skip to main |
skip to sidebar
WHAT! Magic's popping up everywhere! It must be the season! Or people's "awesomety" in general. But first, a little perspective. Weeks ago, a friend and I, after meander the streets of the tri-city area in search of a little entertainment and culinary delight, unfortunately came up short, Kitchener-Waterloo generally having ABSOLUTELY no nightlife after 10 p.m. Unless you count bars of course - but I don't. EVER! We had both been hoping to wander into some obscure little joint called Saigon by Night, but, like the rest of this tame city, it was closed. A bar. Closed after 10. So, after that, and after peeking into the City's only karaoke bar (why so many bar's?), and soon running out from embarassment, we settled, much to our apathetic dismay for one of the more generic coffee shops in town - which would stay open, at least until 1. At least there's somewhat of a nightlife - for strung out university students, and pretentious fatheads who enjoy discussing Hemmingway's biting criticisms of F.Scott Fitzgerald's small penis.
So, feeling really terrible for my friend, who was the driver, and taking part in my wild, "let's-go-to-this-place" goose chase, I thought the best way to make it up to her was to buy her a slice of whatever cake the corporate coffee cash cow held behind its counter. Chocolate, generic (again) and kkkiiinnnnda decadent. And being the polite individual she is, she demanded I help her eat it - either that or she knew how terrible it actually tasted and couldn't muster up enough to get through it all alone. Hell, the both of us couldn't. And we left much of the chocolate fondant buried in a pool of table sugar, some shitty rasberry sauce, and pepper. We were bored. And she was an artist. I don't know what abstractions were at mind's work, but somehow, out of the muck, she (and I, I guess) managed to create a delicacy of post culinary delight. Short and to the point it was a portrait of a cockatoo. And if we weren't already strung out on sugar, it might have seemed delicious.
Afterwards, on our way out, having left our work on the table, we tried, as best we could, to decide on a reasonable name. We went through a myriad of possibilities, eventually settling on the powerful name of Bruce Willis, us both being a fan of The Fifth Element, she because of the story, me because of Bruce Willis' beautiful, bleached blonde, receding, yet faded at the side, haircut. We left it at that. We took some pictures, we went home, we went to sleep, we carried on.
Now, about two weeks later, this same friend, having missed Bruce dearly, and consequently me, came for another visit, with the surprise of non-other than an homage to our deceased keeki friend. She could rebuild him, she had the technology. And she did, with more than stellar results. I asked if she went to some kind of pastry academy, she said she thought about it. I said it was marvelous. But what is it I'm talking about?
Why, a cake, of course! A full cake, not just one slice of cake, or mashed up cake on a plate painted into the picture of a tropical bird - oh no, a whole cake, icing and all, made in the image of a cockatoo with great plumage! The cake's side beautifully scripted with none other than the name BRUCE WILLIS written the whole way round, multiple, multiple times. It was dazzling, and delicious. Custards, jellies, spongy goodness, a beautiful portraiture. If only you could see the textures! I mean, really SEE them! I almost regretted cutting it! How on earth did I become so lucky as to know all these magnificent kinds of people? First egg tarts, now this? If only Bruce Willis himself were there to share it with us. Someday, dear reader, someday.
My friend, probably the best friend ever, took the selfless initiative to bring home one of my favourite desserts: egg tarts. They could easily be thought of as the equivalent, or distant cousin to Portuguese custards, made with more or less the same ingredients, but baked differently: custards are caramelized on the top usually with a blow torch, whereas eggtarts are usually baked in a bath and have a milder, sweet flavour with a hint of eggy taste. I'm not kidding. For that reason, the unaccustomed may not like them too much and favour custards more. However, I, being an embassador for all foods favour our eggy overlords and all the deliciousness they come in. These particular beauties come from Queen's Patisserie, who's address escapes me simply because the box only contains a phone number. but I can tell you this: it's located in that Asian influenced, overtly sprawled place known as Richmond Hill/Markham, Ontario. For me, those two places are one and the same - they're my China away from China (not that I've ever been), where stripmalls are full of nothing else but food holes and the occassional "Pacific Mall," which itself is stuffed with even more food holes and hot merchandise. One wonders how on earth that little economy stays afloat, not everyone can own a restaurant, unless they all pay to be fed by eachother - I suppose it's possible. Poorly planned? Not in the least, I just think whomever those city planners were, they were either very hungry, or too busy to make their own meals, which seems feasible; anyone can find any place to eat there. Suburbs, food. This foodie's playground. It's a shame Waterloo doesn't have an Asian oriented bakery. Looks like I'll have to muster up the guts to start one myself, and find someone to teach me to make egg tarts. Oh well, that's what the Hill's for. A beautiful place where I hope to live and eat someday (even if for a little), all while wearing Bape merchandise. But, Waterloo has it's own character to deal with, and I'm sure a myriad of bakeries worthy enough for this mouth. But until then, I've got some eating to do.
Queen's Patisserie
Hotline: 416-497-0098
*why the boxes have HOTLINEs on them, I'll never know; but no worries dear reader, when I visit that magical place, I'll be sure to get the address on here asap.
*oh, and Queen's Patisserie is all over the Greater Toronto area, so if you ever see one, check it out. Love yoooouuuuuuu.
Last night I finally got the guts to go to Mommy and Uncle's Temple. It had taken me a solid three months of driving there, wandering around the parameters, putting my hands on the entrance doors' handles, taking them off, looking at the doorbell, peering in the windows and having the alter's multiple statues of the Siddharta staring back out at me with complacent smiles and sleepy eyes. And by multiple I mean hundreds. There were hundreds of buddhist statues, big small, jade, wood, gold, fake gold, they ran the whole gammit, the smallest being no taller than my index finger, the largest being as tall as me (if it were to stand). It probably weighed more too.
Anyway, after debating with Mommy how I should go in (many a time), and after Mommy telling me to just go in (many a time), I decided the best option, like most decided options in my life, was to, instead of meeting someone face to face first, or by phone, was to e-mail them, and let them know that I was coming. So, about three days later, after many e-mails returned around 12 a.m., and many emails typed in broken English, I finally legitimized any reasons for going, which were to either meditate, pray, or burn whatever incense the place had inside.
