Sexy Girl: That's so weird, that you're like, a chef. But you know, it's cool. It's hot. I can't cook. Do you like to cook a lot - like, even when you're at home?

Me: Usually.

Sexy Girl: Omigawd! Really? Why? Like, I'd be tired. Why d'you like to cook so much?

Me: Because I like food so much.

Sexy Girl: Yeah, but why d'you like food SO much?

Me: Y'know why I like food so much? An accountant could walk down the street and bump into another person who isn't an accountant, and say: "yo, stocks are down, fiscal policy is at a standstill." But he wouldn't. He might think about it. About as much as he might think about making a quilt out of all his money. But let's face it, he'd probably just pass a person in line, or meet a person somewhere for the first time and mention that he's an accountant- but he'd never continue talking about it- it's boring.

Sexy Girl: My boyfriend wants to be an accountant.

Me: I know if I were an accountant, and I striked any conversation I probably wouldn't ask what line of insurance a person would go with. I might ask what they do for a living, and what their line of credit's like; but they'd probably change the subject pretty damn quickly. And that's just it. We'd talk about interests and keep trying back and forth until we find something we can both connect with and talk more about. Movies, travel, food. Food. Food almost always comes up in any conversation, maybe because almost everyone is almost perpetually hungry because we love starving ourselves to look good. My boss once told me to ease up on the salad at lunch because sexy people don't eat a lot, and that they don't need it. She's right, we still end up throwing a lot of it away, and we don't give much to begin with. But, when you meet a friend for the first time, you almost always talk about food, because you almost always spend more than an hour together and get hungry. And there it is, the connection. With one of life's most trivial and necessary things. Eating. Unless, of course, you're someone who's totally self deprecating and, for whatever guilty reason, can't eat food, no longer want to eat food, and therefore can't talk about food (like you).

Sexy Girl: What?

Me: Huh?

. . .

Me: You know why I like food? Because an old Thai woman couldn't speak a lick of English, but the second I see her cooking something interesting and have the balls to go up and watch her make it, asking what it is, not caring about whether or not she can understand- and the second she sees me interested in something she's cooking, she'd smile and grab me by the arm to make sure I could get a closer look, pointing, saying something about a root I've never seen and saying "furniture made", or "make furniture." Why? Because it's something she does. It's something everyone does. Because it's something that makes her, not only interesting in someone's eyes, but able to communicate. I may come from middle class suburbia, she may come from -shit, Thailand, I dunno- but the second food - food I, for example, have never seen before- comes on the scene, something magical happens. We're able to talk to each other. I mean, what's a language barrier? Nothing. She's ecstatic, I'm ecstatic. Someone likes something she likes, or at least someone finds something she likes fascinating, either because it's delicious, or cultured or totally Lacanian- I'm not here to talk semantics. What I'm getting at is, it's almost always a bridge for some kind of connection. You can almost always ask someone what they like to eat, and they'll either tell you, and if they can't, show you, and have you try it so they can, for whatever reason, feel validated, or exotic, or refined, or some sense of satisfaction, realizing, they're not as lame as everyone thinks them to be, if everyone even thinks them to be.
But me? I like food because I can be in a grocery store trying to figure out which Vietnamese coffee would be the better choice- the one with the sunset on the can, or the other with the old Chinese sage holding a peach- and some Chinese woman who just happens to be in the isle would have the balls to ask me, in her broken English, if I want coffee. I obviously do. But what she's really asking is: "You like coffee like my husband likes coffee? Can we someday play mahjong together?" And when I respond, "Yes, but I'm trying to figure out what brand to try this time" I'm really responding, "Man, that would be so great." And when she says back, "My husband likes to buy these two and mix them together, and he likes them really sweet, I can't drink it. It's too sweet. I like tea," she's really saying: "Is Sunday good for you?" We could never talk about engineering. What are the odds she and I are engineers? Or fine artists? Or the same age for that matter. But everybody eats. That's for certain. And that's it; an instant connection. Tai chi may be strange to someone foreign, so might quinceaneras. But what about the food at one of them? Now there's something to talk about.

Food brings everyone together. Look at every occasion. When business men meet for lunch and talk about the Dobson report, food’s always there, listening. Why not just have a meeting? Because the crux is: people like to eat, and the meeting itself is really just an excuse.

