Taste of the Danforth | Photos by Matthew Filipowich

Expecting over one million attendees over the span of the weekend, a Taste of the Danforth has vastly exceeded its humble beginnings: starting as a mere response to Taste of Chicago, Toronto’s festival grew exponentially every year starting 1994 until the city was coerced into shutting down the stretch of the Danforth between Broadview and Pape to create a street festival to honour the benefits of the delicious dishes and culture that have migrated from the Mediterranean to find a grand reception in Toronto's Greek Town. Welcome one and all to the Taste of the Danforth, the largest Greek festival in North America!

Thursday: Let’s Launch Over It!

I exit at Chester station to get as close as possible to the Local Company, the host of the illustrious launch of the Danforth Festival, starting the following day at 6pm. After checking in with the doorman, I enter an establishment classier than I had bargained for: tall black stools dominate the high table arrangements that impose upon the middle lane of the restaurant. One brick wall backs the bar and the opposing white wall backs more personal seating, fake trees embedded in front of the bathroom entrance. A series of closely cropped photographs that depict various elements of a bridge adorn the wall above plush black bench seating and large bulb lights dangle low above the bar as the bartenders whisk back and forth, quickly serving a packed dining room as the anticipation for the upcoming festivities flows though the crowd. Black curtains mask the front windows while white curtains are pulled aside at the back of the venue, revealing a raised level that contains a ring of freshly prepared Greek cuisine catered by none other than the surrounding restaurants of the festival!

Too excited to wait for my launch-mate, I join the ever-expanding line to a buffet-style arrangement and when I reach the front I can no longer contain my appetite, which I have purposely been withholding all day in preparation for this moment. I turn into a machine with far too few hands: greedily grabbing the largest plate I can find I go straight for the gusto, snatch two lamb and rosemary pies from Ouzeri immediately and snap up a pita, dip it into freshly strained tzatziki and practically throw it into my gaping mouth. While chewing I proceed to a corner table and place a wrapped dolmade on my plate while bolting down a few pieces of delicious calamari rings from Christina’s on the Danforth, so subtle light and crisp. I hasten to swallow in order to load a large chunk of juicy gyro from Messini Authentic Gyro onto my tongue while scooping large spoons of light souvlaki onto my plate from the same establishment, the gyro now delicately dribbling down my chin which I am reluctant to wipe. Instead, I scoop several spoonfuls of appetizing gnocchi from Trapezzi with spinach and red peppers in a cream sauce rife with olive oil that glistens throughout the dish. At this point I’ve already consumed the equivalent of a large appetizer with a stacked plate ahead of me; I do not know what the people behind me must think of the blur of food and limbs ahead of them, nor do I particularly care in the face of this superb spread!

No seats are available, so after securing a beer I stand below the raised level and begin to sample my main course voraciously to find the true protagonists of the evening:

I enjoy Christina’s on the Danforth other offering of the evening even more than the calamari: Dolmades (also known as dolmas) wrapped tightly in a grape leaf, the rice and beef easily succumb to my bite, the lemon sauce acting as a catalyst for the glossy, distinct taste that follows. But while both the tender, shaved souvlaki and the creamy yet olive-oil infused gnocchi are both great in their own right, nothing can prepare me for the lamb rosemary pie, my stand out dish of the evening: made with flakey phyllo pastry, the soft meat oozes out of the end of the nearly cylindrical pie as I bite down into it, the strong taste of rosemary permeating the entire pastry.

Far too full for dessert, I watch as a rather large cake is brought out for one of the sponsors of the event, secretly glad that his table receives and quickly covets the cake. As the Portuguese custard tarts and desserts are brought out, I make my last rounds around the Local Company, ready to depart with my festival appetite fully whetted.

If my stomach could smile, it would span from sphincter to sphincter after such a glorious pre-feast to the preeminent food festival of the city. I can’t wait for the Taste of the Danforth to officially begin!

