Food Pornographers

I expected a good review from Northern Thai: word of mouth, a scant helping of bad reviews (i.e., a slew of good ones). It’s been around the block, and I heard it closed down years ago, so I had nothing but warm, fuzzy feelings when I heard it never did. I expected a good day; and by my own witty banter with friends and constant ogling of cute girls at the table across from mine, it more or less was. Maybe, just maybe, I’m nitpicking; but what would one expect from a critical food theorist? There is always room for improvement. Food is art after all. Art, skill, finesse; and if one has a good head on their shoulders, with enough passion and personal criticism they can make a hell of a dish, and only try harder every other time. So why talk like this? Patience, young masters; patience. That too, in time.

We had arrived around 11:30 in the morning, a good source telling us that that’s when the place opened. The sign said so, too; conveniently, the door was locked. My fears were only confirmed, Northern Thai was closed for good. Its being open was nothing more than some delicious urban legend. Or so I thought.

I’d been forced to read a good number of Sherlock Holmes in my day, so I figured I could, in the least, apply what I’ve learned from Holmes-boy’s redundant, coke-addicted meanderings (see what I did there?). I thought: I work at a Thai place, Northern Thai is a Thai place. Our sign says 11:30, sometimes we open at 12; Northern Thai’s sign says 11:30, it’s 12 but not opened yet. Maybe, just maybe, my friends and I could go to a bookstore, read dirty, smutty sex books and come back in a cool half-hour.

Cool it was, and I mean that with no positive appropriation. The place was cold. And the traipsing teenager that sat us was a treat too. I love a good proletarian malaise. I won’t bother to tell you about our trip back when the open sign was nice and lit, and the front door nice and locked . . . and our nice teenage waiter, not hurrying on the inside, but slowing trudging through the dining room, to the kitchen, to the dining room and back to the kitchen again; I’m positive he saw us through the window. Our eyes met. It wasn’t love, but it could have been. That’s how serious I am when I say he saw us waiting outside in the cold.

Yes, yes. We were eventually let in and apologized to for the wait. All was forgiven. Hey, it’s tough being a teenager who’s never done a lick of real work in their real life. But enough about the service, I made sure the poor kid worked hard for his money when I sent him back after three times of menu indecision.

	Feeling pithy, peering over plastic plants.

The space felt alright. Not contemporary; plastic trees, beaded tapestries, old pictures- all played to the portrait of what an exotic Thailand would look like for those who’ve never been there. Usual. It did have the feeling of being a little outdated though for whatever reason. Unfortunately, the equation isn’t as simple as warm colours and gold in a dining room to make it a successful Thai themed dining space. Maybe it’s because it was cold.
If there was something that caught my eye it was the plating. Oblong shapes painted with a beautiful indigo blue. Not all tableware was like this however. It was more or less sporadic, sadly. Good kitchenware could have contributed a great deal to the physical food itself, not to say it wasn’t good. It was.

I ordered a soya noodle beef dish, which ran me nothing more than ten dollars. It consisted of the basics, and the odd ingredient I never expected in any Asian dish, like cauliflower. The flavour was reminiscent of a frequent sweet soy sauce based Chinese dish; something found almost anywhere, which is good if you’re adverse to unique flavours. The dish wasn’t bad as a result, though it certainly was safe, and I’m never sure that’s a good decision for dining out. It should be, in my own opinion, an adventure- apply whatever connotation you feel fit. Sometimes I like to wear pithy hats and pretend I’m some British colonizer forcing my Whiteness on those around me, peering through plastic dining room trees, searching for the exotic, searching for brutes, all from the comfort of my own homeland, of course. Because if I don’t- if you don’t- you’re only going to be tricked by whatever culturally specific dining room convinces you that where you are is how it is back where the restaurant “comes from.” Sadly, you’re never REALLY getting a unique dining experience even when you’re a tourist. If I could name the flavours of the dish I would guess at star anise, black soy sauce, sugar and oyster sauce; but, I’ll never really know. For ten dollars however, I won’t continue to complain. The portioning was alright, and it managed to fill me up a little. The rest I owe to the free tea (a saving grace for any Asian eatery) and dessert. But mostly to the tea.

Spicy tofu.

For dessert I ordered a nostalgic mango with sticky rice, expecting it to, like the photo on the menu, come with a nice cup of (preferably) warm coconut milk. Unfortunately, I was misinformed. What I got was a sparse plate, complete with half a mango, cubed awkwardly, not quite ripe, giving it a sweet, light citrus flavour I personally enjoyed, (my company told me it was something they didn’t really enjoy, the mango tasting unripe, and my liking it probably being a result of working in a Thai kitchen for so long) and a scant cup of sticky rice smothered in honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds. All for a lousy 4.95. Creative. Or so far removed and having nothing to do with the real pleasures of eating than pornography does sex. Yes, it was a poor, performative attempt at food pornography. Dressed up to be something it wasn’t. I would have preferred bigger portions. Forget what it looks like in a mom and pop’s shop. The attempts of big restaurants to dress food up works because it’s about three things: rare ingredients, looks, and whatever status it affords the person eating it.

Mango with sticky rice (and honey)- ghetto fab.

