Credit: DefunktGourmet

As my darling husband and I exited Kawaii Crepe late one Saturday afternoon, the following excerpt from TS Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ sprung to mind…

“Let us go then, you and I, 
When the evening is spread out against the sky 
Like a patient etherised upon a table; 
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 
The muttering retreats       
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells”

The poem came to mind not because Osborne Street was desolate (although it was), or because the hungover co-eds inside Kawaii Crepe appeared recently etherised (although they did), but more because I had just peeled a gummy blueberry off my sandal. I had got to thinking about how cleanliness plays into a restaurant’s appeal.

Eliot’s reference to gritty restaurants with sawdust on the floor contributed to the atmosphere of his poem – the verses go on to describe yellow smoke in drains, balding, soot, and other pictures of urban despair.  Equally, some restaurants intentionally scatter sawdust or peanut shells on the floor.  In days of yore this prevented damage to the hardwood, but in the modern age is more likely a deliberate calculation aimed at creating a ‘Days-of-Yore’ ambiance.

So were the designers of Kawaii Crepe trying to evoke a ‘Sticky Boreal’ environment around my table by scattering blueberries on the floor?  If so, they were aiming for ‘Monkey Carnage’ at the next table, where banana bits and peanuts were strewn about.  And across the aisle, perhaps they were attempting ‘Messy Mayan’, with little bits of bacon, oxidized avocado, shredded lettuce, and chorizo everywhere?  Unifying these disparate geographical themes, of course, was the ‘Grungy Paris’ motif, best realized by tiny little fragments of crepe in the creases of the red vinyl banquettes, on every table, and for continuity, in the washroom.  Adding to grimy effect were the aprons of the crepe cooks, which bore vivid testimony to the dozens of crepes which had gone before mine. Said cooks were also playing right into the schtick, acting the part with clever theatrical devices like coughing into one’s hand and then seamlessly moving into a ‘Chopping Tomatoes with Germy Hands’ scene.

My husband suggested that maybe I was being naive: could it be that such slovenliness wasn’t by design, and, in fact, the restaurant was filthy? So rather than talking about how great the crepes tasted, we spent the remainder of our meal estimating how many additional Kawaii Crepes they would need to sell per hour to justify hiring a full-time cleaner at minimum wage. (Answer: about three.)  Then we sanitized our hands and left.

The crepes were fine, and I might have even found them tasty if it weren’t for the environment.  Most of the diners didn’t appear to notice: the eatery was populated mainly by pairs of 20-somethings, some looking sheepishly at one another after an undoubtedly restless night, perhaps in a one-night cheap hotel, but more likely in a Roslyn Ave one-bedroom after locking eyes at the Toad.

Restaurants can get away with varying degrees of cleanliness, determined partially by the expectation they create for the diner.  A comfort-food bistro customer will tolerate a few more scuffs and crumbs than a patron of haute modernist white-toque cuisine, simply because the level of cleanliness is concordant with their expectations.  If your restaurant is dark, with wood banquettes, and deer heads mounted on the wall, some peanut shells on the floor will be just fine.  Conversely, if you have a crisp white eatery with a spartan decor and you are attempting to exalt fresh ingredients, you should probably hire someone to sweep the floor routinely.  The diner shouldn’t be able to find the fresh ingredients under their table.

Just sayin’.