Fascism may not be a fair way to run a county but it’s a great way to run a kitchen. While cooking can be a collaborative process, a chef needs to have the final say. Too often, menus read like summer sequels written by eight writers. Satori seems like a case in point. Scott McDonough can cook, as evidenced by his treatment of a chicken leg — usually ammunition for staff meals and burritos — that spins something spectacular, yet honest. But too many of the dishes are ill-conceived. These two factors meet awkwardly on the table, design overreached by execution, searching for rhythm. Someone needs to get off McDonough’s back and let him do what he does best.

Witness the dramatic effect extracted from the lowly chicken leg. It takes a deft hand to produce a confit bird of supple texture with skin so crackling that we ignore what our parents told us and rip in, saving the skin for best and last. Surrounding it with a loose clump (not a cylinder, square or parallelogram) of celeriac mash, a pile of sweetly braised carrots and turnips, and a drizzle of thyme jus shows (warranted) confidence in flavours with no need for Iron Chef razzle-dazzle. Like a lot of the mains, it’s offered in small or large portions ($13/$23). The smalls are quite generous.

An evil twin seems to have created the shrimp trio ($19). The shellfish arrives and is received coolly due to an excess of elements on the plate. Two large shrimp retain the grill’s marks and smoky flavour, if not its warmth. The Peruvian purple potatoes, their purplosity obscured underneath the shrimp, have lost their texture to reheating. A few shrimp cured in a ceviche dressing are smartly partnered with the sweet-and-sour combination of grapefruit and glazed kumquats. Shrimp dumplings (also lukewarm) were not pinched enough at the fold when first formed.  Each package has one tough corner where the dough doubles up. They sit on a slaw of mango and carrot, sabotaged by a pool of red oil, inching toward the corners of the square plate by the time it reaches our table.

Thinly shaved ribbons of zucchini and double-smoked bacon surround a tartly dressed forest of frisée ($12). The poached and fried egg nestled in the centre, properly gooey, weds lavishly with black truffle paste. We would appreciate more of the bacon, but then one strip is too many and a thousand ain’t enough.

A braised lamb shank ($18) sits atop a wintry throne of Brussels sprouts, pearl onions and yams. The dark meat gives credibility to the phrase “falling off the bone” as, loosened by a light prodding,
it slides into the moat of rich, mustard-­punched jus.

The split personality continues with well-seared, plump Japanese scallops ($20/$30) presiding over a rabble of tomatoes, crumbled chorizo and fingerlings. A wonderfully wet and loose risotto ($14/$24) is topped with salty curls of parmesan and basil petals. But pedestrian button mushrooms cut to the size of gobstoppers and enoki, always adorable but seldom flavourful, gum up the works.
Decorum returns with desserts. Espresso ice cream comes with a sticky chocolate cake ($8) and macerated cherries. Warm, burnt caramel envelopes a springy banana cake ($7) with cinnamon ice cream as good as the scoops at Greg’s.

Satori is a Japanese Buddhist term for enlightenment. Not the short-term glimpse at the true nature of existence (that’s “kensho”), but a deeper, long-term, lasting, RRSP-type investment in metaphysical awakening. On Queen West, it also means that we’re asked to arrive early and warned that our table will only be held for 15 minutes. It’s a loose, modern translation of enlightenment: one that allows for animal print upholstery and dinner tables pulled aside at 10:30pm to make way for the dancefloor. We can’t see any Buddhist monks at the bar. Maybe they’re in the bathroom.