A lunch 15 years in the making: Stone Road Grille

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Let the sun shine in: Cured bison so thin it almost dissolves on your tongue.

On Aug. 24, 1992, Hurricane Andrew crushed Miami, driving millions inland to escape killer winds and flooding.

Two weeks later, another Andrew-related catastrophe unfolded: Kathy Lisborg, the Fawn of Fayetteville, married Andrew Galarneau, in a small North Tonawanda church. Before the marriage was 30 minutes old, the bride, in a lovely ivory sheath accented with seed pearls, was spitting mad and serving pizza herself in the reception’s buffet line.

And so the adventure began, with food involved from the very start. That reception led eventually to Ribfest, our annual barbecue-centric Labor Day party, so you could say some good came of it. (All right, I can say that.)

Fifteen years is a long time to do anything, but when you’re talking about putting up with me and my predilections, that’s like dog years. So when the anniversary rolled around this time, we put the kids on the bus and did what any freed couple would do: Flung ourselves into a wild, wet adventure on the Maid of the Mist. (Not how you expected that sentence to end? Perv.)

Then it was to the Stone Road Grille in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ont. (238 Mary St., 905-468-3474), on the suggestion of News food editor Janice Okun. It’s wedged into a common little plaza like a Subway, but appearances are deceiving – inside is a menu that can hold its own, dollar for dollar, with Inn On the Twenty or any of the chic winery gastro-temples.

REST, the facade says, not Stone Road Grille – cheeky monkeys. We took a table by the windows, better light don’t you know, and the server poured water from pitchers loaded with sliced lemons and cucumbers.

It was the sort of menu that leaves me thinking quickly if there’s anyone else we can politely invite to the table, so we can justify more dishes. We managed quite nicely, considering.

It’s called a lunch, but we found it most appetizing.

The house bread was crusty and lovely, arriving with sweet butter. We needed to get more when the Vintner’s Lunch ($14) arrived. We got to taste saucy mango chutney, rich, velvety pate, tangy goat cheese in ash, house-made sopressata, delightful spiced peaches, beguiling Ontario gold cow’s milk cheese, crunchy cornichon, pleasantly gamy lamb merguez.

Kathy didn’t care for the lamb sausage, but the peaches immediately had her plotting canning escapades. I had the same reaction to the pate, but decided not to look up a recipe. In a strictly caloric sense, my possessing a vat of sinfully alluring pate, halfway between butter and foie gras, could only end as badly as getting my alcoholic uncle Lenny a case of Kamchatka vodka.

Arugula, Parmesan, bresaola – those Italians have a different word for everything.

A salad arrived, and we were halfway through it before I asked the server where the air-cured buffalo was hiding. She nipped off with an apology and got us the right salad, wild arugula with shaved Parmesan, and bresaola cut so thin it would have made a sexy, if short-lived, windowpane.

Kathy went for the risotto with more Parmesan and black truffle, while I headed for the steak frite.

Her only complaint: “I want more.” Although that may not count as a complaint, since it’s true pretty much any time.

I had never had steak frite before. I’m glad I was introduced with this specimen. Let me just say that beef blood and garlicky aioli are my new optimum dip for fries. But when can I expect to get crispy potato batons this good again?

Kathy has always had a weakness for chocolate with raspberry, and look what showed up here, topped with the single best raspberry sorbet ever:

I had the peach clafoutis with basil ice cream, which was even better. We chased the dwindling green lozenge around the plate with our spoons.

You know what we did on the way home? We stopped to buy cheese, three different kinds, from Ontario, Quebec and France.

That’s right: More food.

After an afternoon like that, I can honestly say that of all the women in the world? I got the best one.

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