So, around 5 o'clock in the evening, arriving later than I said I would, feeling like the most ungrateful falang frequenting Kitchener's only Laos temple alone, I arrived, hesitant and feeling that I had no right, whatsoever, to enter those doors. I don't know what's been wrong with me lately, I may have been reading too much Jamaica Kinkaid, but I felt as if that space was no place for a man like me. I wasn't, after all, Laos in the least, or Thai for that matter. This was a place for religious recluse; refuge from the world (of the white man) quite frankly, and as much as I felt I needed it, or as much as I felt I needed to entertain my own exotic curiosities, I had no right in the least to be there. I didn't even know what to do. Sure, I knew how to pray, and I know all the prayers supplanted in my mind that still enable me to have incovenient Christian underpinnings, but what would I do when I got in? I'd passed this dilemma onto the opinion of a friend who assured me that I was being an idiot - that any culture which comes to a multi-cultural place wouldn't box themselves up from the world, but instead welcome anyone, or not come at all. But let's be reasonable, why set a temple up then, if not to feel safe and connected to something you may have left behind or defines your perception of the world? But I digress, this isn't a disertation, or an argument on the politics on religion and space (though that'd be a pretty interesting read). So I entered.
Through the doors, and kicking myself for having not brought slippers, I stood in the dark entrance until I heard a "hello" from the silouette of someone who looked like they were melting (monks and robes). The place bore a welcomed odour for a cook's nose, but may have been something smelt as strange and unappealing to someone who was otherwise ("otherwise," being not a cook in an Asian restaurant, not a monk in the temple, and not a person who frequented it). I was curious where it came from, but was shaken out of it when the monk approached, after having turned all the lights on. I told him who I was, and he said I had probably spoke to someone else who wasn't there at the moment, but that I was expected. He turned to leave into another room while I was still asking some questions, so I cut myself off and just stared, politely, going through what I could possibly ask in my mind.
I shouted back if I could go up to the alter. The monk, who's name I didn't even ask, and whom I didn't even bother to tell my name to, didn't object. So I went, and I sat, and I thought: man, I wish I had my camera.
Sitting and having a long staring contest with the biggest Buddha in the room, I was forced to throw the fight when I heard the quiet russles of the same monk in his robes behind me, coming up, and sitting next to me. A younger monk followed behind him, getting some water and setting it down beside me. I thought briefly that the younger monk must have been who the older monk went to the other room for, just in case this crazy falang had an itch to steal whatever fake gold that may have ordained the place. It was expected; shit, I've never even gone into an Asian grocery store without getting the stink eye at least once; at least until they realized I'm a regular, but even that takes time. I'm sure the monks were nothing like that, but if worse came to worse, maybe they would bust out huge scabberds and crunchy kung fu moves. If only.
Our consciousness' must have been attuned when I asked the next question:
Monk: you know meditatAaation? Me: How do you meditate?
a beat.
I had a pretty good idea, but thought it was necessary to fill up all the awkward whiteness in the room.
The monk spoke strangely similar to Uncle in his explanation of things: same attitude, same mindfulness, same cheery "huuuuuus" in his voice and laughs. He was pushing hard against whatever abstractions prevented him from thinking in Laos to speaking in English. It was broken, but understood - by me, anyway.
Monk: When wuee meditate, wuuee burreeed in fo times. In anda out. You tink. You tink of bureeding. So you reelacs bawdee.
Me: Do I have to sit any particular way? (why I used "particular"?)
Monk: You sit enywuAY comfertable. You put ahms in furont like dhis. Bureed in, bureed out. Foget all. Den, aftah fo time to reelacs, wuee bureed in and say, Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu long and suLOWly; aftah bureed out, go Doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhh.
Me: hmm. That's sounds tough.
Monk: You try. You try!
Me: Okay, I'm gonna try. Okay, here I go.
It was nice to legitimately not have to think about the things I have to think about. Usually people say they can't meditate because then they think of all the things they have to do. Personally, I think they haven't thought long enough otherwise. Only then can you find a kind of ease in being able to just forget about burdens. Because man can they be a bother. Believe you me, it's nice, especially when you think as long, and obsessivly about things as I do. So long in fact that you're constantly irritated, tired, anxious, or whatever. Maybe you understand, maybe you don't. Maybe it doesn't matter. But I did it. I tried to "did" it.
It was hard the whole way through and I knew it would be. I was constantly distracted by my own physical pains of sitting, the chimes of electronic Christmas music heard from the outdoor pagoda the monks had strung lights around, and my own sufficating, uncontrolled breathing. I needed to practise more kung fu. I tried and I tried and I tried and I tried, and I wondered if the monk was watching me, or meditating himself. I opened my left eye, forgetting the monk was sitting on my right, and wandered onto the Buddha, onto the burnt incense, onto a dish full of steamed food - that's where the smell came from. I wondered if it was Mommy's.
Monk: Heeheehee; how you do? Good?
Me: It's hard.
Monk: when you meditate, you try tink of aeah (air) going in nose, to STOmack, and you bureed out, and tink of aeah come out. Dat waaiee, you foget.
Me: what do you say again? Budoh?
Monk: Budoh. You bureed in, Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu, and out dddoooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I tried breathing in while saying Bu, sounding obviously squeaky and obnoxiously loud; the monk on the other hand, held perfect pitch, and his voice wasn't at all high and whispey like mine. It was incredible. That that kind of range existed at all.
Monk: if too haahd, you bureed in and tink - tink of Buuuuuuuuuuuuuu. Bureed out, say, ddddddoooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh. you do.
Me: *Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu* Doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Time passed.
Monk: Okay?
Me: I have to stretch, I'm so stiff. My legs hurt!
I thought I was good at kung fu, AND flexible, but apparently I needed work sitting still and eating more bitter.
Monk: eets hahd! When you meditate and you tink, when you feel, you focas on place. So you tink of nose, den you feel pain on leg, you tink tink tink about leg. Tink tink tink. pain GONE! Take long tiiiimmmee. but you do! Some time, bug walk on you - deedeedeedee - you feel on ahm, o face. you want to take off. No, you let go. Go away, some time you open eye to see if bug dare, but it gone! Still feel it! Turick! Just focas, til it go way! That meditation! First you do ten minutes, and den fifteen! Den HOUR! If you do hour! You gurate! Take puractise!
I imagined all the fat heads who might have tried meditation before me because their book club, or first wives club or whatever said the View said it was awesome and great. I also wondered how long they lasted. Why all this xenocentrism? I'll never know.
Monk: Buddha say, have turee baskets, one basket fo bawdee. Need to understand dhis first. Buddha say know bawdee to know self, to understand awders. When we know how bawdee works, what painful, we understand awders. Have compassion fo awders. We know Bawdee, we know self. understand self befo awders. Know pain, know pain awders have. Be mind full.
Me: Can I come back?
Monk: YAH!
