Fusion confusion

The Rise Eatery

The eighties are back. You can hear it in all the melodic synth-pop shuffling through the indie playlists. You can wear it in the form of high-waisted jeans (much improved these days with stretchy denim). You can even do a quick study of all the major pop-cultural touchstones by watching the first two seasons of Stranger Things.

And should you want to sample a taste of the era synonymous with big hair and oversized shoulder pads; all you have to do is wander up South Granville to the Rise Eatery. Here, you will find the worst excesses of fusion cuisine in all its messed up, clunky, mish-mashed glory.

"We're one of the few – if not only – places in town where Germany greets South Korea, China meets Peru, and Scotland welcomes Vietnam with open arms on a plate," the restaurant website proudly exclaims.

There are many good reasons the Rise Eatery stands alone. Let's take "routine," for example. There is nothing inherently wrong with the combination of ramen and poutine. Well, some might politely disagree after tasting this greasy, brittle deep-fried mess that reeks of dried fish.

But as a conceptual mash-up, the cross-cultural experiment does at least begin with kernels of commonality. Ramen and poutine are both classic fusion dishes that have stood the test of time: the former is a Japanese comfort soup derived from the imperialist-era conquering of Chinese territories and their alkalized noodles; the latter, a happy accident that harkens back to 1950s Quebec, when a rural restaurant owner deigned to add cheese curds to a plate of fried potatoes at a customer's request. Both have been endlessly bastardized, occasionally with indelible, sometimes even rapturous effect: Think Au Pied de Cochon's foie gras poutine or Ivan Orkin's ramen with rye noodles and schmaltzy stock.

So why not take a frozen block of dry instant-ramen noodles, chop it into cubes and throw them in the deep fryer as a substitute for poutine's standard French fries? Oh, let's count the reasons why.

One, those pressed cubes of squiggly noodles are riddled with air pockets that trap hot oil like a sponge.

Two, unlike the starchy interior of a potato that steams up light and fluffy, these processed noodles remain intermittently hard and scratchy inside their soggy crusts.

Three, when doused with miso gravy, melted cheese curds, wispy bonito flakes, pickled ginger and flaky nori strips, the resulting slop tastes like a grab bag of leftovers one might throw together at 2 a.m. after a wild night on the town – not entirely inedible, but certainly regrettable. Kind of like mullets and frosted tips.

This "routine" is a prime example of why fusion has become the culinary world's dirty F word, even though cross-cultural cooking is more popular than ever. Korean tacos? Vij's Frenched-lamb popsicles in fenugreek curry? Kissa Tanto's entire Japanese-Italian menu? Almost everything we eat these days is a global hopscotch of myriad traditions and techniques. But no one wants to call it fusion because there are still too many chefs banging it all together with unharnessed imagination, poor technique and a lack of common sense.

Some of the Rise Eatery menu items are fairly innocuous. Duck liver crème brûlée is merely chalky with a strong iron bite, likely because it was overcooked or blended, like chopped liver, without cream and butter. The "dynamic duo" of fried Brussels sprouts and cauliflower is another messy midnight snack, one that will jolt you into sobriety with its bluntly burning-hot gochujang buffalo sauce. Sesame-roasted beets with wasabi spinach cream feels like it's been done a million times, although not often quite so richly without a whiff of acid for balance.

But what links those dishes to chipotle-brined chicken thighs tossed in a sickly sweet five-spice mole, you wonder? Why would anyone think that bloated udon noodles might benefit from being drowned in a sticky sludge of silken tofu cream and cashew Parmesan? And why ruin a perfectly good (if barely seared) ribeye steak with a plop of mouth-puckering tart chimichurri and a side of fries stirred with balsamic soy and Chinese doughnuts? Beyond the routine, which actually starts looking good in retrospect, there is no common thread to the menu. No obvious rhyme or reason.

Before opening the Rise Eatery, owners Dan Leung and Wanda Lai operated Danz Gourmet catering company for 14 years. Their united nations of fusion flavours that "push the boundaries of culinary ingenuity" (their words) might work in small bites. But when served in a big heap of sharing platters, which really aren't conducive to sharing, it all amounts to an indigestible roller coaster of sinking stomach churns and regurgitated acid reflux.

That irritation in the pit of your belly is amplified by audible overload. It's not a bad-looking dining room. It's actually quite bright and modern, with tall creamy walls, hardwood-slatted ceilings, leather benches and replica Philippe Starck Masters chairs. The good design bones were inherited from the long-departed Chow Restaurant.

But the extensive baffling that was once placed under a wall-length series of large paintings to muffle Chow's notoriously loud and clangy acoustics are gone. As you find yourself shouting across the table into a deafening void, you might actually find yourself pining for a thickly padded decor scheme from the eighties. Where are those Laura Ashley swag curtains when you need them?

The service, on the other hand, is a total throwback. You might want to stop the waiter before he fills the wine glass to rim. But please don't try to fill the awkward pauses by saying something like "Oh, at least it's not corked." He might take that as a cue to put the actual cork back in the bottle. Or maybe he just didn't hear you.