Food brings cultures together. Lookit the British: they practically stole everyone else’s food. Of all the things they could take from India, Southern China, Italy even, they took the food, and brought it back or made it their own somehow Postcolonialized version. Forget that minorities live there. Their food sucked before hand. It was all just meat. Sure, pending circumstances may suggest the situation was bad, and I may be talking out of my ass entirely, but I wouldn’t trade an egg tart for anything in the world right now.
. . .

Sexy Girl: Are you gay?

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U-doi?

*CLOSED*

I knew I'd say it again: stylish appearance should never be a substitute for good quality food. So when I'm gullible enough to run into a place that's new and has a flashy interior I'm almost always disappointed in myself. Not the place though, it's just a product of the times. Instant gratification, quick fixes, fast food (though fast food is delicious). Okay okay okay. You can have crappy food, but don't try to cover it up with fancy presentation and even fancier walls, cool ceilings and good looking wait staff. Unless of course you know you're serving people who don't really mind sub par-food. I for one don't mind sub-par food if the price is right, and the wait staff is good looking. Hey, I'm just a product of the times.
I've literally waited 4 months for this place to open; since September, when I first saw its sign and the little stereotyped Japanese character on it, who did look dangerously familiar. And, being a fan of the show with the similar name (though both are definitely unrelated; and if the cooks from this place were contestants they'd lose hands down for lack of creativity/ originality/ not having Masaharu Morimoto on their team) Iron Chef Restaurant seemed promising and something refreshingly new. I use the word "fresh" because if you haven't already guessed, Iron Chef is a "Japanese" restaurant, and things like sushi construct much of their food identity from being fresh. Okay, I'm lying. It's not all Japanese. In fact, and this should have been a red flag for me, Iron Chef is actually a fusion restaurant: A Korean/Japanese fusion restaurant. Yeah, I know what you're saying (like you always do): it's the same thing. Maybe, maybe not. I'm opting for maybe not. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love Korean food, and I like Japanese love hotels; but lady, fusion cooking never seems to live up to its name in these here parts simply because fusion implies fusing, not putting two cultures' foods on the same menu. Not so you have pork bone soup and sushi to choose from, but that you have something like pork bone sushi, which the menu did not! More importantly, it just seemed like it was all Japanese. The only thing that may have hinted at fusion was using a Korean pot to eat Udon soup out of. Yeah, they didn't think I'd catch on, but I did. I always do. And as far as I'm concerned, there's only one type of fusion that works: that's good old Hong Kong cooking, baby. You want good fusion cooking? I'll take you somewhere sometime. Because quite frankly, the idea of a huge steak on a plate of stir-fried noodles is just sheer genius. Sometimes I can't believe China's official language is Mandarin and not Cantonese. But let's get this ball rolling shall we? 我们去.

Now, because I'm such an excellent sleuth, I finally managed to put two and two together: Iron Chef is the by product of a little food hole stationed in a university's student life centre. What university? Not important. Point is, this place, called Wasabi, is a fast food sushi establishment, or was, (I don't know if it's still there) that used the same stereotyped Japanese chef icon. At first I thought, strange coincidence. Then I saw the place's real sushi "chef" preparing my food, and well, things clicked. Movin' on up. George would be proud. So, now we know its history.


I'll be completely honest. I was wowed when I came in, because with it's draped curtains and yakitori-esque bar, red walls, and sexy Japanese Happi worn by the staff, I was awestruck- brainwashed if you will. Kitchener-Waterloo doesn't have a Japanese eatery this visually stimulating, which makes me wonder why its looks are so Japanese influenced, but apparently fused with Korean undertones. How do I know? Well, the Korean on the sign's corner tended to give the notion away, or imply that "fusion" stood for a Japanese restaurant owned by Koreans. Stranger things have happened. Regardless, I was still dazzled by the place's looks. With that said, my respect goes out to the owners exemplary taste and creativity; it's almost as if they knew their food would taste like everyone else's and that they had to make up for it. Too bad I won't go back. I may peer inside the window from time to time, just to appreciate its aesthetics and dream of being a samurai, or ask one of the waitresses out.