From there I left for work, making it just under the wire. Kids were crowding the hall, shouting, "WEEZEE!!! You're late! We were waiting for you!!" That was that. I went to work, inconvieneced some Mandarin speakers by eating at their restaurant too late, went to a staff party, was threatened by some black guy for hitting on his girlfriend, and drove some people home. Budoh.
Mommy is very involved in her husband's Buddhist community, though she isn't Buddhist herself. I remember the odd nights in the summer when monks would come into the kitchen to say hello, and me always wishing they'd give me a bracelet they strung together themselves. I still wish for one. I think, as much as she can, Mommy goes to temple, or calls temple, or brings food to temple whenever she can, though she'd never admit it. I'm not fanatically religious myself, but there are times I find myself looking for some anthropomorphic god where I want one to be. It's good to feel connected. Always, and to something. Mommy once told me, that when it came to her and religion, or a way of life, or Buddhism, that sometimes it's good to have those things, even if they're not real. It's good to have someone to talk to, somewhere to think, somewhere to be. "I don't believe it," she would say, "But I believe it. Y'know, Skinny boi?"
Beer's the most androgynous thing I've ever seen in a chef's hat. Or, at least, that's what I thought when I first met her. But it's those peculiarities in life that make it so dazzling. That a young woman no older than me could have a face as round and as bright as the sun (and some newly ordained Bhikkhu, consequently) one minute, but become as strong, and defined with cheekbones reminiscent of some African Queen from the deep jungles of the Congo AND with hair as black as that queen's black skin that it's almost purple - just as soon as she takes off her chef hat - isn't really beyond me at this point. However, what is, is her warm heart and nurturing nature. Chalk it up to the Buddha, or gender roles in an Asian demographic that hasn't completely amalgamatted with the West, or some Asian girl's general disposition to love Caucasian males for whatever post-colonial reason (which I seem to be touching on quite a bit lately), or whatever you will, but one thing's for sure: Beer's the best thing to come out of Laos in a long time. It seems no one bad comes into that kitchen; and that all those women wear hats because their hair is so dark it would absorb all the light used to light the place if they ever took their hats, or hair nets, off for more than a minute. All the light, or the entire universe. Maybe that's it: some karmic Buddhist ability - hair so dark, it absorbs all negative energy, neutralized by their own positive dispositions. Okay, maybe that's not it, but I couldn't think of a more magical reason why Beer's so pleasant; I certainly could think of another reason however. Simply put, because she's a good person, with the heart of a Buddha, and the skill of some kind of cosmic cook who makes delicious coconut drinks for Weezee, knowing on some level of consciousness that they bring me from being just there, to actually BEING there.
Not too long ago Beer bought the kitchen some elbow length mucking gloves from the Korean store she, and I, conveniently, both frequent; gloves so long you either look like a married korean woman making huge tubs of kimchi with all the friends she plays two-suited mahjong with on Sundays, or a nuclear technician, attempting to open a jar of kimchi. Now, gloves may not sound like much, and no one but Beer and I may use them, but that she brought them in at all must be testament to her boundless generousity. But it doesn't stop there dear reader; in fact, it brings me to the point of this entry, and why I'm writing it: because Beer is good, and she makes me feel good. About work, about people, about decision, about life, about the cold weather that makes me want to quit my job and role under the covers and sleep until at least autumn. Sirrah.
That said, I came to work today in a funk. In a funk because I've been overwhelmed with decision, underwhelmed by direction, and overtly-whelmed by inadequacy. Grad school is rearing it's ugly head again. I feel terrible about having been in a less than stellar mood, and what's more was Beer's good intention to give me one of her generic smoothie drinks. I tried to decline, accepted, and then tried to pretend I forgot, but she forced it on me. I had no qualms about it being delicious, and touched by Beer's maternal instinct, but I just didn't have the guts to take it; why did a jerk like me deserve something like that from someone like her anyway. I felt unworthy, and without connection to these people I had genuinely come to care about.
Watching Uncle's metal steamer tonight, I came to a sad, if not dissapointing conundrum: that even though I was excited about what he was cooking, and that cooking and learning how to cook in a particularly Asian space gave me a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment, I could never fully connect to any of it, or the people there. I don't speak their language, I didn't grow up in their spaces - I'm trying desperately to learn languages, and now it seems I know why. To connect. Only connect. Because their lives are something I'd like to be a part of. Their's are spaces I think I'd like to exist in. E.M. Forster had the right idea. And I think the Buddha did too. Because when Uncle makes me food, or Beer brings me a drink, it's not because they have to, but because they want to. And when I accept those things from them, it not about the food, but about what it means.
There may be hope for this kuso cook yet.
Mommy: M-------, why you put your hair in your face like that, you look like little gerl. You afraid of showing forehead? You hiding something under there!
Me: I don't know why you just don't put your hair under your cap M--; no one cares how you look in the kitchen.
Mommy: Yeah, put it away, c'mon. You afraid of showing your forehead? Show me your forehead, Mommy will read it for you. I tell you who you are.
Me: Mommy! You read foreheads!
Mommy: yyyeEEAAHH!!
Me: Well, I have no hair Mommy -here, read mine.
Mommy: Okay, but don't be angry. Don't be mad at Mommy.
Me: Why would I be mad at my mom?
Mommy: No your mum, at mommy (placing hand on her chest).
Me: Mad at you? It's my forehead's fault, not yours. Go ahead.
Mommy: Okay...
You always worrying. Big worrier. Worry worry worry.
Me: Hit the nail on the head.
Mommy: You a little jealous of others too.
Me: Who is this woman?
Mommy: You have to do things your way. Always your way.
Me: I don't know if that's true Mommy.
Mommy: Yes. People tell you to do things there way and you do, but just to get them away. You do things others' way only to do your way.
Me:?
Mommy: And you don't like sharing your talents. You believe in yourself more than others, but don't like to show others. You need more confidence. Right now, you very unsure, like you on a fence going, "ohhOOhhOOhhh" (*pretending to balance*). But when you are decided, you will be better than the rest.
I have so many creases on my forehead you'd think it was a palimpsest, which would explain why Mommy could read me so well. Was she fishing? No way. Not. Ever!