Northern Thai should be food for the every man. It should never be divorced from its nutritive state and taste qualities. If anything, the visual should be second, because when that restaurant snobbery permeates beyond trendy restaurants and trickles down to the mom and pop’s shops and there comes a cheap attempt by plating to make the food seem like something it’s not, it loses its humility and quality for the eater who is, more or less, an every man. I’m blue collar, didn’t my request for free tea tip you off? That attempt at food sophistication is no better than a snuff film. It kills it; there is nothing more there than the democratization of food. Sticky rice has quality, but it isn’t sophisticated, and when you try to make it so, you just make foodies like me kinda angry. I mean, rice and honey? C’mon. That’s for children in the ghetto. Don’t believe me? Two words: Alicia Keys. When I pay 4.95 for one cup of shitty rice, the least you can do is give me some damn coconut milk on the side like the picture said. I didn’t ask to enter a realm where people divorce food from its qualities and surface appearance becomes all-important.* Maybe I’m too well fed and took it on myself to know too much about food. Aw, ignorance is bliss, especially when it can be used to seduce. At least places like this can still work for the guy trying to impress that girl who is totally and utterly clueless (RIP Brittany). But now I’m being way too harsh. There were other menu options, and the menu was rather diverse, albeit similar in selection to other places. Hey, whatever sells, baby.

For the some odd 15 dollars I payed for a meal, it wasn’t half bad; and why does Northern Thai have so much good feedback? Because it plays to familiar, popular consumer tastes. It’s safe, and thus, it succeeds. It’s average at best, but better than bad. And that might lead it to redemption.


Northern Thai
95 Queen Street South,
Kitchener,ON N2G 1W1
(519) 745-4451

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Song

Sirrah. I wish I were a stay at home mom. A stay at home mom who could blog to her heart's content, take amateur photos of her pets, tell you what they're doing today, what I watched on the View, what I thought about it, and what I'm baking while watching it. A man can dream. Alas, I'm too busy teaching Korean kids, writing about Japanese Obentos, baking biscotti for professors, not getting good grades by baking biscottis for professors. It's a close second. But, here I am. Don't worry dear readers, I haven't forgotten about you. I never will. I think about you everyday even when I disappear into the depths of Academic abyss for a month. Consider these entries a test of my love.

I tutor a Korean kid (he's my age; we're kids in spirit) named Song. Like other Korean kids, he has an unhealthy affinity for video games (don't we all?). Song's a sweetheart- is what I gather from the stories he tells me. He collects as many greeting cards as he can for his girlfriend back in Korea and sends them to her as often as he can, so much so that he's been running out of resources and I, so selflessly (foolishly), recruited myself to join his effort, scaling the city to look for as many campy greeting cards as I can find. Hey, this is a trial of love.

I tell Song all the time that what he does for his girlfriend is probably the sweetest thing in the world; that, generally, all the things he does for his girlfriend are the sweetest things in the world. He once bought a rose for every day he liked her. Jinkies.

I've told Song that guys here don't do said things- at least, not as much. And that if they do, women aren't too responsive. Song says men here are macho- that's why. But in Korea, they're not. 'Could of fooled me. I've never been to Korea, but I've watched Old Boy enough times to assume otherwise. That's how I learn things- through media. I don't consider it junk, I consider it ethnographic research; equipment for living, if you will. But I digress, as I so often do . . .

So, the story goes that one day on the island of Jeju-do, Song and his Girlfriend (hereon referred to as 여자 친구) went to a café- I like to imagine specifically oriented towards lovers- where those in love hang their love letters on some sexually charged wall. That was a little harsh. Wall is good here. That being said, Song and 여자 친구 wrote a love letter together, put it in an envelope, wrote in characters too large for the envelope and hung it on the wall- I like to imagine like on a laundry line.

And so, one Friday, while tutoring Song, mmm, about Shakespeare, let’s say, he felt the necessary urge to tell me that he had, out of the blue, received an e-mail from his sister and uncle along with a picture of that very letter he wrote, the characters on the envelope being so large that they couldn’t help but attract whatever eye curious enough to gaze upon it. Not only a café popular amongst lovers, but sisters and uncles as well. Anyway, Song couldn’t hear the end of it, and I didn’t want to hear the end of it, his family still berating him to this very day (lovingly, I’m sure), and me still berating him for that very photo. Magical.

There’s something about food and spaces. Wonderful things happen when we sit down to eat; not only are we nourished physically, but emotionally as well. The lines are blurred very easily between the satisfaction of being fed and the satisfaction of being, in the case of Song and여자 친구, loved- emotionally appealed let’s say. Barthes would probably have something to say about it; Baudrillard too, although I reckon he’d turn it into something consumer-fetish related and ruin the good time we’re having analyzing this whole thing.

Let’s consider the café. Let’s consider the café and love. Let’s consider the café, coffee and love. The café is a place where people go to socialize, yes; but why over coffee? An item that would otherwise wake you up and give you more energy than you actually need in a space you go to relax seems counter-intuitive. But that’s just it, dear readers. It’s not about the coffee, it’s about what it means. The coffee is nothing more than a conduit for something else. An alibi for the hidden intentions of two lovers who go out to drink it. They need a place to be together and the café is the reason. They need a thing to engage in together and the coffee is the fee. Yes, the coffee may be nourishing, but it stands in place for the mediation that goes on between two people. They may buy the coffee, but they may not even drink it, too busy writing love letters. Indeed, it is only a cover for something else that is going on. The cup of coffee is nothing more than a distraction for nosey viewers, like the boy who buys vast amounts of chewing gum to cover the box of condoms he intends to check out. Did I ruin it? I am pretty macho.

Indeed, if there were no such thing as love (and dating ritual, for that matter) the café may cease to exist. Or so I like to imagine. So next time Will Hunting tells you that coffee is arbitrary, you tell him otherwise. That coffee isn’t arbitrary; that it’s, as Song so genuinely taught us, 恋の試練 .

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抹茶デ俺のマチ

Plain matcha seems a rarity in this town, so I was more than surprised when I came across a plain cup of matcha tea for 1.25 at the city's only Gelato place: Whole Lotta Gelata. I didn't expect much; but I received a lot in terms of volume. Not in taste, however. It was expected. Why would anyone expect a Gelato place to know how to make a proper cup of matcha tea? It's not as easy as water and powder. The place gets points though for sophistication. If only my Italian fore-fathers knew how far they had come; alongside some Japanese kid's Japanese fore-fathers, of course.