Things seemed off to a good start: my friend and I sat down, we were given the typical genma cha tea in fancy cups, we looked at the nice velour trimmed menu, we got generic items that you can find anywhere else. I ordered the most original thing I could lazily find: pickled pumpkin wrapped in rice. Lame? Maybe, but I never had it before. And I hoped, absolutely hoped, that this place would, in the least, have a solid bowl of Udon that I could attempt to mimick and cook for myself. Which it did. (Thank Kami-Sama) Which the waitress informed me, was a soup base, not rice dish, like the other "don" dishes. U-doi? Soo ka.

I was excited. Aside from those two items there was the odd spicy tuna role. And appetizers: a house salad with miso soup. オリジナル. The salad's dressing was a good start, my only regret was that there wasn't more. I'm almost positive a girl wouldn't feel good about eating the sweet mayonaise drenched salad, but I couldn't blame her. Not all of us have a 11,000 kick a day kung-fu regime. Still, why not make an exception. It was good.

After a nice pace, our orders came, my pickled pumpkin roll and my friend's spicy tuna roll arrived. We ate them. That's really all there is to say. Nothing new. Unless you count the fact that my pumpkin roll tasted an awful lot like chewy fish instead of sweet pickled pumpkin. Sirrah. Konna kurashi yo. I still had the udon, and at the rate things were going I was willing to bet it would taste mediocre, but satisfying. And it did. Did it ever. It's broth had a sweet acidic taste, which hinted at the use of maybe more mirin and sugar than some may wish to apply, but I wasn't disappointed; I expected it to have that umami seaweed, fishy flavour (but it didn't). I think after that pumpkin, it was appreciated. I considered the balance a nice little favour, but who could say that always happens. The udon was plated with some tempura, random vegetables in the broth and good, chewy noodles- but not too chewy. I don't know how people do it, I can't cook udon to save my life. Not yet, anyway. Like I predicted, it would satisfy, though it wasn't anything special. I could have used a spoon, but I felt it rude to ask the cute waitress who was talking to her even cuter friends. Oh, and we would have liked more tea too; but apparently it's bad politics to come during someone's meal and ask if they want a refill. Oh no, that sort of thing is reserved for the end, when we're ready to leave. Did I mention the service? It's new. Maybe they're off to a bumpy start. I don't think I'll ever really find out.


The prices are average: the rolls ranged from 3.99 - 5.50 and my udon cost a cool 10 dollars. for a 15 dollar meal, I can honestly say I wanted to expect more; so much more that I came home an hour later and ate. But if there is one redeeming quality to Iron Chef it certainly would be its atmosphere. And if anything warranted a return, it would have to be the cute waitress that served us, that is of course, unless her friends drop by again. With that said dear reader, I bid you good eating.


Iron Chef Japanese Fusion Restaurant117 University Plaza
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada


Wasabi Sushi BarUniversity of Waterloo, Student Life Centre
200 University Avenue West
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada N2L 3G1
519-888-4567 x35925

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Nova Era: Diabetic Coma

Me: Mommy, I brought you some real egg tarts.

Mommy: What you mean "real?" The other ones fake? You make me fake egg tarts?

Me: No - I mean, these ones are from a bakery, from bakers who know how to make them.

Mommy: You know what Mommy think? Better you make food instead of buy it. Food you make at home, even though it bad, always good, always good for you heart, for my heart, even if tastes bad. Can't do that with food you bought. You know what I mean?

Truer words Mommy, truer words.

I've been in a slump lately because of my constant baking blunders (oooooo, illiterATION!), but when Mommy said that, I remembered why I loved to cook, and why I did it a lot more than actual eating. Because for some cooking is just a job, and for some, like Mommy, it's a way of life. I never really tried to understand why I liked cooking, because I didn't want to; just knowing I liked it was good enough, no justification necessary. With that said, I know there are days when being given a meal can mean the world and more, or less to a person, depending on the circumstance, depending on the cook, and the epicurean. I've cooked for a lot of people. And I hope some day soon I run into the person who was just waiting for me to cook for them, if you catch my meaning.

