Oh, Hey, More Poutine

If the food adventures of hyper happy Italian John Cattuci haven’t already acquainted you with Stratford’s poutine palisade, Boomer’s Gourmet Fries, then you’re likely living under a rock, or likely me, who doesn’t give a flying fuck and rolling doughnut about any food tourism show the Food Network hashes out because you got enough of that sad shit in graduate school. So was it any wonder why I was publically shamed asking who the hell the dude in all the photos was? The answer is a resounding: no. Was I impressed? Only because I never thought television paid any mind to the backwoods of Southern Ontario. When Cambridge is on national TV though, I’ll be really blown away. Was I ashamed of myself? Not in the slightest. I was there to eat. Maybe a little against my will. But Joey wanted poutine, as per usual, and so did my future ex-girlfriend (or wife, Universe willing). So I couldn’t not oblige. Contrary to popular belief, I am a gentleman. Besides, our last trip to Stratford, the home base of Boomer’s, and Joey’s mystery poutine in a Styrofoam cup had me wondering where the hell the thing came from and why he paid near 7 dollars for it. This was one more gastronomic dog I could at least put to rest.

And of course Boomer’s name precedes it, thanks to television; but there’s a reason it was on television, and that’s because it makes fantastically creative poutines, or ‘gourmet fries.’ The joint’s aesthetic may communicate otherwise, but the bougie sentiment of gourmet certainly sticks to some, if not all, options like, well, cheesy curds on poutine (yeah, I went there). There are burgers too, among other things. I’m sure they’re just as fantastic, but my stinginess requires me, in my heart of hearts- until I’m a real person, making real money- to stick to eating as little as possible without feeling the belly-ache of portions I hate to pay for. Hey, we’d always like a little more for a little less, but this isn’t America. Boomer’s isn’t America. It’s a place that makes some of the best poutines around though; some that look like martinis topped with onion rings, toothpicks, and olives, others like strange bowls of spaghetti and meatballs. All tasty, all interesting. Joey and I bought poutine topped with goat cheese and basil oil (a kind of quick pesto); but Joey, having discovered we made the same choice, immediately changed his mind for a black bean and chili fries concoction.

So there they were in front of us all: my stacked fries, bottomed out with gravy and dolloped with a cool ball of lush, tart goat cheese, drizzled with an elixir of potent oil that easily flavoured the entire dish. I wanted more, thinking the golf ball of cheese and the tincture of oil couldn’t cover the whole mix. Joey showed me otherwise, swapping mine with his and turning it all to prove that a little went a long way. The oil was vibrant, almost visceral, peppery and hot, made savoury by the gravy and cheese. If I didn’t like the idea of gravy with it before, I did then. A landslide of refried black beans deluged every fry. The more I ate it, the more its spice warmed the back of my throat, the more the cumin lingered on my breath, creamy but paradoxically gritty, absolutely reminiscent of all those strong, familiar South American flavours. I couldn’t have liked it anymore. But Boomer’s is far from perfect. My piety for coleslaw had the place losing a little points. It was briny, but a little too lime like for my liking. So much so, it had the bizarre quality of lemon soda about it. It was crude, a little too fresh, not as stewed as I would have liked. Clearly, fresh crunchy coleslaw isn’t my thing, but hey, what can you do? John Cattuci might have something else to say, but his isn’t my mouth, and lucky for me, I don’t have to worry about pandering to avoid being fired. That’s already happened anyway, and I survived. Obviously, after this review, Boomer’s will too.

Boomer’s Gourmet Fries

26 Erie St  

Stratford, ON

N5A 1B2

(519) 275-3147

Tue-Thurs: 11:30 am- 6pm

Fri: 11:30 am- 7pm

Sat: 12 pm- 6pm

CASH ONLY

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A Little Less Ubiquity, A Little More Feed Me

The need for a quick bite led a fellow cook and I to the abstrusely windowed Grill House. Located in another ubiquitous strip mall, its windows were pasted with the clinical close-ups of the hardy salt-of-the-earth cuisine that inspired its name. Inside, its composition appeared as a compilation of the fast food place. More panels of the clinical close-ups of the Grill House’s fare, hardy but clean wooden tables and chairs with a shine, deep amorous reds and foamy browns, a fridge stocked with soft drinks, a counter, a grill- all just out of view- and a glowing signboard showing each and every more than affordable option. Options that share roots in popular Americana and great Mediterranean medley. Hamburgers are certainly a choice, and yes fries too; soups and salads also. But it’s Grill House’s great grilled meat entrees that make it worth visiting. From Souvlaki to Gyros, Schnitzel, and sausage. Heck, there’s even strip loin steak. Maybe a little ambitious for a midday meal, but still very compelling, provided you have a hankering for anything Paleolithic.