However, as much as I would have liked to discuss the tea's pleasant taste, it will have to wait for a place with pleasant tea because the matcha here was nothing more than chalky and bitter, not sweet like a true, properly mixed matcha should be. What made this tea blogworthy however, was the way it was presented to me. Regardless of its taste, (which should have been the reason I sent it back, assuming I did send it back) I was enamored by the matcha's rich, rhetorical materialization. It wasn't tea in the generic (yet usually sleek) white coffee cup/tea cup/ some kind of cup we'd all expect, but in a double layered, almost bowl like (very reminiscent of the cups used in Japanese tea ceremony- probably a fluke), windblown glass cup, sans handle. Yes, it could be argued that the double layered, windblown glass was to insulate the tea and prevent scolding the drinker's hands, but I argue that there was more to it than that. Its shape was reminiscent of the East; yet, its design and the materials involved echoed the contemporary cosmopolitan lifestyle that makes tea drinking today such a sophistication, even if it tastes terrible. As long as you drink matcha, you're cool. The thing itself does all the talking for you. You only need to read some Burke quaintly in the corner of whatever café and be.

This brings me to my next question: what happens when something like matcha is prepared incorrectly and tastes aweful, but is still drank by the connoisseur because they hear about its benefits and play their own sophistication off of its connection to the exotic land of the Rising Sun. Bad tasting things can be good for you, but so can good tasting things, and in the case of matcha in my city, this is something I have a problem with. I've likened the flavour of a matcha latté to that of a strange breakfast omelet and plain matcha to that of cigarette ash. At this point, I can't help but wonder if it ever tastes good. What happens when these misappropriations in taste occur? I'll tell you, dear reader. You have a loss of proper taste, and nothing more than rhetorical propaganda. No longer is it about taste, but association with the thing itself. A cup of matcha and saying one drinks matcha comes to signify the drinker's own exalted position in foodie-ism, even if it means it tastes aweful. It becomes a kind of social proving ground, even when it doesn't have to be. Why not refuse to drink terrible, bitter tea? Will you lose face? Only amongst the biggest phonies who think matcha, for example, should taste bitter. Then again, are people like that really worth knowing? They probably read about matcha in a women's magazine. Tell me if I'm going off on a tangent, but sometimes, it seems that kids truly are the only honest connoisseurs. They'll tell you if something tastes bad and if they don't like it due to nothing more than their honest, genuine taste. They don't care what someone else thinks- until, of course, they grow up. But at least in that finite time they have integrity, which is something we should all aim to have when eating. Because when you fake sophistication, you're no better than a kid.

Did I just melt your brain?
Whole Lotta Gelata120 King St S,
Waterloo, ON, Canada

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Tea Gentrification

Tea gentrification

I was dazzled today by the city mall’s new expansion. I love spaces. I’m a sucker for suburban sprawl, huge strip malls, even bigger parking lots. I could lie on the hot lifeless cement and let the pink fuzzy arms of heat that rise off it hold me down forever. I could people watch forever, be in total awe at the lengths young shop girls go to get attention.

Indeed, the mall, assuming it’s a good one, is a huge hole for culture, as commodified as it may be. If it’s anything, it’s a place where consumerism not only perpetuates itself, but draws in the purist traditions, beliefs and worldviews and makes them into something marketable. Hey, baby, that’s business. Trump did it, Marx wrote about it, and we all live it.

Consumerism is nothing more than our displaced comradery projected and manifested into something Man alienated from whatever good social relationships the world used to have. It’s the phantasmagoria. What the ideal world should be like. Alas, it never really is. We’re no longer gift givers, we’re consumer fetishists. And when something as zen as tea gets thrown into that mix, I imagine myself taking that hot “Japanese” kettle off its ridiculously marketed (useless) candle holder/heater and pouring that luke warm sencha/chai/bullshit blend down whatever sales person’s throat until they choke, hearing the echoes of Marx in my head: “the bourgeoisie won’t save you now!”

If there is a food that gives us perspective; that allows us to reflect and withdraw from the rabbles of everyday life, that stands in place for everything good and pure, then tea is it. The colonialist stole it, the farmer drank it, (if not to flavour the hot water he had to boil and drink or otherwise fall ill by because of the myriads of parasites in an un-boiled pot), the samurai had it beside him while writing his last poem, doing his last war dance, before going on into battle for the very last time, and the kung-fu adherent drank it, even when he was dying of thirst. My Old Master drinks it, and so do I. Without him, I still would have touched the stuff, but I would never have appreciated it. Something, I’m sure, that comes with time and enough curious intention to enable a person to riddle through as many books and people about tea as possible. And, of course, when it’s the only thing on hand after doing 1,000 tornado kicks.

Food can shape your identity if you want it to. And it can also challenge it. Mine’s been challenged. It’s scary, comrades. 提心吊胆 同志.

Though grateful that I had my phone on hand, without which I would not have been able to take pictures, I couldn't help but feel like some terrible interloper. Sho ga nai. It was for the greater good of tea.

The sale of tea in the West is not my beef. The gentrification of tea is. When something as sincere and necessary, rejuvenating and affordable as tea is recognized as marketable and exploitable for a market of new-aged fatheads, I can’t help but be a little discontented. Maybe I felt like I was part of a club, or part of a history. I knew the secret to harmony, I was privileged enough to be a part of someone’s harmony. I knew how much tea meant to the poor generations who depended on its flavour because they couldn’t have anything else. It stood for working hard, climbing mountains, 吃苦。Or so my Old Master taught me. I eeked out know-it-alls, risked being called 鬼佬, being hit on the back by old women from Laos only to learn whatever subtleties I could so that someday, maybe I could be a part of something. Now all that seems terribly compromised. My city’s no longer subtle. The teashops have been compromised. Those women in sweaters with cat prints have been compromised, threatened by the sophisticated yuppies that head to the mall, not the “smelly Chinese store.” Don’t get me wrong, sophistication’s good. If it comes with humility. Otherwise it’s just arrogance. If that’s the case, sophistication seems more reserved for coffee, not tea. It seems wrong. If there were such a thing as immortals, they might agree. But I still stand by it.