I'd almost be compelled to have a go at baking that damned lemon meringues again if I hadn't ventured out into the world and stuffed my face full of sugar and Korean soft drinks for the simple fact that I needed some kind of constant high, especially on a Friday night; but, I'm glad I did it. What I'm not too happy about is that the closest new thing to a patisserie around these parts is nothing more than another baking franchise. Not that K-W had any patisseries in the last, I dunno, 30 years. Or ever, for that matter. I may find one, I may not.
Nova Era, from what I've been told, is a Portuguese "patisserie" or closest thing to it in these here parts, running with a gamut of pastries from meringues (oh, yes), to cannolis (oddly enough), eclairs, and that ever popular Portuguese dessert: the custard. Though the selection may seem vast, you may be hard pressed to find ingredients differing from pastry to pastry, Portuguese enjoy the staple of the beaten egg and sugar - if they can shape it into any kind of dessert, you better believe it'll happen as much as possible. But every culture has its generic ingredient right? Sure. Thai has its coconut and fish sauce, but when everything generally tastes the same, the same being overtly sugary, why bother getting anything else? Except, of course, for the odd eclair. I'll say this, and I'm positive I'll say it later on, appearance should never be a substitute for a food's taste and quality, which may be why I visit hole-in-the-wall joints without any hesitation or prejudice. In fact, a poor atmosphere just may be an excellent indicator of home food. Fancy decor is only something "chefs" really care about, and sexy people, and the people who want to have sex with the sexy people, hence their taking them to sexy places, those sexy places acting as a type of propaganda for the unsexy person, who's trying to validate their unsexiness with some kind of external, projected sexiness in hopes that the sexy person won't catch on, and that they'll get to have sex with them. Are you following me? Never judge a book by it's cover. Or, at least do, but at least have the decency to read it and see if it was really worth the look in the first place. Or if you're totally into shallow things, then hey, there is a myriad of shitty restaurants in the world. Try Toronto - they're everywhere. I for one love spending 63 dollars on an entre of asparagus on a bed of pâté tuna. Totally.
But, Era Nova isn't so bad. It's new, it's clean, it's not done up. It has no hint of offensive European bakery decor - yet. Nor does it have any signs -yet- to tell you just what it is you can order or can eat. it's new. Luckily, I googled it before I went, so I knew what I was getting into, but dually disappointed when I found out it was a chain, meaning things are probably, like any fancy "cafe," shipped in, pre-baked, kept for a couple days, thrown out, etcetera. I recall my friend's remark that the place was very "yellow and brown." At least it matched the motif of eggs and baked goods. It was also very warm, which I appreciated. It was also located down the street from the Hong Kong Plaza, which I also appreciated. What I didn't appreciate, was its small tables. Maybe it's a European thing, like the small clothes we/I am/are stereotyped to wear, crossing our legs and sipping espressos, one of which I do all the time; I won't say which one.

