Rating / 4 out of 5 stars

The Brave Bull’s House of Steaks is a Vancouver icon, occupying the corner of Hastings and Clark on the East side for the past twenty some-odd years. Everyone knows this place, yet nobody I know has eaten here — mainly because it looked like one scary-ass place. My first encounter with the Brave Bull was nearly a decade ago when my friend and I dared each other to eat at whatever place looked seedier — the Brave Bull or the other anonymous cafeteria joint across the street. We punked out and ate at the anonymous joint; the experience was completely forgettable and the restaurant no longer exists. Ten years later, Case and I find ourselves at the front doorstep of the Brave Bull with two other couples who were willing to brave The Bull.

(Clockwise: 1. Clam Choweder. 2. Grandpa’s dining room circa 1983. 3. Prime Rib Dinner)

Case and I arrived first, the only car in the parking lot. Once passed the familiar, ominous wooden doors we were quickly transported back in time and place: early 1980s, our grandparent’s dining room. There was a distinctive, yet familiar musky odour; low-wattage incandescent light bulbs casted an orangey-yellowish glow throughout the dining room. Christmas lights adorned the walls. It was quaint, not the least bit intimidating — nothing like we expected. From behind the bar, the lone server peeked her head up to greet us. A tiny, older Chinese lady who couldn’t have been any taller than 4 foot five scooted around the bar to approach us with a smile. We informed her that we had a party of six at which point her face revealed concern and amazement, excitedly directing us to the “special” room near the back of the restaurant.

Two of our friends’ family owned restaurants like these: greasy spoon diners serving “Canadian” meals on the cheap, cooked by enterprising, but not-so-Canadian, Chinese immigrants. This place brought back a wave of memories. We perused the aging, laminated menus poring over the various diner-esque mainstays. But we were here for the steaks, so Case ordered the Prime Rib dinner and I had the Top Sirloin. Our friends ordered two more Prime Ribs, The New York Steak and the Captain’s Plate (an assortment of deep-fried seafood).

(Top to Bottom: 1. House Salad. 2. The Captain’s Plate, deep-fried seafood goodness.)

Our hostess took our orders meticulously and systematically repeating each order back to us in a mix of broken English and letting slip the occasional definite article in Cantonese. Once she had our order, she quietly shuffled back to the kitchen. While we waited for our meal, we studied the restaurant and discussed its familiarity. Dozens of articles extolling the virtues of the Brave Bull’s no-frills value menu lined the walls. The soft melodies of The Hollies and Neil Diamond whispered through the ceiling speakers as shadows cast upon our dining table each time the bus passes the windows, traveling eastward along Hastings.

Our starters arrive and our hostess, whose name we later learn is Linda, skillfully brings about a tray perfectly balanced with soups and salads. My clam chowder was actually pretty decent: less creamy than the ones we’re normally accustomed to, but reasonably seasoned and flavourful. Case had the house salad with Italian dressing. The salad was extremely fresh and crisp — very simply prepared — but abnormally fresh.

When the rest of our meals begins to arrive, our polite attempts to help distribute the dishes were met with a motherly admonishment — it was clear that Linda had it all under control. My steak was pretty decent — a little dry for medium rare, but well-seasoned and full of flavour; the baked potato was fluffy; and the side of steamed veggies were the perfect accompaniment. Case’s prime rib was tender and swimming underneath a layer of gravy. Around the table, most of the meals were met with similar acknowledgement: simple food, prepared simply that was overall pretty tasty.

(Clockwise: 1. Linda’s scrapbook of accolades. 2. Basket of Garlic Bread. 3. New York Steak Dinner.)

As we completed our meal, Linda arrived to see how everything was. We all complimented her on the meal. And then suddenly, the previously soft-spoken Linda began to speak. She asked how we came upon her restaurant, and then proceeded to regale us with the history behind the Brave Bull; her journey from Hong Kong to Canada; her years spent as a seamstress; and the changing landscape of Vancouver. For the next hour, we were fascinated by the tales of this little old Chinese woman who lacked any formal education working her way up from labourer to business owner. Standing upright with her hands perfectly folded in front as if preparing to recite a speech, she drifted in and out a stream of broken English and excited utterings in Cantonese (luckily two of our friends knew the dialect and translated).

Then, with a perk of her eyebrow — she begins mentioning how people have been coming by and taking pictures, showing an unusual interest in her restaurant. She says they wrote stuff about the Brave Bull. She didn’t understand why people would want to take pictures and write about her restaurant. She then disappears briefly and then reappears with a large binder which turns out to be a scrapbook of articles and reviews about the Brave Bull that her son had put together for her. “Him,” she said as she turned to a clipping with a picture of Buzz Bishop — this was one of those people that was apparently writing about her.

The one thing the Brave Bull is known for is the price. A 9 ounce Top-Sirloin steak dinner and a Prime Rib dinner came to $25 with taxes and tip — truly one of the city’s best bargains. Now, the Brave Bull is not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. The seedy location; the intimidating facade; the infamous reputation — it’s likely to keep most Vancouverites away — and that really is a shame.

Perfect for

Experiencing one of Vancouver’s treasures.