Tea is for the hardworking body, not the complacent, sedentary consumer that needs to impress his girlfriend. When a girl says she loves tea, I don’t believe her. When a guy in a mall’s giant (chain) tea shop comes up to me, decked out in Gucci shirt and shitty (shitty being the pejorative here for unnecessary designer) pants and claims it will help me lose weight, I laugh. What employer grilled him with that? How much more was he forced to know? How long did it take him to know it? And when the same guy convinces a young Chinese girl to buy the shittiest blend of dust for 11.95 my heart breaks. (Probably because he couldn’t have been older than 17, and she believed him.) Where’s her grandmother, is all I can ask myself. And why isn’t she saying anything about the glamourized, post-colonial photos of migrant workers hunched over tea bushes with huge sacks on their backs on display over the shelves of metallic tin cans and assembly line tea pots? Why, when I enter these places, do I feel like the only one who thinks something’s wrong?

glamourized, post-colonial photos of migrant workers hunched over tea bushes with huge sacks on their backs.

A cup that says “guru” won’t make you a tea aficionado, but I know that’s what they want people to think. And those flashy electric scales that measure your grams in neon blue digital numbers may make things more precise, but they won’t make things taste better. Another effect of the technological fetish we all seem to be a part of.

Let’s not forget the cherry on the cake of a fabulous store. The 3 foot tall Buddha sitting cross-legged, with what looks like a bowl in his hands filled with pennies from passersby. If that’s not an allegory for the marketability of spirituality, I don’t know what is. Joke’s on them. They gave their income to an entity that doesn’t even need it. He reached Nirvana a long time ago. Maybe next time I see a crucifix, I’ll leave some money at Jesus’s feet. Maybe he’ll give me long life and double happiness.

The Buddha doesn't need your money. He reached Nirvana a long time ago. Judging by your spending habits, neither do you.

There was something delightfully satirical and post-modern about the whole thing. Tea discovered, taken, relished in, novelized, and then recycled to be new, kitschy and profitable. It’s only a matter of time before people actually assume that a monk summoned a lucky dragon to make the tea bushes grow. Although, it is a nice story. A story more or less dwarfed by the commodification that overshadows the magic and lore of tea. But I should stop here and be grateful that I still have my own tea spaces to dwell in, and that I always have. Like the saying goes, “think about the misfortune of others to be satisfied with your own lot.” I know where my tea is, and them, theirs.

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So the Buddha Said

Mummy: Ssss. Lowa. Der. You smart, I know you finish Masterz.

Me: I dunno. We'll see. If I do quit, it wouldn't be the first time. But it's easy. It'll be easy.

Mummy: What you mean? Easy? Nooo. Everyone always say getting Masterz hahrd.

Me: Well. I think it depends. Y'know. If you have no heart, it's hard. If you like it, then it's easy.

Mummy: Oh yeah, I see.

. . .

Me: You know, it's lonely alot of the time. I just read all day and night. Nothing else. Sometimes I feel like it's for nothing at all. Like I'm not in school for me. I see how hard my mom works, and I can't lose face. A lot of the decisions I make are in part because of my mom. But I mean, what can I do? She gave up a life to raise me.

Mummy: You listen to me. When I make a soup, you go try and you say: Mummy, needs more fish sauce; then, Uncle try and he say: Mummy, need more pepper. But I try and I know it purrfect. When you make soup, only you know when it purrfect. You understand me? Everyone taste different. You make your own soup.


Me: I worry alot mummy. That I won't be able to finish school. That I'll be on my own. Kicked out. On the streets. And I will be unable to continue my education. Or even get to where I wanna go.

Mummy: You are smart. I know you be fine on your own! I see how you work. Mummy know. You good boy.

. . .

Mummy: Ssss. Aw. Mummy back better now. Thank you. Purrfect!

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Supping on the Air, Braving the Wet, so Long as the Road Lasts

Mon amies, I've mon-a-missed you! Forgive the four month leave of absence, but I had to up and leave to Red China, training vigorously in a church with my Old Master. As a result, I was a little strapped for cash and the more epicurean things in life. That aside, if I could, I'd do it all again. And if you really must know, my tiger style is unmatched; my single broadsword on the other hand, needs some work. And if there is something foodie to have learned from the whole experience, it's that Old Kung Fu Grandmasters love seaweed salad, but not as much as they love a good plateful of curry noodles. That, and drinking (alcohol) only stops you from being able to eat even more.