And being the big boy that I am, the gyro was the choice on my agenda. Lamb and beef were served in a pita with onions, tomatoes, and a very very mild tzatziki sauced I likened more to sour cream than the tangy herby dressing we’re commonly used to. No matter though, because it didn’t stop me from ordering a second. And if two gyros didn’t seem filling enough, I made my sandwiches into an even bigger meal. Paying homage to the place’s fast food roots, I added a side of fries, and absolved any gluttonous guilt by adding what I assumed was the soup of the day. A supposed unique daily option prepared with fresh ingredients (so the menu says). When it came, however, it seemed nothing more than an unfortunate canned appetizer, loaded with carrots, celery, attenuate chunks of chicken, and those broad, flat slippery noodles we are all very familiar with. I was a little disappointed, but I soldiered on.

My gyros arrived in considerate kitchenware for otherwise humbling proletariat cuisine. Still, I appreciated the effort of large, clean, white, fancy plates. It was professional enough. But when am I ever after that? Tumbled against two wrapped sandwiches was a small pile of golden fries, crisp on the outside, white, fluffy on the inside. I was a little crushed that the portion wasn’t larger; I even felt cheated, but then remembered the meal’s small expense.

The pitas were warm and chewy, smattered with fresh vegetables that cooled the senses, especially against thin salty slices of indiscernible beef and lamb. Each piece resembled a strange bacon; there was, unfortunately, nothing shaved off of a spit. It was all only a mere processed facsimile of meat. I couldn’t complain too much, however; convenience seemed to be a necessary leitmotif of Grill House. I novelized the whole thing by treating my fellow cook and I to a piece of Krempita. One of two desserts offered on the menu. A sturdy, vanilla custard sandwiched between two gram crackers and dressed with a fruity coulis made for a well balanced finish to our lunch. If anything sweet killed us, it was our choice of beverage.

I could appreciate Grill House, if only because it offered diners something other than burgers and fries, although those are all still there.

Grill House

1-825 Weber St. E.,

Kitchener, ON

N2H 1H5

(519) 744-7455

ANY PAYMENT

   

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Ramen?

It’s been a good 3 years, but I suppose Watami Sushi and Sake Bar has absolved any guilt I’ve held over it during that time, if only serendipitously. Because if I hadn’t respectfully accepted a dinner invitation to the place I would have never discovered its weekly ramen special. That’s right, Watami sushi has heralded itself into the charmed circle of ramen. Seriously. I may have no truck with bougie size portions and fleecing the rising middle class diner with the ideal that sushi somehow equals sophistication and cosmopolitanism (thanks, 80’s Japan), but if any place anywhere brings one of today’s most charged dishes of Japanese cuisine to the backwoods of Kitchener-Waterloo, I can’t help but ethnographically eat it. Thus, with a couple days wait and a quick phone call to the only other digestible dude around with decent ramen perspective, I called Joey and we were off. Coincidentally, hung over and ready to dive in to what we hoped was a good bowl of ramen noodles.

It’s a small choosing, but with a myriad of combo options you can choose from two styles of ramen bowls and a bunch of other stuff on the side. I won’t divulge the possibilities, because as far as Joey and I were concerned, a big 11 dollar bowl of ramen was meal enough, and we were both pretty hungry, if that means anything. And luckily, our own choice of bowl wasn’t denied us, it unfortunately being the only one we could choose from out of the two that day. Ours were bowls of Shoyu Ramen: simple pork broth enriched with soy. Noodle reclamation supported a big bowl of sliced pork, sweet preserved egg, sprouts, chewy seaweed, nori, and canned corned. We didn’t waste any time. Joey’s become a star student of anything gourmand. I thought the broth was salty and a little too slick, but Joey said I must have been kidding, sparing no feelings- ‘It’s super oily.’ Relieved, I agreed. Its potency in taste and texture was almost overwhelming, all because of a strong boil of plain old pork. None of the smokey, cured qualities that you find in other ramen broths, both in taste and smell. That kind of liquid bacon soup was something we missed here. What we didn’t appreciate though was how the broth managed to flavor the noodles; still, we couldn’t forgive such an overwhelming richness. The noodles too lacked the alkaline notes that finished on the tongue. Personally, we always enjoy that strange little bit of chemical, but for the unaccustomed diner, we could see how this wouldn’t be a problem.

Fatty slices of pork would have been welcomed in a less oily broth, but it was another imbalance we weren’t too fond off, especially since there was no special spin on the meat. No flavor, no braising, just a plain topping. The canned corn did a good job of balancing out any saltiness, but I felt the kernels’ soft buttery character should have been reserved for a milky dish of miso ramen only- with a big old knob of butter. Otherwise, the dish just seemed riddled with obligatory toppings you hear about in bowls of ramen. Pairings seemed to lack finesse. That said, there was only one other bowl left to try: miso style. Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers. And Watami seems the only place making an effort to offer what pop culture sells to us as ramen. Will others follow suit? It’s hard to say, especially since it’s taken this long for something so simple and underwhelming.

Watami Sushi & Sake Bar

15 King St N  

Waterloo, ON

N2J 2W6 (519) 747-1100

Sundays 1pm until the ramen runs out

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