Jerk chicken is often the default when people think of Caribbean food in Canada. How do you respond to that? RS: Jerk chicken is certainly a signature dish when people think of the Caribbean in Canada. No surprise, as Jamaica is one of the biggest Caribbean countries, the largest source

There’s a certain kind of menu language that feels more like a boundary violation than a description. You’re reading about a dish — maybe it’s crudo, or a tartare — and the text tells you it was “gently pressed by hand.” Or “crushed with the warmth of the chef’

How orange wine became the personality trait of every new restaurant in town. At some point in the last two years, every new restaurant in Ottawa decided it needed at least three things: hand-thrown ceramic plates, a playlist with at least one Khruangbin track, and a by-the-glass orange wine. Not

The food is fine. But first — a paragraph. Or three. About the chef’s journey. Their philosophy. Their decision to use only one varietal of ancient grain milled at dawn by a specific friend. Their rejection of dairy. Their complicated relationship with forks. You came for dinner. You got a

You sit down, open the menu, and immediately need a break. Every dish is an essay. Every ingredient has a backstory. There’s smoked-this, foraged-that, a foam of something you didn’t ask for, and a reference to a season you’re not currently in. Menus used to be quiet.

It should be. It has everything: steady foot traffic, money, patios, proximity to the canal. It’s one of the most walkable, visible neighbourhoods in the city — and yet, the food has never quite caught up. Not for lack of restaurants. The Glebe has plenty. But most of them aim

You don’t call it that, of course. You call it small plates. Sharing style. À la carte. But somehow — by the time the third server explains the concept and the fourth dish arrives — you realize what’s happening. You’re on a tasting menu. You just didn’t agree

There’s a certain type of dessert that makes you stop chewing and ask, why is this the last thing I’m eating? Goat cheese mousse. Black garlic ganache. Olive oil gelato. The flavors are sharp, savory, intellectual — and often leave you craving a real dessert. There’s nothing wrong

There was a time when a restaurant being closed on a Monday felt like a footnote. Now, it feels like a given. In Ottawa, the seven-day dining week is quietly disappearing. Places that once ran full tilt from Tuesday through Sunday are scaling back. Five nights. Four nights. It’s

Not every good restaurant is on a main street. Some of the best ones in Ottawa are tucked into neighborhoods you’ve only driven through. They don’t get foot traffic from office towers or lineups of day-drinkers. They get regulars. They get intentional visits. And they make it worth

Online reviews aren’t about food anymore — if they ever were. They’re about parking. About service that was “fine, but not friendly.” About someone’s birthday being ruined by the lighting. They’re about expectations, not experiences. Vibes, not taste. A perfect croissant gets three stars because the café

It’s flour and water. Why does it cost $38? There are two kinds of people who order the pasta: those who know exactly what they’re getting, and those who are about to find out. Because here’s the thing: pasta is cheap. Not just inexpensive — but fundamentally inexpensive.

Every restaurant has a past. For some, it’s a dish. Maybe it was the scallops that landed them on Canada’s 100 Best. Maybe it was the mushroom risotto that got them their first standing ovation in the comments section of a food blog. Maybe it was the thing

There’s a restaurant you used to love. You told your friends about it. You took dates there. You remember the first time you tried that one dish—how surprising it was. The texture, the acidity, the balance. You remember the server recommending a wine you’d never heard of,

On the menu, some words mean less the more they’re used. There are certain words that open wallets. Not because they mean much anymore — but because they sound like they should. “Sustainable.” “Foraged.” “Heritage.” “Duck-fat.” Each one carries the shimmer of care, like a promise cooked into the menu.

You just can’t hear it from there. People like to describe Ottawa in broad strokes. Safe. Conservative. Quiet. They say it like a verdict — like a city’s identity is something you can sum up from a few brunches and a stroll through the ByWard Market. But the silence

It's almost always empty. Ten tables, two dozen seats. It doesn’t invite settling in. Utility chairs fold around bare wood. The lights feel halfway between hospital and hallway. It’s the kind of place you find once and forget how you got there. It doesn’t ask

It’s easy to talk about food. Harder to actually say something. There’s no shortage of language: “elevated,” “crafted,” “modern take.” Descriptions have been sharpened until they don’t cut anymore. Menus speak in italics. So do Instagram captions. But the taste of a thing — the real taste, not