Friday night:

I arrive at Broadview station on a teeming subway full of salmon, which swim up the stairs, bubbles streaming from their mouths as the excitement begins to flow upwards toward the Danforth festival happening on the streets above. As I exit the stairwell, I catch the tail end of “Dancing on the Danforth” featuring nothing less than the children giving something back to Michael Jackson through a choreographed dance tribute of the popular song “Beat it” while a crowd of crooning adults oooo and awww over a rather disjointed effort to emulate MJ’s moves. Potential child-molesting irony aside, I seriously want these children to beat it so that this hampering crowd will disperse and I can get to some food.

As I have already tasted a healthy smattering of Greek cuisine last night, I decide to peruse a few non-Greek venues to start. As I pass one crowded stand I notice some exotic meat on the menu, such as wild boar skewers and kangaroo burgers. A relative newcomer to the Danforth strip, the shop is none other than Blackstone Meat and the carnivore within stirs at the thought of kangaroo, a meat that I have never tried and as I cannot envision a scenario in the near future whatsoever in which I will have this chance again. I eagerly spring four dollars for a burger.

But at first I curse my keen meat cravings for the presentation is horrible! A noticeably small patty slapped onto a grocery store bleached-white bun that leaves several centimeters of bland bread before I even touch the meat; after adding a dribble of mango sauce I give the burger the biggest bite I can muster to avoid hitting only bun. At least the meat itself turns out to be well worth my time: a little more fibrous than a beef burger, the rich, dense meat falls apart easily against my canines and leaves a strong, lasting aftertaste. I leave the Blackstone storefront with mixed feelings, delighted to tear into a new animal, yet disheartened by a skewed price to meat ratio, particularly with the quality of bun I am forced to choke down.

I head further east along the strip until I hit a massive road block: a line that spans the Danforth and winds past the opposite Timothy’s stems from a booth set in front of “Taste of the Silk Road,” a Chinese café that has boasted the best calamari on the Danforth for the past fifteen years. Although rubbery food usually set my teeth on edge, I venture to be bold and test such a self-assured claim. So I stake my claim at the end of the line and buffeted by fellow festival-goers I stand my ground and wait to test this tentacular treat. Finally after holding my spot for a grueling fourty minutes I arrive at the front to receive my offering, a fry-sleeve filled to the brim with deep-fried tentacles; oh no, not your garden variety calamari rings but actual tentacles with ghostly white skin showing between the gaps in the crispy brown shell, drawing a definitive curl as each tentacle thins at the tip.

Upon first placing the appendage in my mouth, my tongue threatens me with total internal insurgency, but when I bite down the meat turns out to be incredible! Although you can never expect to fully escape the rubbery texture of calamari, the meat has been prepared as tender as possible and a flood of new taste rushes in, inflamed as I add a side of spicy Sambal sauce that forces me to quickly buy a can of coke to wash it all down. With so many people waiting in line for their own taste, I ask the chef how much calamari he had ordered in preparation of the festivities:

“2000 pounds!” he quickly spouts before turning back to the teeming, impatient line I have finally conquered.

Each new bite solidifies my newly found confidence but as I walk away from a Taste of the Silk Road, I see the Auld Spot Pub shucking fresh oysters for the public and although I have been meaning to try a fresh oyster for the first time, I am not sure my taste buds will allow another bold seafood venture, so although I pass this round I will try and gather the nerve to try this delicacy on Saturday.

But enough foreign food for now, as I gravitate toward more Greek-driven cuisine for a main entrée. I head further east toward Pape to find the Greek Grill beside Carlaw street, serving beautifully thin-shaved gyro on a pita with the classic peripherals of onion, tomato and tzatziki. I wait in line, staring at the men continually shaving meat until I reach the front of the line and receive my very own pita, which I prefer more than the thick chunks of gyro from the launch, the minimalist strips spiced to perfection on a fresh, tightly rolled pita.

As I walk towards the subway to exit the festival, I cannot wait for the morrow with a freshly filled wallet, as a beautiful night, crowded jammed streets and fantastic food are the mandates of the night. I realize I would even return solely to watch some cooks in action, flaunting their fare for all to see, enticing the public to their booths on skill alone.