So, here I am. Prodigal foodie, and prodigal student, back in a last ditch effort to redeem myself against the mishaps of my past education, all-the-while trying to convince professors to let me study food and eat as much as possible. Eat, drink, kung-fu, education- is there any other higher purpose in life? Maybe, but for your dear narrator, there's nothing finer.
But I won't end this post here. No, no. Much has changed in the culinary hub of humble Kitchener-Waterloo. Restaurants refused to heed the advice of the Ghosts of Restaurants past, and more hip, cool restaurants have gentrified in their place. Our own Viet Grill is no more, and it's only been six months. Alas, such is the nature of the beast.
But, let's not talk of these sad things. There are far better spaces to see, eat, and just BE in. Grocery stores have expanded, cafes have percolated in, and every day this town becomes riddled with the most convenient suburban sprawl, wherein the cherriest of Chinese places take reservation. Yes, I liken every culinary Fall to the fondest of school year beginnings. Restaurants come in like a new batch of students. Who will be bad? Who will be good?
So far, Panda King is one of the good ones. Don't be fooled by the sign, or the "Asian Gourmet Express" that is given insignificance under the giant PANDA KING letters above it. This place comes off as a quick food fix, but don't let that lead you to judging the quality. It has to, after all, compete with a number of restaurants in a plaza strip. And with the amount of restaurants that come and go, owners know they have to play hardball.
I was lucky enough to have an hour of spare time before class and to have woken up too late to eat anything, thereby justifying my grabbing a quick bite. But it was nothing of the sort. I took my time, with fathead academic book in hand. It was a toss-up between tomato beef stirfry and Panda King's praised (by employees) lunch buffet. Usually I'm skeptical of lunch buffets, but for a cool 8 dollars and a colorful array (I mean this literally; the food looked bright and appetizing) I couldn't really resist a plate riddled with goods, and some of my personal favourites.
The joint had all the characteristics of a Chinese fast food restaurant today (at least, in Kitchener-Waterloo): warm coloured walls, flourescent lights, plazma televisions, and coffee pots full of hot water and oolong, which I must add as an aside, tasted nothing like the backwashed coffee water used for the tea one purchases at any other restaurant that isn't usually Asian. To reiterate: it didn't taste like coffee. Thank goodness.

If I had known any better I would have eaten faster, because as soon as 12 o'clock hit, the place was abuzz with students, lining up and sitting down, squeezing for any seat. Some even came and left immediately sans food because they couldn't sit down. There WERE some empty eats around my small table, but my fatheaded studiousness may have intimidated the poor kids. Either that, or my Whiteness. Best to bet on the later. Regardless of these awkward ethnic scenes, it was a space I felt at perfect peace in. I took my time eating, because, plain and simple, it was delicious. If I could have stayed longer, I would have; but I felt kind of bad for taking up the space even after my meal was done (which I almost couldn't finish due to the large portions. Luckily, I've been doing 1,000 extra kicks every day.). I'd love to visit again, but there's so much more out there to explore. And my wallet's only so big. Especially these school days. Regardless, I'll do my best to find only the most poignant places to eat for your entertainment. Until then, go to Panda King for the both of us.

This is the epitome of my academic career

Panda King Asian Gourmet Express
117 University Plaza 
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada

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Today Pad Thai, Tomorrow Crepes

Being a bastardized version of a chef living in a region with other bastardized versions of chefs (I, of course, mean cooks), you come across a lot of perks, and peoples. Kitchener-Waterloo is a small town, with a lot of nodes of culture, overshadowed by academics, technology, RIM, the Perimeter Institute, convoluted fatheads, and some genuinely good folk, with moderately good stories to tell. A kung-fu grandmaster comes to mind. Anyway, my point is that a lot of restaurants are in the possession of self-proclaimed cooks, who, as far as I'm concerned, can hold their own against the rest o'them chefs out there. Quite frankly, the only difference may be that piece of paper and the paycheck. Oh, and the guts it takes to open your own place and hope it doesn't sink three years down the line.

My own family is one such example. They're tough folk. They opened their own joint, and have held their own for a number of generations. And they have the Kohler sinks to prove it. My immediate family on the other hand . . . Well, let's just say, my dad still goes to China once in a while to pay his dues to the 49ers.
Luckily, when you're involved with more than one restaurant, you're involved in a lot of food and eating of it.

Thus, I bring you to yet another serendipitous food tasting occasion.
Being a "Thai" cook, I like to pretend I know what I'm talking about, humbly of course, when it comes to the subtleties of cooking a savory dish of the hamburger of Southeast Asia: pad thai. My cousins- my restaurateur cousins- love pad thai. And it just so happens that there are three Thai restaurants- food holes, I like to call them- within a 5 block radius of their restaurant (Maybe. Geography was never my thing. But they're all close, is what I'm getting at). And we've had the pad thai at all of them. None, however, come close to that of the pad thai dish prepared on occasion by the lovely woman who owns Belmont Village's Village Creperie. At least, that's what my cousin always tells me. Her name is Jean. Or so I'm told. So, long story short: I called his bluff, and he did a favour. A week later, pad thai was cooked on a Thursday for someone kinda special. And here's the crux: pad thai in a creperie? That's bogus. Not exactly. The pad thai at Village Creperie is made once in a blue moon. In fact, legend has it that the last time the owner of Vilage Creperie prepared pad thai by request was four months ago. It's not part of the menu. Well, it is. When it's made. But not really. Because, it's not a crepe. and crepes, I'm positive, are French. And pad thai, I'm positive is Thai.
So, after waiting a solid hour until the creperie closed down for the afternoon, my cousins' employee and I headed down to the Village Creperie. A place so fancy and good looking on the inside that the mere value of the placed dropped as soon as my holmly self walked in.

Ladies seem to like it. The restaurant, that is.