"GoodLucky"
The Asian restaurant circuit is a funny thing. I'm all for celebrity product placement, and I know that Asia loves a good celebrity pasted on whatever box of crackers they can create, but when I came across the following little gem in the hands of my employer I couldn't help but laugh. Today Mommy was leafing through a yearly Chinese calender given by and advertising the only Thai/Viet grocery supplier in the region and which most likely supplies to every restaurant in the greater tri-city. Personally, it's one of my favourite places to shop: bright lights AND neon signs inside the store giving way to something almost existential, LCD TVs above the registers playing whatever is on Vietnam's favourite TV station; and of course, the loud, undulating, ear massaging sounds of some, probably gorgeous, Vietnamese singer. And don't forget the smell. And the sea cucumber. And the worker that accidentally drops a live fish and hits it with a paddle in order to pick it up again. I'm in love.
And what better way to advertise awesome location than with some totally unrelated Mainland Chinese actress posted on to a huge poster-like calender? If you can think of one, I'd like to hear it.
Mommy had been turning each of its pages reading the names of actresses in her best Chinese voice when she caught my attention. It was all uphill from there. As soon as I saw none other than Liu Yi Fei, I was hooked, I had to have it! Liu Yi Fei was the whole reason I started studying Chinese - at least, I think it was her. Either her or Jackie Chan -I know, I know, Jackie Chan's from Hong Kong. But he was speaking Mandarin in Forbidden Kingdom. Wait, I think the reason I started studying Chinese was because I had the awesome idea of learning Mandarin, travelling to China and eking out old Kung Fu masters just like my teacher did before me; this, a result of being dazzled by Jackie Chan and Jet Li's epic fighting sequences. Now that I think of it, I didn't like Liu Yi Fei in the movie at all, her character being a constant distraction to the story's hero, of whom had to learn kung fu in order to return the staff to the Monkey King. Oh yeah, it's epic. I mean, as much as I like the white man's post-colonial take on whiteness in the kung fu genre, and the ridiculous notion of projecting every none Asian male onto an otherwise Caucasian protagonist, humouring any kind of Asian female fantasy he may have, engaging his love-sick psyche and making him believe once again that anything exotic is his and has always belonged to him even before he knew about its existence so he shouldn't feel wrong, or guilty for just taking it. Well, I just had to object. If it's not kung fu, and it's not cooking, no thank you.
So, I asked Mommy if I could have the poster, and she said yes, exclaiming that she doesn't keep calenders in the house, especially Chinese calenders. We argued about each page's actress (being a stickler for Chinese popular culture), where they were from: Hong Kong or China, how Thai they looked, and if they were even Chinese in the first place. From there, all other kinds of prejudices ensued, and let me tell you, there is nothing in this life like an old Thai woman scolding Chinese popular culture for whatever reason. To each her own. I still got my junkie Asian grocery
store poster. And that is some, as the mistranslated Engrish on my new poster says: "goodlucky."
Spending eight hours in a theatre space on a Saturday with the more or less jeneuse can do strange things to a man- like slowly chip away at his esteem as the odd teenager riddles him with insult after insult about age and hair loss, making him question Antoine de St. Exupery's child praising novella The Little Prince. Why, oh why Antoine, are adults so bad? Last time I checked an adult had no real qualm about getting strung out on cheeseburgers, unlike the vegetarian advocated, healthy eating kids I seem to frequently come in contact with. Oh goodness, what happened to the days of shakes and malts, and melts and shaky malt melts? I'd love to take Sally to the sock hop and local burger joint after, but now she's talkin' about yoga after class and that new vegan cafe that opened uptown. Too bad, because I was really looking forward to make-out point.
Looks like it'll be me alone tonight, and some open-faced paddy melt displaying its edibles (give it whatever meaning you will.)
Luckily, that wasn't the case; luckily, me and the other overworked, underpaid adults/grad/PHD students were itchin' for some "ITIS" inducing re-fried, deep fried anythings - and shaky malt melts too!
Now, every time I drive home from my weekly Chinese class (conveniently placed above a quaint little noodle shop), I pass along multiple strips with myriads of food spots; more than usual, not as many as the literal strip malls of restaurants in Markham, Ontario. Anyway, one place always catches my eye. I don't know if its because of the name, or the strange giant mystery stain that resembles Our Lady of Fatima on its sign.
It's the name. Definitely the name. Wimpy's. Wimpy's Diner. 50's & 60's. Unique Style. Good food. Only good? Ah well, I'm easy. We'll deconstruct this some more later. Quite frankly, I can't believe the place exists. Not with a name like Wimpy's anyway. Why name it Wimpy's? Well, that's a very good question. Historically, the owner wanted to a create a name that would lead people with low esteem into a place where they could blow all their money in attempts to feel not only empowered, but powerful, strolling through Wimpy's like Clint Eastwood strolls through saloons. Really. But, not really. But really, that's the only logical fantasy I could think up. It was clever marketing, what can I say?
Now, I'm not big on diners. They're all pretty predictable as far as I'm concerned; overly priced food, "kinda" diner music (sure, Abba existed in the fifties. Totally. Or at least, diners existed in the seventies. So then, technically speaking, Jay-Z is diner music too.), and an atmosphere ripe with the greasy mist of not only fried food, but the sweaty men who cook it. Strangely enough, those stereotypes we see on television are alive and well in the diner space. All of this in combination with the rather run down, stained looking walls, and old photos and records of celebrities riddled across the room. And we musn't forget the proverbial red booths. It ain't no diner if there ain't no red booths. The same goes for those ridiculously luminescent red and blue neon lights. Which, quite frankly, I enjoy, whether in a diner, or the window of any local adult video store. I swear, sometimes I think that kind of decor is not there for the sake of having a themed eatery, but just as an excuse for looking half-assed.
But I digress. I digress because although most diners may appear that way, Wimpy's is far from the norm. Sure, it has a jukebox, and records all over the walls, and pictures of "the King," whom of which I was so lovingly sat beside. But what really caught me by surprise was that it was clean. So clean in fact that its atmosphere almost feels cold. A little too clean for a diner? Maybe. But I wasn't complaining. It was refreshing. I could breathe. And from there, I could eat!
Wimpy's has a typical dineresque menu: breakfast, lunch, dinner; burgers, fries, shakes; Italian food- wait, what? That's right, amongst the cluttered menu of onions rings and cheese steaks, there is, snuggly tucked away in the deep recesses of its laminated pages, a substantial array of pasta options. Imagine: pasta and coleslaw, together at last. My Louisianen cousin would be in heaven. Was this a joke, I thought? Or a clever ploy to lead people to ordering other things. Perhaps it was a bet, for shits and giggles, and whatever other reason someone decided to put pasta on the menu. To take weekly bets and tally up how many people ordered pasta from a diner called Wimpy's, the winner raking in more winnings than the place sees in profit from the pasta items. Hey, I know, and now you do, that restaurants often place certain items on the menu to lure customers to their more popular/doable dishes. I was willing to bet that if I ordered the pasta, they would have said they ran out, or red lights and sirens would have gone off, and those tacky secret service agents from the 50's would have come out of somewhere and taken me to a holding cell somewhere- or a spaceship. Maybe the same one Elvis flies. But the pasta wasn't the only anomaly on the menu. Things as strange as McCain French Fries were put down (for 2.99 mind you). Why any place would sell a brand name food item? Sure, soft drinks I could understand- you can't make a soft drink from scratch. But french fries? Luckily, my friend opted for the regular fries. Touché Wimpy's- your clever menu strategizing wins again. She did indeed get the regular fries.
