boost of umami, while the shallots - not at all pungent - were aromatic and infused wonderfully into the olive oil.
While the prosciutto itself wasn't exactly memorable, the fig jam was scrumptious. Presentation of the condiment in a small depression had been a poor plating choice, for knives made it impossible to gather a smear-able portion. A separate jam dish would have been ideal, or at least provision of a small spoon to facilitate acquisition. "Crostini" had been listed as one of the elements of the appetizer, inciting images of dry, tasteless throat-scratching slices. Thankfully, we were served with traditional crostini, but wispy, savoury slivers harnessing a decent degree of volume for crunch.
At our time of ordering, we hadn't been informed that the rapini would come with chili peppers. The bald, grey sweater-donning man had surfaced again for delivery of this dish, and denied the fieriness of said peppers: "They are not spicy, but sweet." he insisted. Customary of the vegetable species, the rapini was bitter with a rigid exterior. Garlic was very much warranted to combat to its blandness and cold, choy sum-like properties.
Eventually, our table had switched out the rapini for a completely mild Grilled Ontario Asparagus instead. The stalks were ladled with olive oil and Fontina Fonduta, a not-too-pungent liquid cheese resembling cream sauce. Again, the serving had proved inferior to Noble.
Most of our selection had adopted a generally heavy presence of olive oil. While fine at first, the slick texture and distinctive flavour grew tiresome with its recurring appearance. We embraced awareness of olive oil being a fundamental ingredient in Italian cuisine; while not surprised, we were unable to exude the same degree of appreciation.
The dessert materialized as a tart topped with rhubarb and accompanied with a pitcher of warm Crème Anglaise. At this point in the evening, we were essentially dining in the dark. It wasn't until the summoning of a phone flashlight that we observed distinctly different shades of rhubarb topping the tart and prominent specks of vanilla within the Crème Anglaise. Separation of the two was likely intentional, allowing guests to admire the handiwork of the tart surface before it was cloaked with a creamy, vanilla bean-speckled veil. Although, despite its obvious inclusion of vanilla bean, the overall profile of the crème was disappointing, for I could only discern granulated sugar with minimal essence of vanilla.
My sole words of warning: Make no mistake with the fee-affixed reservation fee.