By Cindy Deachman

Jason Duffy, ARC’s quiet, plain-speaking executive chef, serves up a delectable plate of smoked Mariposa chicken breast, lobster-ramp dumplings, morels, and ramp jus

So let’s forget the beef shawarma for lunch; that unholy mess of pad thai; your sad, weeping slice of pizza. Yes, even the sacrosanct club, such a stalwart. Let’s leave all that behind, shall we, to find higher ground. Why not? Didn’t we, in the day, dine on splendid meals at noon, quaff a few bottles of rich bordeaux? Those golden days, gluttonous ones they were, are long gone — and probably not such a bad thing. Still and all, there’s nothing wrong with a beguiling mid-day meal. Is there?

The Place: Although nowadays somewhat dated, ARC Lounge still maintains a certain minimalist style which can best be appreciated from the comfort of semi-circular booths. Lowlying couches and occasional tables in sombre blacks and browns counterpoint the airy blue lightness of the bar across the lounge.

But take away the good looks? You’re still left with Jason Duffy, ARC’s quiet, plain-speaking executive chef. Quiet until he talks up his recipe for vanilla butter poached lobster. Even then, you could never call Duffy boisterous: restraint is more his style. One senses this quality in his dishes too. Such a whisper of simplicity, perchance heard in a few bars of Mozart is, of course, difficult to fulfil. Duffy though, still cognisant of trends, follows his instinct. He’s certainly devised a  respectable repertoire.

Who else, for instance, takes olives, dehydrates, pulverizes them, then tosses the dust with fresh oregeno and salt? Who else flavours fluffy, yet still crisp, onion rings with such a condiment? And then there’s the dipping sauce, a chutney of house-smoked tomatoes, such subtle sweetness and spice.

Beautiful touches such as hot crusty slices of baguette folded into a napkin and butter at room temperature, butter made with peppercorns and ramps — wild garlic — are much appreciated. Tender fries are presented in a warmed ceramic cone. Even the wine is the correct temperature — cool. So I suppose Duffy has no need to tout that trumpet of his: the dishes, the impeccable presentation, all speak plenty loud.

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By Cindy Deachman

Scribbling away furiously, I ask the owner of Sambuza Village, Mohamed Mohamud Elmi, how he spices his chicken brochettes. They’re so delicious. Even one bite gives an idea: the meat’s deep-fried crispy exterior (no breading) gives way to a pale, juicy tenderness.

“Paprika, right?” I’m sure I’ve identified one. Elmi grins, sitting down genially at the table next to ours, my friends’ and mine. (In this tiny hole-in-the-wall, there’s now only one free table left.) He grins and agrees with me: “When eating, we use our five senses. First, we use our eyes. We see the chicken made red with paprika, yes. We bring a morsel to our lips, we inhale, and its aroma reaches us. Then, we taste the meat.”

So begins our entertaining lecture. (Upon receiving his engineering degree just north of London, England, Elmi taught university in Somalia.) Afterwards, as he takes his leave to fill a late lunch order, I wonder aloud to my friends if my question will ever be answered.

“I don’t think Mohamed intends to,” one replies.

She’s right.

The Place: So why is the Sambuza Village not better known? Frankly, the place is off the beaten track. Head north of the overpass between Walkley Road and South Keys where Bank Street splits off. To reach the tributary, tour around the block, clockwise. That, after you turn east on a small avenue called Kitchener.

The name Sambuza Village comes from the Somali name for samosa, which, as everyone knows, is an Indian turnover filled with savoury goodness. Elmi says his fellow Somalians have simply taken the pastry and perfected it. Well, if these sambuzas are anything to go by, this fellow Elmi must be telling the truth. We’ve never had better.

The Dish: Now we attempt to guess the brochette spices, resorting to history. Prior to the present civil war, Somalians have enjoyed wealth, a cup running over, so to speak. Ancient maritime trade has tied their country to others such as Syria, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, Iran, and India. So you’d think coriander seeds and cumin might be safe assumptions, no? Well, perhaps.

Accompanying the skewers is a fresh green chili sauce — atypically made with cabbage. An admirable dip to fire up the chicken. Also, there’s basmati rice and a salad with creamy dressing. The rice, each grain as separate as should be, has been spiced as well. Golden raisins dot the perimeter of the mound, while a dollop of piquant tomato sauce naps the top. Every bite of food tastes very clean.

Afterwards, we stay to indulge in halwa — but not the usual sort. The Somali version is the colour of treacle toffee, sticky, reminiscent of Turkish delight in texture. Rosewater and cardamom flavours predominate. Coffee, too, is made with spices (of course), again cardamom, maybe cinnamon. No need for sugar. As Elmi explains, take a bite of the sweet halwa, then a sip of coffee, another bite of the dessert . . . and so on — you reach quite another realm.

And now, my friends and I, we’re left contemplating. Left pondering these mysteries, the panoply of culinary practices issuing from territorial wheelings and dealings, centuries of them. Mysteries and stories we may never unravel.

The cost: $10.99

Hours: Closed Mondays

Sambuza Village, 103-2019 Bank St., 613-523-4242.