But before that, being the nostalgic suckers that we were, we opted for those symbols of all American diners everywhere: the malt (3.49) and milkshake (3.99) with option of egg (.79). (Do raw eggs still give you food poisoning? I've got 20 hours left of the 48 hour food poisoning limit, so I'll keep you posted.) We didn't share straws. Flavours are vast; if you have a malt, you mix it with whatever soft drink they sell. If you have a milkshake, you choose whatever artificial flavour they can dish out- banana, strawberry, chocolate, baby, whatever. I opted for banana. And let me tell you, it did justice. I had no trouble sucking this thing through a straw, and the flecks of yellow were a testament to the egg I demanded they mix into my merangue quality milkshake.
After shooing the waitress away three times we finally decided what to order. It was a toss up for me, my friend was bent on getting a pound of chicken wings. I, like the girl I am, didn't know what dress to wear, nor what item to order: veggie burger combo, or delicious philly cheese steak (in theory)? Now, seeing as to how I would probably never visit Philedelphia, I decided I'd follow through on one of my personal promises to order a philly cheesesteak in either Philedelphia or a quaint little diner.
So, after ordering, and after 20 minutes of waiting, ironically (some karmic consequence, I'm sure, after consistently telling the waitress I wasn't ready to order), the food arrived. Delicious french fries, and- delicious french fries, and . . . moderatly good chicken wings, which should have tasted like barbeque, but were overpowered by the sauce's acidic, vinegar like flavour. And speaking of vinegar, the coleslaw that so lovingly came tucked under a nice slice of pickle, must have went to school with the chicken wings, not getting as good grades in vinegar-ology, tasting rather bland and absent of that rich mayonnaise twang you come to expect. Nothing of the sort there. Not at all. Subpar at best. But it was, in all fairness, only a side dish that came with the main meal: my philly cheese steak . . . homey.
Now I either built up the deliciousness of the philly cheese steak in my head from years of listening to Redman CD skits about philly cheese steaks or Wimpy's philly cheese steak is, like the diner's name, wimpy (how many food reviewers use THAT in their Wimpy reviews? Huh? How many!). A combination of roast beef, sauteed onions and chopped (somewhat bitter) green peppers topped with what was probably mozarella cheese on an awesomely generic hot dog bun, the cheese steak was nothing out of the ordinary. I did finish it though - for 8.49, who wouldn't finish it? And what was I thinking while finishing it? How I wished I had ordered the veggie burger combo, because after eye-balling all the other customers around me who ordered things like french toast, huge hamburgers, melts, and what have you, I was jonesin' for something far more satisfying. To the point, I was still hungry. And that strung out hamburger fix I had attempted to quash - still there. Still inside me right now as I write this very entry, and I'm willing to bet it will still be here when I go back to the theatre tomorrow, unless I'm quick enough to stop off at a McDonalds before hand.
So, will I go back? I'm thinking maybe. I'm thinking of giving Wimpy's a second chance, only because the hamburgers on the menu look so delicious. Then again, my friend summed up the place in one epiphonic moment that only an English graduate student could wax so poetically: "If the food was better, this place would be cool." Truer words, truer words.
One thing's for sure, Wimpy's certainly did live up to its name. The question is, can it redeem itself the second time?
Wimpy's Diner
1470 Weber St E
Kitchener, ON ,
N2A2Y5
(519) 893-1458
Uncle: You don't drink "beeah," yeah?
Me: No uncle, I don't.
Uncle: Oh.
J-----: Who doesn't like to drink?
Me: Psshhh.
Uncle: You know - alcohol is good for you; it's not bad. You know, you can drink it, but not all da time. Chinese drink it at dinnah, that's it. Like uhhh, German, they drink one glass of wine at da table. You know? Alcohol can be good. You drink it not all the time, if you do that, once in while, it is like a medicine. But, if you drink all the time, and too much, it is like a poison.
Me: Hmph.
Uncle: I see Canadians; they buy 24 pack of beeah, they go home and drink- sometime someone get payed Thursday, spend all the money on beeah, too sick for work on Friday. Don't let it last.
Me: I know that much.
Uncle: Me, I buy alcohol, I only drink when I have guest ovah. Never when I'm alone. It's good that way.
I felt almost ashamed of my dedication to not drinking, like I should have thrown my pride to the dogs, especially when Uncle offerred me something to drink. The Buddha says that if we're vegetarian and offerred meat, we shouldn't refuse it; though it's good not to eat another living thing, it will have died in vain if we at least don't eat it. The one giving too is also undermined for their otherwise altruistic action, and open heart. How can I deny a person who is otherwise trying to find the right path, have the right thought and create the right action? Maybe next time, if and when I'm offerred anything like beer, I'll try and meet Uncle on the threefold path, and we'll make the trek to Nirvana together.
So the Buddha said.
Mommy: Weezee, come here - I teach you and M-------- Thai language. Repeat after me: pom - like "pohm"-
Me: like pomme?
Mommy: Yes. Now say rrrack (rolling her R's). hee heeee. Rrrack. Pom rack koung. Like coon. Now you too say with me: pom rack koung.
Us: "Pommeraccoon."
M--------: What's it mean?
Mommy: It mean "I love you" in Thai. Pom how boy says "I." Rack mean love. Koung mean "you" to girl. So M-------- you say to girlfriend, "M--------- rack A----------."
Me: Pom sounds like apple Mommy.
Mommy: What!?
Me: Like the French word for apple.
Mommy: Mommy speak French Skinny Boy; it not apple.
Me: I know. And rack koung sounds like raccoon. You know, a raccoon.
Mommy: Tsk! Aaaaaaa. Oi na!
Me: Hahaha.
. . .
Me: Hey, Mommy . . . APPLE RACCOON!!!
Mommy: Oi na! SILLY BOI!!
. . .
Mommy: Mommy love you too!
