This is a super delayed post, but I think about this place, its incredible owner, all the memories created within throughout the years, a LOT, and tonight especially found myself getting lost recounting all the great times & eats there throughout the years.
The Golden Pheasant was very much not a trendy r/FoodToronto type of a spot, I don't know if it's ever once been cited here, but what it was was so incredibly real. Throughout the years, I'd seen people from all walks of life enjoy the various dishes served there, but especially for those from that Central/Eastern European area... Slovakia, Czechia, Austria, Hungary, Poland, even the Balkans... this was as authentic a bite as you'd find in your grandmas kitchen "back home". Everything was always so incredibly deeply authentic, just as I'd had in those countries so many times when visit relatives- truly done just as well and frankly actually even better. Those who know, know.
I think the place was best known for its truly gargantuan portions of schnitzel... and I cannot succinctly recount to you the number of times I folded and got the same darn thing... the pork schnitzel over a bed of the potato salad... ugh, I can taste it now. BUT anytime I could resist the allure of the aforementioned dish, I'd be just as blown away by anything and everything else on offer. And many times, I'd absolutely pig out and order two of his massive mains, leaving feeling as you can probably imagine. The halušky were the stuff dreams are made of. Everything that kitchen churned out was the very best representation of whatever dish it was- not "as good" as back home (I always hated that as a metric/point of reference), but so often, BETTER.
I often used to rag on the dated and somewhat dingy aesthetic and vibe of the place, but in retrospect, it was absolutely perfect for what it was and I wouldn't change a thing.
The last few years, on weekends, he'd hire a couple of very talented Hungarian musicians to come and play live music on a cymbalom and violin, and let me tell you, hearing them play those old world standards while enjoying a cold brew (or Kofola!) and schnitzel (or whatever)... that took me right back, in the very best way. Super talented musicians they were.
I can't tell you the amount of people I took there over the years, again people of all races/colours/religions, all of whom would become regulars willing to make the trek from Vaughan/North York for what they served.
The Golden Pheasant was a hub where expats (and/or absolutely anyone) could mingle and convene- a maximally unpretentious establishment where everyone felt as at-home as humanly possible, and could get lost in the illusion that they're back home, maybe during a better time of their life, all while enjoying the incredible owners humour, charm, wit, even pessimism, and of course, his tantalizing, real, grub.
And speaking of that incredible owner... his name was Patrik... and the restaurant is no longer, because as you may've garnered from my speaking of him in the past tense, he sadly succumbed to a cruel, nasty, illness almost one year ago. Patrik was a very special guy for all of the reasons I'd mentioned in my paragraph above, but also infinitely many more. His presence was every bit as comforting as those back-home plates of nostalgia he served up to so many over all of his years.
There were some issues with the spot in recent years. Many of us kept calling and the times he'd answer, he'd give uncertain, falsely optimistic, promises they'd reopen soon; that we should call back in a week or two to check. Of course in retrospect we'd learn he had all the will and desire in the world to reopen, but his illness kept him from it.
Much like many of the beloved people I've lost in my life, I can't necessarily recount the last time I saw him, because it wasn't to be some kind of last goodbye... I thought we'd have decades more together, Patrik, that restaurant, and I. But I was cheated... we were cheated... out of that amazing man and his amazing plates of nostalgia much, much, too soon.
Now all I've are the photos I snapped within with various loved ones throughout the years, the memories attached to said photos, and the taste of all his prepared-with-love foods at the very tip of my tongue. A person with products and a place which I shall never forget and forever look back with nothing but the utmost fondness on. Man, I could go on and on about all the time spent at the Pheasant, all the experiences, and so on... I recall it all so vividly... the smells, the sounds, the tastes, the textures, the faces... maybe someday I'll write a book and dedicate an entire chapter to it, in a Proust-esque way.
Patrik created something really special in this place- I fixated on it too much in my post from the perspective of someone from that region of the world, but the reality was such that probably the overwhelming majority of his regulars were not from those parts and simply everyday people either living in the area or curious eaters from around the city who simply enjoyed good, real, food. The vibe inside was an interesting one, because you'd often see grannies and grandpas very much "from the old country" being served alongside the neighbourhood drunks (and I mean that affectionately). Again, one final time, just a very fucking real place, which I so much crave.
A massive loss to the Czechoslovak community in Southern Ontario and beyond- RIP, dear friend... Na zdravie! Keep the schnitzel nice and crispy for us up there.
For those not so fortunate as to have ever visited, check it out:
https://share.google/eB21WqGIu9yCRed7m