So, while tenderly saying hello, grabbing a seat at the bar and flirting with the already engaged waitress behind the counter, we waited for our noodles. My cousin soon followed suit.
Curiously, I had asked how the pad thai came to be, and was informed that the owner's granddaughter had had pad thai one day and begged her grandmother, no doubt a cook, to remake the same thing. So, with the internet and a little know-how, grandma soon mashed together a whole bunch of recipes and created her own signature pad thai dish. All organic. Which is something Village Creperie prides itself on. So, after paying a cool 11 dollars we were given a fancy crepe box packed with noodles covered by a tempest of peanuts. I would have preferred light snow fall, but the dish wasn't compromised by it. How could it be? It was made for me, after all. At least, that's how I like to remember it.
Now where do I begin? The dish was anything but generic. The flavours were there, a little more sweet than I would have liked, but not stereotyped by the combination of ketchup and peanut butter that accompanies pad thais in my neck of the woods. Some say, that in Thailand, they don't even know what peanut butter is! But that aside, flavours of the meal were overpowered by its tanginess. Appreciated at first, but tiresome halfway through the noodles, becoming reminiscent of something that tasted almost artificial and instant. But that may have been its only setback. Noodles were substantial, and with every bite, there was something else in the catch, whether a piece of chicken, tofu, bean sprouts, or snow pees. The only flaw may have been that it depended too much on its sour sweet characteristic, something which is good in small doses. But every dish has its own kind of flavour. That said, I can never be too harsh about someone's choice to make something a specific way. After all, all pad thais shouldn't taste the same, it defeats the fun between feuding restaurants, fights outback with cleavers, and spying on fellow cooks in their trash. If you didn't have some kind of technique or choice of flavour, trying to make or eat the better pad thai would be like watching a kung fu movie where everyone knows kung fu, but nobody ever fights. Not that kung fu is a cultural phonomena in Thailand, or France. Just imagine I said what I did, but with crepes. Or pad thai. And give the Village Creperie a try. You never know, you may go when there's a blue moon, and a whole lot of noodles in the kitchen.
Village Creperie
703 Belmont Avenue W
Kitchener, Ontario
519.576.5796
http://www.villagecreperie.ca/

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Dialogues in Digest

Weezee: Don't cut yourself.

New Guy: Don't worry. I use these at all my jobs. And without the hand-guard.

Weezee: I swear- you cut yourself and I'm ripping your balls off. I don't want to clean someone's blood off that damned meat slicer again.

New Guy: I'll clean it, don't worry.

Weezee: No, because you'll have to rush to the hospital and I'll be stuck here doing the job. Eye's on the blade, stop doing it with one hand, drinking tea like it ain't no thing but a chicken wing.

New Guy: I'll clean it. I can handle it. I cut myself all the time. It's okay. Look't my hands, they're full of little cuts.

Weezee: That's exactly why I don't trust you with that thing. Mummy shouldn't even let you near it with an attitude like that.

New Guy: Whatever, it's fine. I'm not afrad to cut myself.

Weezee: That's not my point. Point is, as a cook you shouldn't even want to cut yourself for the sake of the people you cook for. I haven't cut myself once at this job.

New Guy: Pshh.

Weezee: What is it with you kids? You guys go to cooking school and have no social responsibility? It's mind boggling! A kitchen isn't a fucking proving ground. Stop watching the "F-Word" and throw your shitty pride to the dogs. Your hero culture/pirate/Bourdain bullshit doesn't jive here. I don't care about your mangled hands. That doesn't say good cook to me; that says negligable moron I don't want cooking my food. Your hands are the only marketable tools you have and you wanna chop them off!? Geez.

New Guy: Okay okay.

Weezee: I mean it, be careful.

. . .

Mummy and Uncle: OOIII!! What you do!

New Guy: I did it when I was cleaning the blade- no big deal!

Weezee: What happened?

Uncle: He cut himself.

Weezee: . . .

You're never using that thing again!

Oiii NA!

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The Marble Slab Creamery and the Odd Criss Angel Parlour Trick

I love ice cream. About as much as I love the diabetic coma I will inevitably slip into after inheriting diabetes from my maternal grandfather (and diabetes is no laughing matter). So, when I laid eyes on the the erected edifice of a structure that combined the aesthetic strength of something very 'greek-sculpture' (marble), with something I could be strung out on for days (icecream), I had to give it a chance - if only once. Because, haha, my wallet isn't that big. And I more or less assumed that with a name like Marble Slab Creamery, this place was no doubt some kind of ice cream franchise. That said, I feel like my town of residence is rather uncultured in its choice of dessert spot. But that's debatable. For those of us here (in the mid-size city of Waterloo, Ontario, Canada) culture for us is franchise, suburban sprawl, and brand names. At least for the next ten years until we run out of space. I heard the location of this joint WAS actually supposed to be a residence for a university. But anyway, it would either be a Dairy Queen, or Baskin Robbins as alternatives. Two all-American ice creameries. I know. There is a gelato place. But that doesn't meet Western ice cream standards.

So, dear reader, let me set the mood. It's a cool Victoria day weekend night; approximately 13 degrees. Feels like 10. Dusk has fallen. I just finished dragging bags of fertilizer for my immigrant grandmother (because my place of employment was closed), and my serotonin levels are lower than - no, I won't go there. So I find a ride, a good friend, and head on down to the Marble Slab Creamery and think of how Punky Brewster this whole situation ought to be. But I overlooked some small details. On a day when the majority of food spots are closed (Monday, Victoria Day Weekend), and something's new and exciting, for an uncultured mid-size city, things are bound to get out of hand. How so? So (so!) out of hand that there's a line up past the door. The place is packed like a Tokyo subway, and guys with dates are wondering why some guy is snapping shots of them with their dates. Sorry fellas, you misunderstand. You, or your dates, aren't that interesting. It was the prices on the board I'm interested in; and all the candy in jars. And the odd 2 and a half year old looking for her own .75 cent toppings in her nose.

