Tanya Matkivska’s homemade cuisine emerged from a need for connection and community care

By Sorousheh Salman

Outside of Bloor Street, the snow and wind enveloped the area. The gray sky paired with wet sidewalks captured a typical November afternoon in Toronto, which made the walk a little faster. Inside HOYRA Gastrobar, though, incandescent lighting welcomed its customers. The restaurant’s dim environment mimicked the warm glow of a fire on a cold night. Walking past the deep green welcome sign, the interior decor matched the firelight seen through the cold windows. Servers walked back and forth, carrying dishes of stuffed cabbage leaves still steaming and a soup so red that it bled against the white it sat in.

A warm smile greeted customers from behind the bar counter, where bottles of beverages rested — wine glasses, shelves of spirits and jugs of uzvar and kompot. The server* wiped down the counter before walking over to a table and pulling up a chair.

She began with how Russian forces first invaded Ukraine in 2022. It happened in the evening.

“I was at home with my parents and we were watching TV and then I think in the days before, there was some rumbling news of things that might be starting. So there was something in the air going on,” said the server. Then came the official announcement: Russia invaded Ukraine.

“We all kind of went silent and then my dad called his brother who was in Ukraine,” she continued.

Seated in the rustic wooden chairs by the window, the founder of HOYRA, Tanya Matkivska, remembered the first weeks of the war as a blur of urgency and instinct.

“You have to get back to your senses,” she said. She focused on sending whatever the gastrobar could afford to support Ukrainian fighters in gaining access to equipment, ammunition and drones.

“Then a lot of people started to come and you realize that you are not prepared here for them, so you start helping them,” Matkivska said, recalling how her church became an improvised support hub for those who arrived with nothing but shock and optimism.

She referenced John Holuk, co-founder of Hearts4Ukraine with St. Volodymyr Ukrainian Orthodox Cathedral of Toronto. Holuk described the same moment as a tidal wave.

“The millions of individuals fleeing areas that were invaded… it happened so quickly,” he said. One person called him repeatedly. “Jo, we’ve got to do something,” he recounted. From those calls, Hearts4Ukraine took shape. Families were flown in, paperwork was sorted and emergency networks were built.

Having experienced the annexation of Crimea in 2014, it drove motivation for many others like Holuk to do more after Vladimir Putin’s February 2022 declaration of the start of a “special military operation” moments before missiles began striking.

He explained he could not have done it without the support of his family and the St. Volodymyr cathedral.

As more Ukrainians arrived in Toronto seeking work and stability, Matkivska found herself helping however she could. While her sister arrived with her children, her brother-in-law stayed back in Ukraine to fight the invasion and that responsibility deepened her resolve.

For Matkivska, HOYRA was never just a restaurant, it’s a legacy for her family and herself. “We are Ukrainians and it’s in my blood. It’s what reflects my ancestors who also were working hard,” she said.

Food, for her, was a language of care and the first way she learned what community meant. So when searching for a name, Matkivska wanted something Ukrainian, but not hard to pronounce in English and open-hearted. This name HOYRA in its many interpretations means “let’s move on,” “cheers” or “let’s move forward.”

When asked how she built HOYRA’s menu, Matkivska didn’t hesitate.

“It had to be Ukrainian food,” she said. “Absolutely, because it’s [in] my DNA.” She wanted dishes that tasted like home, that were warm and nice but elevated with a touch of beauty.

Her childhood was in a central Ukrainian village that shaped every choice; summers spent pickling tomatoes and cucumbers for winter; a garden so large that feeding extended family felt like a daily ritual.

“My childhood passed in a village with my grandparents,” she said. “I remember cooking all the time, [my grandparents] were cooking all the time.”

She described growing up in the Soviet Union as an environment where emotional expression was discouraged and strength meant enduring hardship in silence. Vulnerability was often seen as a weakness and people were expected to prioritize their duty over their feelings. She now contrasts this with her belief that people need empathy and understanding rather than punishment.

According to Matkivska, despite some of her history being sad, it must be remembered.

The menu was inspired by what Matkivska grew up with and wanted to represent — with borscht dark enough to stain a spoon, cabbage rolls steeped in mushrooms, pickled herring with potatoes and mushroom dumplings. The selection is a culmination of Polish, Slovakian and Georgian cuisine. “They’re connected to us,” Matkivska said. Georgian khachapuri appeared beside varenyky and Soviet-era dishes like ikra and Olivier salad resurfaced for New Year’s.

In both HOYRA and the community networks surrounding it, food and gathering became a quiet form of reconstruction. Holuk described how newcomers carried the trauma of war with them and how churches and community groups tried to restore a sense of normalcy through picnics, holiday events and simple moments of joy.

“Working [at HOYRA] brings a sense of belonging. It’s nice to connect with other Ukrainians around my age,” said the server.

Families who arrived with nothing began, slowly, to rebuild their lives. Inside the restaurant, that healing took on a warmer, more intimate shape.

The waitress often hears guests say: “This is exactly how my mom made it.” For Matkivska, that was the purpose all along. HOYRA was built from inspiration, but also from memory and defiant hope.

*This source has requested to remain anonymous for privacy reasons. CanCulture Magazine has verified this information.