The Details

1298 E Hastings St, Vancouver
604.253.4728

Rating / 3 out of 5 stars :

Neighbours Restaurant & Pizza House has been a haven for down-home, Italian fare in the Southeast Vancouver neighborhood for years. They serve simply prepared pasta and pizza. Located on Victoria Drive, just east of 49th Avenue, this pasta house is a favourite haunt of locals looking to settle with a nice, comforting meal.

The restaurant decor reminds me of that not-so-cool Uncle, with completely out of date wardrobe and a set of really bad jokes. His heart is in the right place, but he could do with a bit of a makeover. Case usually orders the pasta — particularly the lasagna, which comes on a large plate smothered in blankets of cheese. I usually get their special, a 6 ounce steak with spaghetti. It comes with garlic bread and a house salad. Each dish will run you about $12.

This is comfort food at its core. The steak was cooked perfectly medium rare and the spaghetti sauce has a hint of nutmeg to give it that little twist. Case found the layers of cheese on the lasagna to be a bit rich, but overall the food is decent. Neighbours does suffer from occasional inconsistencies in the quality of food (previous visits have yielded cardboard textured steaks and brown-edged lettuce leaves), but in general, it’s a nice low-key place to wind down the night.

Perfect for:

Slumming it down in South East Vancouver with some down-home Italian comfort food.

The Details

6493 Victoria Drive, Vancouver
604.327.1457

Rating / 5 out of 5 stars :

Les Faux Bourgeois is a quaint French Bistro located on a half-block strip of East 15th Avenue, intersecting Fraser and Kingsway. We first heard about it through some coworkers and acquaintances. No one had tried it yet, but everyone heard it was good. So on a wet autumn evening Case and I went to check it out.

We arrived in a slightly shifty neighborhood, which happened to be kitty corner to one of our other favourite spots: Ba Le. It was early — 6 o’clock to be precise — so we didn’t think a reservation was needed. We were wrong. The restaurant was already packed. Luckily, we were still early and our hostess was able to find us two spare seats at the end of the bar, which we gratefully took.

Our waiter slash bartender was a young, easy going Frenchman casually dressed in jeans and a white, long sleeve tee. Which was cool because I was half expecting stuffy people, dressed in monkey suits.

The first thing we noticed is how small the place is; it couldn’t have seated more than 50 people. The dark and intimate setting was further enhanced by the city lights radiating in from the two large picturesque windows at the front facing 15th and Kingsway. Mellow jazz and international folk music fluttered through the dining room as the chorus of conversations from happy patrons enveloped the entire atmosphere.

We started off with two glasses of Château de Cabriac. I say that as if I know what I’m talking about. But I don’t. It’s red wine; it’s French; and it’s good — that’s about all I know about wine. Being unfamiliar with the menu, Case and I decided to share a few starters and a main dish. We began with the Paté de Campagne and Salad de Chêvre Chaud. The Paté came in this awesome miniature Dutch oven, and it totally kicked ass. I imagined a gang of poor French illegals in the back room slaving away making an assembly line of these freshly made paté in the cute, dwarf-like earthen pots. The texture was light, fluffy and the flavour was rich and earthy. The salad was pretty decent as well. The greens were ever so slightly dressed and remained crisp and crunchy. It could have used a touch more salt, but no complaints otherwise.

Halfway through the meal, a ragged, rail-thin Frenchman in a chef’s outfit two sizes too big sauntered out of the kitchen and poured himself a glass of ice water. He surveyed the dining room before muttering something to himself in French and shuffling his way back.

For our main, Case could tell I was eyeing the Steak Frites the moment our butts touched the bar stools, so we ordered that. Les Faux Bourgeois doesn’t just serve Steak Frites, they serve Le Steak Frites and it comes with a choice of shallot and red wine jus or black peppercorn jus; we got the shallot and red wine. By now, our bread basket had gone empty, so our waiter came by to replenish our supply as well as the couple’s next to us. We heard the guy next to us remark, “Wow. More bread,” to which our waiter slash bartender replied with great pride and without the least bit of sarcasm, “Of course, I’m French, I serve bread with everything.” If we hadn’t yet been convinced, it was at that point Case and I knew we had come to the right place.

The Steak Frites arrived medium rare. Our’s came already sliced; which we’ve never had before — but it was lovingly smothered in the shallot and red wine jus with a stack of frites on the side. The steak was juicy and the jus was perfect. The frites were super fresh, light and crispy. We were thoroughly stuffed, but we weren’t quite done with Les Faux Bourgeois yet.

For dessert, we had a slice of pecan pie and two coffees. Let me say one thing: these guys are hardcore. The coffee was taking an unusually long time to arrive, so Case quipped that maybe they were making them in French presses. I brushed that off as ludicrous, as who would be crazy enough to go to all that trouble for some coffee, especially during a busy dinner service. French guys, that’s who. Our coffees arrived in two personal sized French presses along with the pecan pie. The pie was awesome — and the coffee was well worth the wait. Our whole meal was just under $80 with taxes and tips. Which is more than we usually spend, but given the feast we just had — reasonably priced.

We were at Les Faux Bourgeois for just over 2 hours, and although a small crowd began forming at the front, we never got the impression they wanted us to leave. Our industrious waiter slash bartender was super friendly; the food was practically flawless; and we waddled out into the blustery Vancouver night: two very happy customers.

The Details

663 East 15th Avenue, Vancouver
604.873.9733
lesfauxbourgeois.com