The place was pretty spacious; and I wondered if they even had seats in the first place. Maybe. Maybe not. Seems like it'd be a good investment for when the place is dead. But who am I to talk, I don't own an ice cream parlor, I just eat at them. Regardless, we were all dazzled, I'm sure, by the pastel coloured walls, the overblown ice cream photos on walls, and the 55 dollar cakes in the freezer along the back.
And since I brought up the prices, let's talk about those. There's a probably some universal law out there that states good ice cream has to be expensive. Unfortunately, today, ice cream is so popularized that nothing really seems to beat out the competition. I wouldn't be surprised if it all came from the same supplier. If you try hard enough, or if you're as much a fathead about food as I am, you'll go out of your way to discover similarities and uniqueness in flavour. But when it boils down to it, there really is none. there's nothing there. Except for a name. A name you pay a bundle for. Like 4.95 for a single scoop of exotic sounding ice cream. Like amaretto. You know? That boozy liquor Italians love to bake with. Well it's back. In ice cream form. Chicks dig it. The price, I mean. I'm talking about the price. Not the flavour. Yes, it seems you're nobody until somebody sees you buy at some high-end ice cream place.
The Marble Slab has the works: banana splits, waffle bowls, homemade brownies, toppings, all for the wallet burning prices of 7 dollars, 6 dollars . . . 55 dollars. Some would say you get what you pay for. I would say I pay for ice cream that, sure, is delicious, but ain't too special. I think all the funds went to the spread set up for when then put your order together. Essentially, this is how it works:
you order a scoop, or two, or whatever; you get a free topping, and any additional topping for .75 cents. Then, the corporation worries about how many pennies you're pinching from them and has their poor, probably under payed employees weigh it on a scale. Yeah. I saw it. Afterward, that frozen ball is set on a, you guessed it, marble slab, and spread out. Finally, your chosen topping is placed in the center and both ice cream and topping are creamed together.

. . .

Oooooh. I get it. Criss Angel would love this place! It's so full of smoke and mirrors. By mashing my toppings with my icecream, instead of placing them on top like other parlours, my paying a high prize is somehow legitimized, and I assume I'm getting better tasting ice cream! Of course! And don't forget the marketing spread. We always feel better eating from cups with a swell graphic. It's simple business folks. You eat from something good and beautiful, you are beautiful. There's no sunk cost there.
My order did look beautiful. Amaretto and blueberry, in a waffle bowl, in a plastic bowl. God bless. I feel sorry for my friend, who just mashed strawberries and Oreo sans waffle bowl. Too bad. She ended up paying 7 bucks. Me, only 6 (5.60 to be exact). Wait a minute. Who won?
But I'm being way too harsh. The place wasn't bad. Not at all. However, like any new franchise, it's just enjoying its hype for as long as it can. Franchises are strange things. They tend to get business right away and plateau. A restaurant, non-franchises, tends to start out slow, either working its way up, becoming a popular gem, or failing miserably. But that's enough restaurant theory.
If you can, try the Marble Slab out, wherever you are. I'm sure you'll find it in your neck of the woods. It's good. If you have to wait 35 minutes for an order though, you might want to try the 31 Flavours down the street.

The Marble Slab Creamery158 University Avenue West
Waterloo, ON N2L 3E9
(519) 884-1900

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John Woo

Tony Lo spent a good portion of his life as a hospital administrator in Scarborough; a successful portion, actually. His days consisted of sitting in a boardroom with otherwise presidential friends, politely declining tea,hearing things like, "have another biscuit, Tony." And saying things like, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly." Unfortunately, it ended abruptly after a new president for whatever company stepped in, tossed him out and brought in new friends. That's the first lesson of beauracracy: make friends who are presidents and they'll most likely give you a job; but if they get out, you better believe you won't be too far behind them. Other presidents have other friends.

I serendipitously met Tony Lo while walking a co-worker home. Turns out, he was walking to a construction job uptown. Turns out, my co-worker's brother saw him in the street and called his name, wherein he gracefully strode up the driveway to say his hellos. TURNS OUT, his full name was Anthony Lo(w). I never asked how to spell his last name. Tony Lo was enough to catch my attention; his name sounded like that of a triad from a John Woo flick. However, from Hong Kong, he was not. Nor was he Asian. In fact, he was from Yorkshire, with one of those in between cockney/refined English accents. Ironic that in the later part of his life he'd become part of the working class. However, it was his own choice. In fact, after the usual banter, insulting my coworker's brother for being an intolerable, hopeless, bottom rung of society kid/construction worker, I asked what motivated him to change careers so drastically. In other words, why give up such a good resume for a career that Tony himself admitted, was at the bottom rung of society.

He used that phrase a lot in our conversation, more than he remembered my own name.

Anyway, he wasn't a sociologist. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to be associated with the bottom rung of society. But Tony Lo wanted something more. Some kind of drastic change. Since he wasn't Asian enough to become some kind of Hong Kong pop sensation, and too old to be strung out on cocaine and heroin for days (though that's debatable), he decided on the next best thing (also debatable), and that was doing something he was interested in. I suppose after all those fathead years of eating scones in boardrooms and taking pictures where someone says, "say cheese," and you reply, "camembert or brie- hahahaha," you'd more or less want to see if there's any Man left in you. Tony Lo had the money, he climbed mount Kiliminjaro, now he wanted to see if he could really survive in a place where there's no place to go but up. He had money to cushion his fall.

So, enrolling in trades college, he started all over again, meeting my coworker's brother in class and convincing the poor kid to stick with his schooling because when it's all done, it's all done. It'll be behind him and he'll have some kind of diploma, and you can't erect buildings without one. Good luck on my coworker's brother's part. Quite frankly, he should have been more polite to Tony, otherwise who knows where he might have been working. Or, maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Maybe I just spend too much time around old people, sans Tony Lo.
Despite all that, and regardless of what I might think of Tony's decision, there was something admirable about his cockney character. He had the identity of the anti-hero. The man who gives up something good and measurable just because he likes to mess with a worldview. Kind of like a university Graduate who drops out to become a loley cook. Romantic, no? Practical? No.
I had tried to relate to Tony as best I could, telling him I chose a similar suit. Unfortunately, I didn't have the life experience or money to back up any screw ups. However, Tony seemed sympathetic, calling me an everyman, and telling me that there's nowhere to go but up. That's why the whole experience for Tony, and myself, may be so wonderful. I could become a master chef; I could stay the course and use whatever skills I have in food to become a wonderful food critic. "What's important, Liam," Tony told me, "is that you remember."
"Remember, Nigel," Tony continued telling me, "that there's nowhere to go but up."