Saturday:

Unfortunately, the all too prevalent summer rains decide to make another untimely appearance, yet the crowd seems almost more dense than the previous evening; I suppose at this point in the summer the masses have become accustomed to an inherent rainfall, so I toss on a hood and join the foray to continue the hunt for the greatest taste.

Exiting the subway from Pape station, I head west towards the restaurants, only to halt next to Athens Pastries when I smell the warm spanakopita, a small spinach pie complete with phyllo pastry and feta cheese, ready made to ward of the effects of the continuous drizzle from above. I relish each small bite of my appetizer until it fully disappears into my gullet, but I am continually on the search for more food, each morsel a temporary safe haven from the rain above.

Continuing west along the strip, my cohorts and I stop at a place called Kalyvia, but I cannot help feeling immediately skeptical: not only is the sign a surprisingly tacky, very off-putting purple and silver, but the catch phrase on the sign reads “a little taste of our village.” The man selling the pita begins to yell “I got what you need!” loudly and often to gather some revenue and I decide against my better judgment not to take the eatery at face value and try their wares; I order pork on a pita and brace myself for disappointment.

But the pita spites all my negativity: perhaps the wrap doesn’t contain as much meat as some other offerings, yet the pita itself has been lightly coated with olive oil and grilled for a light crisp, while the tomato, onions and an ample portion of tzatziki complete the meal. I’m not surprised when moments later, a Red Apple Jones Soda reads me the fortune “Don’t exceed your expectations,” which have been driven high for such an acclaimed festival, but perhaps I need a soda now and again to put me in my place for being excessively critical without any substantial evidence.

I continue to head west while the rain dies out until I finally wind up back in front of the Auld Spot. Now I have nowhere to run and no chance to hide, especially when the employees begin shouting:

“We shuck ‘em you suck ‘em!”

But before I can even mutter “Aw, fuck it,” Nuke yells out in a booming voice:

“Deece!” (as in the short, more badass form of decent).

Which seals my fate: oysters it is, from Malpeque Bay no less, internationally acclaimed oysters hailing from Prince Edward Island. I am passed a shell, shucked not a moment ago, which I am certainly not valiant enough to try without a garnish. Although I am not used to a shot of pure horseradish, I drop a spoonful onto the center of the oyster and before I have another second to think about it, I suck the hell out of that shell with as much vacuum as I’ve got. I find out that oysters are incredibly salty! The horseradish gives a kick to this gooey, gluey treat that has a few organic crunchy surprises through an eating process I can only call a half and half: half sucking and half chewing, certainly an odd experience, one that the Auld Spot will expand to a new location on College West this very fall.

But now, with an abnormal new aftertaste in my mouth that overpowers most of my other senses, I quicken my pace down the strip to find a dessert to close out the evening and eventually approach the Euro Crepe Café to find the employees heating up large crepes on traditional round elements. After a brief stop to cone some gelato, I arrive to purchase a crepe flowing with fresh fruit and topped with fluffy whipped cream, which banishes the lingering oyster once and for all and quite nearly fills me up for the night. But further along, once again closing in on Pape station, I make a final halt in front of Europa Fine Pastries that sells a myriad of baked treats for only three dollars each. I manage to get the utmost out of my cash, selecting a rather large slice of creamy chocolate cake fortified with a hard chocolate shell that slowly melts in my hand as I devour the offering before my stretched stomach decides it can hold no more.

As I slowly drag my bloated self towards the subway, I take a long lingering look behind me to see the Danforth saturated with bodies, as damp nights and dense crowds deter no one, for underneath the daily grind and the incessant reliance on autos the public loves nothing more than to reclaim the street for themselves and share in the collective experience of a festival. The Taste of the Danforth has opened the doors not only for Hellenic cuisine and culture to flourish on the east end, but has encouraged the participation of approximately one hundred and seventy five separate booths that unabashedly serve their own food and display their unique merchandise in the face of the massive Greek focus. If the subjective Danforth website can be trusted, Toronto’s overwhelmingly favourite festival spreads good cheer through the music, dancing, cuisine and the overarching atmosphere that purges the recently garbage ridden image of the city from my mind in place of this prospering culture that has carved its own hollow in the multicultural muddle that makes up our city.