Two Stars in a One-Star Town

There’s a strange gravity in cities like Ottawa. A quiet, conservative pull that encourages most things—restaurants included—to stay in orbit. Safe. Familiar. Symmetrical.

Here, ambition stands out like an overdressed guest at a backyard barbecue. A dish too precise. A dining room too moody. A menu without chicken supreme.

But still, a few chefs push. Not toward trend, or clout, or comfort—but toward something stranger and more specific. Something true.
They write menus that read like poems. They plate like sculptors. They ferment, reduce, dehydrate, infuse—not for show, but because it tastes better that way.

They are the ones working sixteen hours for six tables.
The ones whose walk-in fridges smell like ideas.

And yes—we know who they are.
They’ve won the awards. They’ve earned the lists.
But they weren’t chasing those things.
They were chasing flavour.

And meanwhile, just blocks away, a restaurant with a half-empty dining room and a $42 striploin continues undisturbed. Maybe the owner hasn’t stepped into the kitchen in three years. Maybe nobody complains because nobody expects more.

This is the asymmetry of ambition. It’s exhausting.
But also—quietly—beautiful.

Let the others settle.
The ones who still care will keep going—not louder, just deeper.
Because someone has to remind the city what food can be.