The silhouette of Monsieur Heulot, an easy-to-miss wisp of frosting against the floor-to-ceiling windows facing Harbord Street, welcomes you to Tati Bistro. Consistently anonymous in his trench coat and trilby hat, the pre-war French everyman smoking a pipe on his bicycle is positioned as ambassador to an antiquated world reanimated on the canvas of chef Laurent Brion’s lively cooking.
The bistro, like the films of French director Jacques Tati, rejects modernity in favour of old Parisian charm. The menu eschews manicured, over-garnished contraptions for deep, lush dishes of classically wedded flavours. Even the menu design borrows from a century-old style: Victorian boxiness sections off a page of antiquated fonts, headlined by turn-of-the-century engraver’s script and flourishes.

Edith Piaf croons softly about seeing her lover’s face everywhere as a parade of mushrooms, mussels and duck approaches. Brittle crostini dip their feet in the mushroom feuilleté ($10), a bath of butter, white wine, cream and parsley, where king oyster, button, shiitake and porcini mushrooms luxuriate. Duck galantine ($10), a poached terrine served chilled, demands the simultaneous consumption of all the plate’s accoutrements (gherkins, pickled pearl onions, whole grain mustard, aspic) to be savoured properly, exceeding the sum of its parts. The mussel-infused white-wine potion residing under a bowl of moules marinieres ($8) is so seductive it warrants asking for thirds of baguette to sop it up.

The kitchen extracts maximum tenderness out of a tough beef flank. The steak bavette ($20), coated in a red wine reduction, nuzzles up to fluffy mashed potatoes and mini yellow carrots. When a steak tartare ($22) goes back for excessive seasoning (so salty it’s practically curing the plate), it’s graciously replaced without fanfare. Version 1.1 is a cool puck of lean beef seasoned aplenty by a conservative dispersal of capers.

A heaping portion of cassoulet ($25) is a seasonal affective disorder lamp in a bowl. No one would suffer winter depression if they came home to this rich smell at quittin’ time. Thick-cut strips of double-smoked bacon, Toulouse lamb sausage and an entire leg of confit duck sit atop smooth white beans, deeply infused with the smoke and fat of bacon. A too-late application of breadcrumbs doesn’t quite achieve the desired crust, but the dish bears enough warmth, protein and depth of flavour to lull you into hibernation with the last bite.

An enthusiastic server may not be able to identify all of the dish’s ingredients, but hey it’s a bistro; there are no hidden exotica. (And she does have a plastic watch that says the time out loud.)
Desserts continue the theme of high-calibre traditionalism.  A tarte au citron ($8) is finished with the lightest lick of fire, giving the surface an added bite. And the stoichiometric ratio of sweet to sour achieves the perfect pucker. Upon repeated pleading, chef Brion indulges by flambéeing our crepe Suzette ($8) tableside. The flaming Grand Marnier’s grace over the delicately folded crepes is itself enough to merit a repeat visit — the slinky pancakes soaking in boozy liquid dance over the tongue.
The room never reaches the fever pitch of the restaurant in Tati’s film Playtime, where the pompous gadgetry of a modern, upscale dinner results in cyclonic confusion. But it’s not meant to. This cozy gem reiterates Tati’s condemnation of that cold type of progress. Tati bankrupted himself making that opus, the bistro places a safer bet; situated in Toronto’s Harbord den of strollery. Its aim (and who could miss at this distance) is anachronism and it hits the bull’s eye.
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