If that's not magical, I don't know what is. It's like, when an old Thai woman makes ragu for a young Italian guy. Which is exactly what Mommy did for me today. And let me tell you reader, ragu's never tasted so delicious - A. because it was made by an old Thai woman, and B. because it was made with apple and raccoon.
Strangely, this is the second time in my life an Asian has made ragu for me. Never once by an Italian. Strange? Not really. I once stir-fried eggplant for a girl who claimed it was better than her Chinese mother's. A cook is a cook is a cook is a cook, after all. Mommy just calls us international chefs. Aw mommy- there must be some kind of god-like kitchen character in Chinese lore somewhere that resembles her in one way or another. I say resembles, because the universe probably had it all planned out before even bringing her or said character into existence. She's the kind of woman you'd want to take to heaven and eat peaches with all day.
And don't worry dear reader, apple raccoon you, too.
My (Real) Mom: So . . . you're just making "basta fajoelee?"
Me: No, I'm making bean soup.
My Mom: Yeah, "basta fajoelee." what basta you gonna put in it?
Me: IT'S BEAN SOUP!
My Mom: Yeah, that's what "basta fajoelee" is - you're just not putting basta in it.
Me: Exactly, so it's bean soup!
My Mom: Yeah well, you're still just not putting basta in it.
Me: Yeah well, you're still just a jerk! Do you even know how to spell "fajoelee?"
My Mom: I - uh - wait, I think it's "fagilio."
Me: "Fagilio." How is that fajoelee?
My Mom: Wait, it's "fagolio"
Me: Huh?
My Mom: Yeah, because in Italian you pronounce the "li" like "ooo"
Me: What? That doesn't even make sense!
My Mom: Yeah, well, I only speak the language, I can't write in it.
Me: I thought you said you taught yourself to read Italian!
My Mom: I did! I just can't write in it.
Me: How can you read and not write? that's doesn't even make sense. People speak but can't read or write, not read and not be able to write! You're still just making excuses.
My Mom: Yeah well, you're still just a jerk!
Short and to the point dear readers, I've a lot of work to do, because I've spent the better part of my Saturday not being productive, but reading about electronics, filling out police reports and visiting bohemes in cafes.
A week or two ago, some of the kids I "work" for told me they were involved in a kind of band-a-palooza, or battle of the bands, or concert, or synonym of some sort. Anyway, I said "where?" They said "here," I said, "Can I have a ticket?" They said, "of course, Weezee." I said, "Can I have another ticket?" They said, "doi." I said, "I'm old ain't I?" They said, "kinda."
So, after finding a friend/theatre-coworker/boss to peruse the show with, I was on my way to the GIG Theatre in where but downtown Kitchener. But before I left, I made a conscious effort to be a stand up guy and buy something nice for the sishuta before they went on stage; unfortunately I was immediately distracted by something that usually always grabs my attention: tea, and energy drinks. This time, the two came in combination, a tea based energy drink. Oh, man! I LOVE tea! But I hate energy drinks! What do I do? I thought. Better buy it- wait why was I here again? Hmph. Must have been to buy this energy drink. And I was on my way . . . to buying some generic USDA certified 100% naturally brewed energy drink called GURU. It was a dollar. And it came in a big can. And it was organic. And I'm all for beautiful designs appealing to my appetite of creative wants on any material thing, really. So that's that, but to the point, like I said I would be: this energy drink is good! Sweet, like any other iced tea in a can, but with the astringent hint of that medicinal flavour we all find and love/hate in any energy drink - only this time, it wasn't anywhere near as strong, and for an energy drink, that's a big plus! And to put your mind at ease, that astringent medicinal flavour, not a result of chemical, but of none other than my close, personal root friend, ginseng. So if you find it, pick it up and try it out. It's my favourite energy drink so far; and trust me, I'm riddled with enough of them at work.
P.S. don't worry, I still got the kids something.
So, GIG theatre, me, tons of underagers and some responsible parents/lawyers/chocolatiers, and friend. But just what kind of underagers? Well, the cool ones I came to see, those kids who wanted to be in My Chemical Romance but weren't allowed in My Chemical Romance, extras from the video for Black Parade who decided to branch out and try singing as a potential career option, and those bands who were created because one day one of the members came up to his friends and said, "Dude, listen to this! HGDYSHDKSWHDUSHDDGJH*PIGSQUEAL*GHJHJDHFDHJKC!!!" Wherein the other friend said, "DUDE! Bum slap the base on that!" And then created some shitty clichéd name like Pig Squeal, or Squeally Piggy, or Bum Slap Piggy, or Pig Slap, or Dude, Let's Be All Hardcore and Practice Guitar for Hours on End, Not Taking into Consideration our Inability to Sing at All Because it Will be Muted by Our Awesome Pig Squealing. That's one of my favourites. Anyway, I arrived early to say hello to the kids before they went up, a solid hour and a half before they went up, unbenounst to me of course. Anyway, to pass the time I wandered the theatre, asking where the green room was, being told I couldn't go into the green room, going into the green room anyway, opening the fridge and seeing what kind of food might be in the fridge and finding that there was only ice cream and beer in the fridge. I couldn't care too much about the emos in the green room, or if I offended them or not, because I wasn't the one wearing tight, plastic, checkered red and black pants - they were offensive enough for the both of us. Soon after I snuck around for a bit and courteously listened to some terrible yelling. Do I sound invective? Well, if Alexis on Fire heard them singing, they probably would have, in a moment of self realization and personal truth, stopped and asked, "Omigawd? Do we ACTUALLY sound like that? Do people actually want to sing like that? We're terrible people."
So my friend came, and we waited. Spoke to the cool kids' cool parents, and waited for the kids' set. Somehow or another I was introduced as a chef; somehow or another I was asked what cooking school I went to; somehow or another I felt like a huge, giant, phony - at least until I told them I was merely a cook with a passion for food. A lawyer and I hit it off pretty well - he also liked food- his secret dream was to be a chef, or at least that's how I like to remember it. And then I got thirsty again.
By this time we had twenty minutes before our kids' set, so we booked it into the streets looking for some cafe, any cafe; I parkoured off of some cars like Jackie Chan and my friend walked calmly behind me, telling me how he'd like to someday ride over cars on rollerblades. Anyway, this brings me to my second drink of the night: Sol Maté - Just energy, no jitters. They forgot to mention, just a fancy bottle, no good taste. My friend told me before hand they weren't the best tasting beverages, but somewhere along the line the sound of his voice, or the meaning in it, must have been muted by my weakness for tea and pretty things (as mentioned). So, I bought it, and this is what it tasted like in a nutshell. Have you ever eaten pumpkin bread? Well take that in all it's nutmeggy, spicy pumpkin glory, put it in a blender with carbonated tonic water and strain it through some muslin cloth, squeezing hard to get as much flavour as you can out. Then drink it, and then realize that carbonated tea beverages don't always work as well as man conceives; but at least he tries. Will I buy it again? Not for the 2.50 I was charged. At least it was organic. Bah! What does that even mean anymore? Okay, back to the band!
