Call me a food philistine, but I don’t go for fancy dinners very often.

Not that I don’t want to. if I could, I’d eat every last oyster on God’s green earth. Alas, these things be expensive.

So naturally I jumped on the opportunity to go for a holiday menu and cocktail tasting at Brassaii, the swish resto on King West.  Each dish of the eight-course (!!!) dinner was personally prepared by executive chef Chris Kalisperas, while the head mixologist, Jordan Stacey, mixed up a holiday cocktail storm at the foot of each table. Such luxury!

The seafood tower that we were greeted with was divine; a whole lobster, crab legs, Atlantic oysters and the plumpest shrimp I ever did taste. I openly lamented the fact that everyone at the table was just as seafood crazy as I am. I shared nicely. I tried.

Hunger status: BRING IT ON.

The potato leek soup was smooth as butter, supplemented by a delightful crème fraiche, which – newsflash! – makes everything instantly better. It was followed by a Burrata, accompanied by thinly-sliced roasted beets and a walnut vinaigrette. Burrata, I learned, is the king of mozzarella: snowy and mousse-like, the creaminess balanced out by the sour vinaigrette. Next was a house-cut beef tenderloin steak tartare surrounded by crostini and a quail egg delicately perched on top. Not my favourite, but blame my bias against raw beef and not the chef.

Hunger status: considerably full.

We were weaned into entrée territory with gnocchi made in-house with lamb ragu. Hearty and perfect to keep you warm on a cold winter night.

Then came the glorious arrival of mixologist Jordan Stacey. He pulled up to our table with a wooden cart, comparable to the dim sum carts in my neighbourhood, but loaded with a smattering of fine spirits in place of shrimp dumplings. I tried the Hemingway’s Muse, an old school blend of vodka, Aperol, grapefruit and bitters. The result was a complex marriage of sweet and bitter, immediately transporting me to a 1920’s jazz club. I was Louise Brooks with a food baby. My table mates tried the Bourgeoisie 75, a Hennessy drink that required a blowtorch and tasted like apple pie doused in whiskey. Which is a good thing.

After polishing off the gnocchi, we received what looked like a pellet of frothy ice on a spoon, which was actually a lemongrass mint to cleanse the palate. It was a welcome treat to lead us to the next course, scallops topped with smoky chorizo on a bed of beluga lentils, further cementing my theory that scallops just aren’t scallops without a cured pork-based companion. (Ever tried bacon-wrapped scallops? No? You haven’t lived.) The roasted duck breast was sweet and succulent with the occasional crispy confit surprise – a beautiful thing – snuggled on up with braised cabbage.

But the pièce de résistance was yet to come. The venison was a vision of tender meat on the bone, spooned by pearl barley and sweet potato puree with a few pomegranate seeds here and there to just blow my mind that much harder. Even overhearing the mention of “Bambi” couldn’t diminish my carnivorous lust.

Hunger status: must learn to be more subtle when loosening belt.

Despite my unbecoming meat-induced delirium, I didn’t dare stop. Dessert was yet to be served. What looked like a little red present was a Black Forest mousse cake with a dollop of pistachio ice cream nestled in a wafer-thin fruit leather. Very Christmasy, but I wouldn’t get it again, if only because their other desserts (butter almond cake, anyone?) sound too delicious.

Hunger status: I’m a monster.

~ Elli Stuhler