Words to live by, assuming you're at the bottom rung, wear beat up, ripped, bleached pants, torn hooded sweaters, kirchiefs around your neck and carry a chef's smock in a grocery bag. Regardless of that, with some good Tony Lo perspective, and a little chutzpah, even if you are at the bottom rung of society, you can always look forward to a better tomorrow.

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I Mashed Locust and Made Bread

My Grandfather was a baker. I've even been told that his bakery - situated down a hill, in an alley, behind my house - was the first in Waterloo. Either that, or his pizzaria, conveniently located in a plaza a block or two away from my house, overshadowed by the convenience stores that take its place today.

There are a lot of cooks in my family. My kung fu teacher once told me that, being an Italian, there're only two kind of things that we really do: lay bricks, or cook. She was only kidding. Still, I appreciated the sentiment.
My mother and her sisters' promised to never marry any men that cooked, growing up around them their entire lives. Ironically, my mother did, and so did her sister. The later having a successful restaurant today. When I talk to my uncle, and his brother (both restaurant owners), they advize me not to cook. It's a tough life, and it takes a lot of work (I've said it before). My uncle says go into computers, or become an architect. There's some truth behind that. Not in computers. Regardless, I appreciate the advice; but I appreciate them and their cooking even more. I think food, in the right context, not only does a good job of filling your stomach, but your spirit as well. Not everyone can visit people they love and harass them for a cappuccino and then feel all is right with the world. We are a select few. And we're very lucky.

Baking, I'm told, is like an art and a precise science. I think, in this world, we definitely need more almalgamations of the two.
So, being the grandson of a hard-working, immigrant baker, I decided to have my own go at it.



Breads are easy. Assuming you have the patience and the know how; because depending on the bread, it can take a while (days even).
For me, the process of bread making is a therapeutic one. It's pensive, it requires mindfulness, swift blows and concentration. Like Kung fu. Like making tea- without the swift blows, unless of course you're practicing your buddha palm technique while waiting for the water to boil.
I heard bakers liken bread making to sculpting. In fact, I've heard of some bakers who were sculpters turned bakers. I think there are some parallels there. Fresh yeast itself has the visage of a slab of wet clay, and at times, can feel like one. There's a mound of dough, and a slab of stone; a slab of dough, and a mound of stone. The true artwork dwells within, and only the artist can release it. And whether eaten or not, The psyche is more often than not appeased by the end.

I won't offer you a recipe for the bread I baked, because recipes are everywhere. I say this because I want you to look. I encourage you to look. However, what I will do is give you tips I feel are more valuable than a generic recipe for British Farl (that's a kind of bread).

There are three kinds of yeast available today: fresh compressed yeast, instant yeast, and dry active yeast.
Fresh compressed yeast is what bakeries often use. If you would like to do things the 'professional' way, go to a local bakery and ask if they'll sell you some. Grocery stores often sell it in the form of a small cake in the freezer section. I'm lucky enough to live infront a German bakery, so I can just walk down my creepy back alley and buy some from them whenever I need it. However, it's expensive in regard to other yeasts. Also, it has a strong flavour, which more often than not carries over to the final product of the bread. I once made a baguette for a coworker from France, who claimed it wasn't French enough, mainly due to the sour flavour, which, of course, was due to the pungence of the yeast.
Instant yeast is dry yeast you can immediately add to flour and bake with. I recommend this for anyone starting to bake.
Dry active yeast is probably what we all come across the most often. This is the kind of yeast you have to add water and sugar to and wait for until it froths before you can use it. It can take some time.
Now this is important: instant and dry active yeasts are stronger in retrospect to fresh yeast, but lack flavour because they're dried. If a recipe calls for fresh yeast, and you have one of the others, use 25% less.
Also, never mix salt with yeast. Leave them on opposite ends of any baking mixture; salt kills yeast.

All breads take flour. But, flour, although the meat of the bread itself, can be regarded as filler. You can always substitute a good portion of it for some other ingredient, like grain, or powdered milk (which adds for some amazing texture). It is always important when baking, unlike cooking, that you pay attention to ratios. But, you already knew that.

My oven is different from your oven. Ovens always vary. Know this, and if you have a light, turn it on and watch the bread from the outside in, but NEVER open the oven while bread bakes, unless you want uneven baking.



I'm sure these same techniques can be carried over to sculpting. Y'know, when you pretend you're Pygmalion and pretend your bread's like Galatea, and then she's brought to life, and you eat her. Very pagan. Very Greek. I don't know why the myth never turned out like that. All he did was end up marrying her. Poor sap.

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Food for Thought

The other day I was taking out the trash when I watched a city bus drive by, noticing the advertisement on its side. It was for Gordon Ramsay's, Hell's Kitchen. Personally, I've never watched the show. I do like Ramsay though. He makes a mean scrambled egg with creme fresh. Anyway, For a moment, as I watched Ramsay pass by with his bull-dog stare, I acknowledged myself as a cook in uniform: nice coat, apron, funny hat, black pants, black shoes. And for a moment, it seemed kind of surreal. He and I were in the same line of work. There's a kind of glamour in being a cook; unfortunately, some of the saps I work with assume their lives are going to be like Ramsey's. But, for the humble few, they know, as well as I, that as glamourous as the world of food may be, it's a hell of a lot of work. Until the day you die. For a moment, I yearned for school again.

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