In my honest opinion, not because I know the kids, not because they were the only girl band, not because they didn't scream loudly and painfully, not because all the 15 year old boys were secretly crushing on them, moshing in front of them because they wanted to impress them, and definitely not because their bass player was a 30 year old man who played with such awesomemnity that he burst into flames like some crazy elemental with his awesome riff action (and not because they gave me a free pin); but, because they actually made good music. My friend was especially impressed because he said, unknown to me, that they were mixing measures in their songs, which is apparently hard, and very good for 14 year olds. I dunno, I'm no music critic, I can't taste music, nor can I eat music -well, I suppose that's debatable. But, I know something that will smash your face when I hear it. And they were SO much better than the other bands there that I had to blog about it. They were so good, that instead of continually talking about how awesome a band of two twin teenager girls and their elemental bassist is I'm just gonna plug them for the rest of this entry. . . right now, so that you have to either go out and buy a CD, or listen to their music out of curiosity.
COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE COURAGE MY LOVE
. . . is awesome.
♥ Weezee, #1 fan.
The GIG Theatre
137 Ontario Street
Kitchener, ON N2H 3W5
(519) 342 6796
Mommy: Why you watch the ladies? Why don't you go out.
Weezee: No, Mommy. I can't. They have to leave first.
Mommy: You chicken? Why not?
Weezee: Because Mommy, we're not allowed to be seen by them.
Mommy: What! Why not?
Weezee: Cuz . . . customers think all the cooks are Asian.
Mommy: Tssshhhh. bullshit. I tell you. You human. You are equal. We are all equal.
Weezee: I know.
Mommy: Do you? You scared to go out. You think they better than you? No wayyyy! You equal. You think because they pay for us to make food they better than us? You think because a person dressed better than you they better? Because you not dressed well, you not good? I tell you, when I go out to hotel or restaurant, when I get time, I never go to four star. I go to FIVE STAR. I work hard. No one know how much money I have. No one better than me. We are equal. You see them out there, they not better. You don't know who they are, what they do.
Weezee: I know, mommy . . .
Mommy: You chicken? Be more confident. We are humans. Humans are equal. I don't worry about that stuff! My English not perfect, I not care! Mommy still talk to everyone 'dee dee dee dee!' No one better than me. We all equals. I not afraid. No one better than you! You go out there, you let people see you, you see people. We are human - we equal!
So the Buddha said.
Mommy: Whuu! I been up since 9. Mommy glad you're here, baby. Me and Daddy go to bed late last night!
Weezee: What time did you go to bed?
Mommy: We go to bed at 3:30.
Weezee: Mommy, why'd you go to bed so late?
Mommy: We went to a party. I'm a pawwwwty animal. Haha. Mommy is a pawwty animal! You want coffee?
So, again today, I wonder how the hell that woman has so much energy? She went to a party? And she stayed up until 3:30 am! And worked the night before! Probably the whole day! from 9 to 11:30 at night. All I did was tutor some kid for 3 hours, get lectured by a 17 year old about what I'm gonna do with my life for the same amount of time, and attempted to apply for an internship that I probably won't even get! What's more, I fell asleep at like 9:30 in front of my computer. There's a way to spend a Saturday night.
But I'll be reasonable. It wasn't all fun and lame. There is some back story to this otherwise mediocre blog entry - like crying babies, obscure phone calls with Russian Grandmothers, and doors in houses where Russian Grandmothers probably keep crying (deformed monster) babies. But I'll be even more reasonable still. That's only a very small part.
One of the "youths" at the "youth" theatre I volunteer at forgot their wallet after a rehearsal; so, naturally, me, being the trouble maker that I am, volunteered to take the wallet home, hold on to it, and have the actor/actress call me early Saturday morning before I managed my prerequisite 11 hours of sleep after the usual Friday night of work (only a part of my usual 11 hour shift), debauchery, and early morning winding down, usually to some European game show called "Sexy Car Wash" - the name pretty much speaks for itself.
Anyway, call me they did. Needless to say, the conversation was an hour longer than it should have been, and an hour earlier than it should have been too. But it was kinda nice, and to be honest, I'm kinda hopin' I get more. Now it's just a question of finding more forgotten wallets.
I hadn't been out to eat in a while, and by a while I mean one week. Out to eat where you ask? Well, I had passed a place on the outskirts of town called Afro-Bistro several times, and had a hankering for small empty places lit by the seediest red lights you could imagine, and the ladies of the night that probably frequented them - probably for some kind of delicious combo platter including rice, ox tail, and a trick or two. Unfortunately, my friend was stuck studying midterms all weekend, and I was stuck on the phone with a 17 year old. A 17 year old who wouldn't, for the life of me, let me bring her her wallet until I admitted why I wanted to bring her her wallet. Which was, apparently, to see her. What's more, I had (with all intentions) called her "kiddo," which she, on the verge of 18, didn't like too much. Specifically because she was turning 18, sometime soon I'm sure (I should have checked her wallet). So, for the next 30 minutes or so, a little bit after being forcibly put on the phone with her grandmother (which probably wouldn't have happened if I hadn't asked what she had been cooking), I ended up spending a good portion of my morning begging the person on the other end to let me bring her wallet to her. Was this a bad breakup? It felt like one. Only I didn't know there was a relationship to begin with, only a wallet I really wanted to return. Apparently, I did want to see her. And talk on the phone for a good hour or so, yelling back and forth, ignoring the bike in the garage and the breaks that needed fixing, and the kid that I needed to get to to tutor, preferably by bike, because my car, which I affectionately nicknamed the Blue Bomber, finally blew, and was hauled to the junk yard the night before. And while I should have been thinking of a productive way out of the situation, all I could think about was sushi and inviting this kid out for sushi in order to get the wallet to her, which, now that I look back on it, has no basis in logic whatsoever. But it worked. And I eventually got the wallet to her. And I eventually got yelled at some more, by her - a 17 year old - for picking her up half an hour late, in the cold (in a car this time - not mine).
