Hey, remember me? Yeah, me neither. I’ve been MIA for a long while, and I ain’t got no particular reason. I just got bored (and poor). It’s a recession! Eating out is a sin! Since I had nothing particularly exciting to talk about (no one would want to read about me making poverty meals at home anyway) it seemed like I was in a downward spiral of foodblog starvation.

But not really.

I’ve been taking a food and travel writing course which has been quite nice. One great highlight of the course was that the class would have a big night out – one evening where we all went out to dinner and would review the place. How exciting! I thought in my nerdy inner monologue, That sounds like something I could pass off as legitimate blog material! My inner nerd got all kinds of excited when it was revealed where we’d be going: Connor Butler (restaurant). Oh, hey! It’s that weird place down on South Granville! I’ve always wondered what that was. I had always thought it was an antique store. Okay, enough terrible inner monologue, and onto the terrible writing that I did for my assignment!

“Welcome, welcome!” smiled Connor Butler, gesticulating dramatically in stereotypical chef garb. “You’ve got the whole place to yourselves, so please enjoy!” Nestled inconspicuously on South Granville in between antique stores and art galleries, the eponymous Connor Butler Restaurant is not particularly self-explanatory on the outside. A snazzy signature for the logo makes it seem more like a talent agency than a place for cozy cuisine. CBR is mostly a one-man show, but no magician is complete without a lovely assistant, in this case a pastry chef.

The special menu created for our visit was simply stated, with brief blurbs leaving much to mystery. The room was atwitter with excitement as canapés sidled onto our plates, the flowery plates ferrying the dollops of our first gastronomic consideration under our noses. A small fork stacked a carefully constructed bite consisting of a sweet grape, a salty anchovy, and a fresh mint leaf. I popped the assembly into my mouth, savoring the saltiness paired with sweetness with a sharp kick of mint, and then moved on to the warm sundried olives. The final canapé in the trinity was salmon with cream cheese and a potato crisp, a savory segue into the next course.

Dubbed plainly as “bread” on the menu, the next course ironically emerged as possibly the most interesting item among all the other dishes. In front of us lay crushed tomato puree drizzled with chili oil, a shallow diving pool for the bread cannonball that Butler was about to drop from above – quite literally.

Butler explained that while he was in Europe he experienced what was practically a performance piece inspiring him to make this dish; he recounted how he was served a steamy gourmet roll that tumbled down a ramp and landed with a glorious splatter into the sauce below. He held the “bread” high above my plate, and released it with the slightest hint of theater in the flick of a wrist. The roll, covered in fragrant sauce, was a slippery sphere that evaded my unwilling grasp. I tore it open to reveal its earthy, fleshy innards, a mixture of mushrooms and other garden vegetables. It was creamy and satisfying, and I secretly hoped that the rest of the courses would stack up just as impressively.

Unfortunately, none of the following courses were anywhere near the heavyweight champion that was the bread, not only in showiness or creativity, but also literally in weight. Three’s Company was one single piece of prawn, lobster, and crab each on cold bisque drizzled with lobster oil. I wondered whether it would be crass of me to consider cramming it all in my mouth at once as a small rebellion to how haughty the serving seemed, but I managed to curb my ravenous hunger in a game of “let’s-see-who-can-make-the-most-out-of-small-servings”. I was fighting a losing battle, as the courses continued to belittle my hunger.

The halibut gnocchi pays Basque was especially ridiculous, as it not only decided to mock me by squatting comfortably as one single piece of gnocchi on a plate that was larger than my eyes and stomach combined, but this piece of gnocchi could be considered gargantuan. The godfather of gnocchi was chewy in a way that didn’t seem satiating. Gnocchi is normally the size it is so to deceive you in how carby it really is – at this size it feels like a carbohydrate bulldozer (but of course, you don’t pop the whole thing in your mouth. You’d need to make sure someone knows the Heimlich maneuver).

The following plate was fish and chip – singular. It was adorable: a scallop gently battered and fried wrapped in a tiny newspaper cone with a mildly spicy chip. The scallop was delicious but it was apparent to me it was not well-suited for tempura times – the inside doughiness couldn’t be offset due to a scallop’s inability to be particularly flaky. Still, the presentation and preparation was satisfying.

The next course was called “Here one moment… gone the next”. The name spelled it out rather clearly to my palate: what seemed to be a swirl of meringue-like substance paired with what seemed to be a compote-like substance were gone down my gullet in an instance, barely giving my tastebuds time to register what was supposed to be flavors of root beer and rhubarb.

The last two courses gave me plenty of opportunity to savor slowly; first the cool, gritty chocolate served in the petite tasse, and then the translucent banana-flavored lollipop. The chocolate was puzzling as there was an abundance of seeds at the bottom of the espresso cup, which possibly were fruit seeds of some kind. There were not only banana but also licorice lollipops, and I was relieved to find that mine was not licorice.

As the evening wound down, there was a palpable confusion among our table. What exactly did we collectively put in our respective gullets? How much did we actually consume? Was it all about quality, regardless of quantity? Hey, should we go to Wendy’s after this for a burger?

With some modicum of respect I didn’t pursue further eats. There was something sensible about the setup of the menu that prevented palate fatigue, but it somehow neglected to incorporate avoiding actual fatigue due to hunger. The evening wore me down as I struggled to amplify the flavors in my mouth to gain more from so very little – alas, what little in portion did not help what little there was in culinary excitement. Maybe I’m a glutton, maybe I was just damn hungry. For someone named Butler, you’d think he would be one suited to cater to finicky types.

» Restaurant Connor Butler on 2145 Granville Street and West 5th [604-734-2145]

P.S. I was told to browse their site with a grain of salt, as apparently it was a) made by a customer or someone not representative of the restaurant and b) the information is probably outdated.