It was a lovely early evening, hopeful in that way that the first warm, sunny spring days are. Headed on foot from the Annex to the western edge of Chinatown for what we had determined would be a very, very frugal dinner, Roberta and I happened upon The Bellevue Diner. This place is situated at the corner of two residential streets in Kensington Market, and has an undeniable charm with its brick and whitewashed wood exterior and retro sign. Having heard all manner of good things about it, but knowing that despite its name it doesn’t fit the description “frugal”, we opted for dinner there on credit. It was too hard to turn down that sun glancing into the intimate, friendly-looking dining room.

We found our way in after a surprising effort—it’s not as straightforward as it looks—and discovered that we were the first diners of the evening. We were shown a table in the dining section—there is a small, smoking bar area at the front—and greeted by a sweet, bashful waiter. We could overhear a senior staffer giving him a constant stream of instruction as we dined; he had just started, and so was rightfully nervous. Perfectly mixed cocktails went down well as we sat in the huge windows and looked over the very tempting menu, which leans toward classic French bistro—lots of frites, for instance. The sounds of the kitchen staff behind their door combined nicely with the instrumental jazz on the stereo to give the place an air of the casual, sophisticated immediate.

For an appetizer, I ordered grilled calamari and was pleased with the plateful of properly charred squid and most excited about the chipotle aioli that accompanied them; I only wished there was a bit more of the sauce. Roberta went for a mixed leaf salad and both of us were very impressed with what she got. It was a huge bowl of incredibly fresh and tender greens, several giant cuts above what “mixed salad” normally denotes. Even the vinaigrette had a large dose of something undefinable, complex and delicious.

I chose homemade mushroom ravioli with mushroom cream sauce as a main course. This was superlative—four giant parcels of perfectly cooked pasta filled with mixed mushrooms and ricotta and covered sparingly in a startling earthy, peppery sauce with just a hint of cream. Even Roberta—not always a great fan of the mushroom—exclaimed over it. Her main, a steak, was underwhelming by comparison. Though it was a huge piece of meat, much of it was fatty and was left untouched on her plate. It was nearly redeemed by the accompanying mound of gorgeous frites, though—which we both enjoyed—and the very fresh, lightly steamed rapini and carrots.

We were full, but the room—now filled with a couple more people, as was the bar section—was so inviting that we stayed for dessert. The pie of the day was a rustic double-crusted apple pie that was beautifully spiced and had an uncommonly good, flaky crust. It had none of the mushiness that can make you wary of the double crust.

Our waiter, who had been nervously excellent all the way through our meal, with the exception of forgetting to bring a bag of Roberta’s fatty steak bits for Mischief (the dog), apologized unnecessarily for himself and sent us off into the twilight. We agreed that this was a great local restaurant and that it set a standard for neighbourhood dining.