So, after some stellar arguments yet again, Tokyo drifting down the mean streets of downtown Kitchener, after stopping off to pick up some groceries (for me mam), and after getting kicked in the heel for taking too long to choose a good MSG free brand of oyster sauce, we were well on our way to choosing where, if anywhere, we wanted to eat that had dead fish. I said Niko's Niko's, she said Ye's; I said tomato, she said, "Fuck you, I want Ye's." That's where I drew the line. The kid would have to pay for her own meal, and "rock, paper, scissors" me for food locale. Unfortunately, I lost. So Ye's it was, and Ye's I will tell you about; though I'm sure you've been to a generic, sub-par, all you can eat sushi place, at least once in your food blog reading lives.
Ye's: an Anagram for "Ey"
Ye's Sushi has two locations: one in the nice, wholesome, sprawled town of Waterloo, Ontario; the other, in the mean streets of downtown Kitchener (beside Waterloo), where homeless like to meet up with friends and talk about who they beat to death with goonie sticks, and alcoholics who like to take time to sit on the street's benches and reflect about the beauty of dusk against the cityscape, all while vomiting furiously. I say it all the time folks, Kitchener is real. And the place with all the best food holes.Now, not to say that Ye's is a bad place, but I would have preferred to write about some place better. And not so generic. That is, Ye's used to be awesome - when it first opened, for its first couple of months, three years ago, when there was no demand, and friends and I could demand every flavour of ice cream and weren't charged for each can of coca-cola that we could knock back - yes, a Hong Konger's dream. UUUU!! And it used to have cool neon signs, and red booths to sit in, a strange buzzing noise, and loud clangs coming from the the kitchen. Now that's character. Now that's gone. There's no obnoxious neon signs - well, there might be one; there's definitely no red booths, and silver diner-esque tables. And that strange buzzing noise? Drowned out by all the people the place is crowded with, which proves that Ye's does well - but that doesn't mean it is well. It's all you can eat, and that's enough to sell anyone who likes to eat. But is it enough for someone who really likes to EAT? Ye's is a restauranter's dream, a foodie's disappointment; overwhelmed by it's own popularity and expansion, catered to faux fads of Asian interior design: bamboo trims, soft cream colours, fung shui, a lucky cat or two - nothing really Japanese about it. Except for the one really tiny picture of Hokusai's Great Wave Off Kanagawa, and the Mandarin speaking wait staff - wait, what? They could at least speak Cantonese - I hear Sushi is uber-popular in Hong Kong - it's true. All my Hong Kong friends told me.
But dear readers, I digress, it's all about the food isn't it? Not the fact that I was crammed into a corner beside a table packed with two or three families and their kids, all of whom kept giving me a one over with their strange shifty, baby eyes. Forget the fact that I had no chopsticks, or that me and the 'devoesjka were strangely surprised when we got food we were positive we didn't order. My favourite part though was sitting back to back with a really really big man - who I'm confident was eating alone - and feeling the convulsions in his spine when he swallowed. At one point, I think our chakras aligned and the food actually went down easier.
For the first time in a while, I liked Ye's sushi rolls . . . alot, which is strange because I'm usually such a strict food traditionalist/facist. Raw fish rolled in rice? How unorthodox! But you know, I could have very well felt that way in comparison because the sashimi itself was less than spectacular. White tuna was so wet that it almost felt soggy (how? I dunno) and the surf claim was so dry that maybe, just maybe, if I had combined the two together, and mashed them up into a kind of sashimi pâté, the situation might have jived better. The fatty tuna, too, also had its fair share of problems; but hey, no one expects top quality toro in an all you can eat sushi buffet. No one also expects there to be gray where white should be. The octopus (which was a new item offered on the menu - on weekend's only) was a pleasant change, not as tender as I would have liked it, but at least the suckers made a pleasant little face that said, "hey, how's it going? Your date looks pretty." She wasn't my date octopus, though it would have been nice.
Aside from all this, I'd say anything hot and fried (deep or not) is a good bet; nothing out of the ordinary, but something you can put your lips around. I swear, the kid must have eaten like 10 pieces of shrimp tempura. When it really boils down to it, any buffet is really hit or miss; that's part the fun of eating at them, guessing if you're gonna get something good, that and the crying babies, and the gratuity you pay for not finishing what you order. Awesome.
I would have eaten more, unfortunately someone had a curfew at 7 o'clock on a saturday night. And I was more or less tired of being asked what I intended to do with my life, and why I was 24 and still living at home. I'm almost positive at one point the conversation reared in the direction of me always playing my electric twanger. I was so delirious, I prayed with all my heart Twisted Sister would bust through a door, or wall, or anything and just start shouting, "We're not gonna take it!"
So, after attempting to say, like the Russian's say: "Yanayilsa," poorly written of course, I was "on eating" - eating as much as I could before the kid literally got up out of her seat, went to the register, paid, and complained. She'll make some man very happy someday, if not me.
So that was that. Found a wallet, returned a wallet, ate some sushi, dropped off "young woman," was offered tea by polite Russian Grandmother, politely declined out of teenager's embarrassment and angst, found out teenager didn't tell mother she was with responsible, Onizuka like character, looked like a creeper, and missed a stellar opportunity to discuss Chekhov in the original Russian. I did however, get to see a creepy door that Chekhov probably wrote about and predicted, and that I should not write about at all, it's creepiness being explanation enough.
Will I ever go to Ye's again? Well, let's just say, someone would have to lose a pretty big wallet.
Спокойной ночи и приятных снов!Ye's Sushi103 King W,
Kitchener, ON N2G 1A7
519-568-7566
583 King Street North,
Waterloo, ON N2V 2E5
519-888-6066
WHAT! Magic's popping up everywhere! It must be the season! Or people's "awesomety" in general. But first, a little perspective. Weeks ago, a friend and I, after meander the streets of the tri-city area in search of a little entertainment and culinary delight, unfortunately came up short, Kitchener-Waterloo generally having ABSOLUTELY no nightlife after 10 p.m. Unless you count bars of course - but I don't. EVER! We had both been hoping to wander into some obscure little joint called Saigon by Night, but, like the rest of this tame city, it was closed. A bar. Closed after 10. So, after that, and after peeking into the City's only karaoke bar (why so many bar's?), and soon running out from embarassment, we settled, much to our apathetic dismay for one of the more generic coffee shops in town - which would stay open, at least until 1. At least there's somewhat of a nightlife - for strung out university students, and pretentious fatheads who enjoy discussing Hemmingway's biting criticisms of F.Scott Fitzgerald's small penis.
Posts
