Do you want to sit on the Korean barbecue side or the Japanese teppanyaki side? An ornate silver and black-filigreed menu weighing in at a good three pounds waits at your table. If you're on the Korean side (as you probably should be, teppanyaki being a highly suspect hybrid cuisine) and there are only two of you, making a dent in that menu is going to be a challenge. Even if the description of the doga ni tang (“a soup made of knee knuckle”) doesn't get your mouth watering, there's mandu guk (Korean dumpling soup). And if you are of a more adventurous bent, there's yukhwe (a kind of Korean beef tartare) or haepari nangchen (sliced cold jellyfish). There are also several types of hot pot, stir fry and noodle dishes in addition to the barbecue.
“We want to try a bunch of different things,” I say to the server, “so you tell me if I order too much.”
“Okay,” he replies.
“We'll have the soup.”
“Yes.”
And the noodles.”
“All right.”
“And…”
“It's too much.”
This is going to be harder than I thought. In keeping with the great tradition of excellent suburban Asian restaurants, Kazan is located in a strip mall. A bright red and black sign and big glass windows that offer a peek into the red and black interior lure people driving along Yonge Street. Tall glass inserts divide the room into its two cuisine centres. On the Korean side, round insets hold the barbecues where marinated meats are cooked and giant hot pots are left to simmer. On the teppanyaki side, there are large griddles arrayed around the room with powerful ventilation hoods looming over them. Teppanyaki, of course, is that combination of Japanese and Western cuisines prepared with great flourish by theatrical chefs working in front of the diners. The concept was invented in Japan, but never really caught on with the locals; it did, however, become a hit with Westerners and is now much more popular over here than in its birthplace. As practised at Kazan, the meal begins promisingly enough with a titillating note on the menu reading: “Management is NOT responsible in any way for any or all bodily injuries or property damage that may occur in connection to the show.” Take that, “Our dishes may contain trace amounts of peanuts.”
Unfortunately, the excitement begins and ends with the show. Surf and turf or some combination thereof constitutes your choices. There are the requisite flaming onions and juggled eggs, spinning spatulas and cheesy jokes. There's a serviceable miso soup and that iceberg lettuce with ginger-sesame dressing that is endemic to Japanese restaurants in Canada, but the food is pretty basic and hardly worth challenging the DVP for. So let's get back to the Korean side, where things are much more interesting. Seated comfortably in a soft booth – without any chefs yelling jokes at you – there's time to relax and soak up the ambience. The aroma of grilled meat drifts over from another table, patient servers explain the drill to first-timers, a group of friends reminisce about a trip to Seoul. The restaurant's soundtrack could be lifted from an American Idol compilation CD: Wham, Anne Murray, the Beatles, Queen, Michael Jackson. In fact, it is during the soaring climax of Mariah Carey's Without You that the full impact of just how much food we've ordered becomes apparent. As a sort of amuse bouche, we're given substantial portions of savoury zucchini and egg pancakes and a decidedly non-Korean but delicious plate of potato salad with tuna and red peppers. No main courses have arrived, but already our table is crammed with little plates: a briny seaweed salad, snappy kimchi, pickled daikon, gochujang (hot pepper paste), steamed rice, miso soup, mushrooms with green beans, roasted eggplant, a bowl of thinly sliced red onion in vinegar for dipping, sliced chilies and raw garlic cloves. These simply come with the barbecue and don't have to be ordered individually. A large, sizzling stone bowl of dolsat bibimbap is then placed down with instructions to leave it be for a few minutes so the rice on the bottom can develop a toasty crust. A cooked egg that you stir into the mixture of sliced beef, zucchini, mushrooms and peppers when the rice is ready sits on top. Mixing the combination with chili paste gives it an irresistibly savoury, pungent character. Dishes and plates are shifted around to make room for the huge metal bowl (like something you would mix pancakes in at home) containing the soup. A tangle of excellent house-made buckwheat noodles are submerged in a light steaming broth. The delicate flavour of cucumber permeates the dish. Daeji bulgogi (thin slices of spicy marinated pork) and galbi gui (two thick beef short ribs) are offered next. The server places a spotless grill in the well in the table, sets the burners alight and drapes the meat over the flames. Before long, it is sizzling and a rich, smoky aroma envelops the table. Both the pork and the beef have the right amount of marbling and, when the ribs are cooked, the server stops by and slices them into individual portions with a pair of scissors. Mixing the meat with the different condiments means that every bite is different. Kazan, as the diverse clientele reveals, is not just for beginners. There is enough authentic cooking happening, at least on the Korean side, to satisfy newbies and aficionados alike. The quality and freshness of its ingredients, impeccable service and modern, festive decor will appeal to anyone who likes to play with their food.