It was tough choosing what exactly to buy, it all looked so good, and I of course didn't want to get it all right away. What if I wanted to come back? Eating should always be a new adventure, unless, of course, you needed some kind of familiarity, which I did not. Not in this case. Luckily, the kids the place had working there (the young teenagers) knew what everything was, and what they were talking about. I was gitty with excitement, that someone serving me food knew about food and wanted to tell me about it. I must have asked questions for a solid ten minutes. They enjoyed it, I know they did.I opted for a piece of meringue; that is, a whole cake that was just meringue, coated with a thin yolk frosting (which I didn't even know was possible), and a pastry that resembled some magical sandwhich, with flaky puff pastry for the bread, and even more meringue for the inside. Can you guess the night's theme? Of course you can, I already told you about it before. And if that wasn't enough - sugar, I mean - I humbly asked for some carbonated Guarana juice from Brasil. Yeah. I can honestly say, it was the most satisfying thing at my table.
We took our seats and were brought what we ordered, along with some glasses and the smallest forks I've ever set eyes on, which seemed remarkably decadent and wonderful, but turned out remarkably inconvenient (still very impressive) because my magic sandwhich, called a russos, wasn't very magical at all. In fact, it was so hard to break (I would have liked to use the word "flaked" here) with a fork, the flaky pastry part becoming rather chewy and solidified probably because of the meringue, and the meringue, instead of light and fluffy, maintaining a gummy consistency, that one of the staff offered to bring me a knife. That was nice of her. The mess I left on the table was not. The only flavour I could recall from the pastry itself was "sweetness" with a hint of cinnamon. It was so uninteresting I found myself rushing to finish it so I could start on the meringue. And I got there, and I got somewhat disappointed.
First, let me say, the meringue had a decent texture, I had assumed, after eating that first meringue that this one wouldn't be any better. But it was alright, somewhat heavy in its texture, but still feeling like a meringue should. Maybe it was a bad day. And it certainly was sweet. Too sweet quite frankly, for as much as I liked sweet things, drowning the actual piece of meringue in a caramel sauce only made it unbareably difficult to eat. So much so I found myself mashing the whole thing into a kind of porridge. Too sweet. But that wasn't my main issue; my main issue was that the person who served me the cake in the first place asked me to have at this particular meringue instead of the whole one in front of the display window, for whatever lazy reason. Well, I cordially obliged. Polite yes. Bad decision, maybe. I didn't taste the other meringue after all. But the fact that there was little of this meringue left may have hinted at its age. I gave it the benefit of the doubt. How old could it have been?
Well, don't get me wrong, but when a meringe has a hint of a fishy taste, that just might imply that it's been around for a while. Longer than its bretheren. Obviously that fishy flavour was the egg. Still, the only thing about the meringue that really won me over was its texture, and even that wasn't very much; that and its price. Which may be Era Nova's saving grace. It has fabulous prices. Most places around fathead Kitchener-Waterloo, catoring to pastry, cakes, deserts - whatever - charge a decadent for what one gets. But my bill was only around 5 dollars, and considering how "satisfied" I was by the end, I'd say that, especially for something franchised, it was a pretty good deal. Take it from me; someone who's grandfather was purported to own the first bakery in the K-W region, and who has eaten alot of cakes at cake like establishments, Nova Era certainly takes the cake (mmmmm, cake); and its pricing certainly warrants a return to the joint. Its menu is rather extensive after all. It sells salads, and panninnis, and americanos, and canadianos (oh yes, they're real). Whether they're good or not, I've yet to find out, but for its prices, I think I'll give it another go. I'm a sucker for custards anyway, and diabetic comas apparently.

Nova Era Bakery Inc. 
376 King St. E., 
Kitchener
Ontario, Canada

 
519.578.0513

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Worst Baker EVER!

Waitress: I've never had lemon meringue pie.

Me: YOU'VE NEVER HAD LEMON MERINGUE PIE! That's gotta be among the rung of top pies - if that even makes sense! (it didn't) You know what I'm gonna do?

Waitress: What?

Me: I'm gonna bake you a lemon meringue pie. Probably the best lemon meringue pie . . . EVER!

Waitress: Haha, okay.

*Two weeks later.*

Me: I made your pie last night.

Waitress: Oh yeah?

Me: Yeah, but . . . it didn't turn out. BUT I'M GONNA TRY AGAIN TONIGHT! HONEST! You'll have it tomorrow! Fr realzies.


And I did try again. I made so sure I wouldn't botch this pie like my sister botched my hair cut that I went as far as to watch an entire cooking show episode devoted to pie baking, namely, lemon merignue, with who other than, Alton Brown. I know, right? Scientific food cooking genius. I was taught everything about pie anatomy, what chemical reactions took place. I'd be ready for it this time - whatever IT was. But, Alton wasn't telling me something; what it was, I'll never know, because I'll never use this recipe again. EVER! I should have listened to my mother, I should have gotten instant meringue. But who are we kidding? Kuuku da. There's no room for imitation, no. Never. Not in the case where I have to impress a co-worker with my culinary skills. Unfortunately, that moment will never come to pass.

So, I got up early, left for the market, got some cornstarch, got some bones for broth, got some lemons, blah blah blah. Came home and I went at it. I was feeling pretty confident. This batch of meringue was nowhere near as soupy as the last. It was firm, it coated the spoon's back; this pie would taste as sweet as the victory I would soon have over it. And why stop there? As soon as I was done I thought it was time I put an eggtart recipe a friend of a friend of mine gave me. So, I got to that, as soon as I chilled the finished meringue and took a nice nap. So I woke up, confident as ever, thinking in my heart of hearts that these egg tarts would be so good, Cecilia Cheung herself couldn't resist. But first order of business, I had to get to work and deliver a pie, before I had to get to work. Does that sound confusing? It should. I'm a terrible writer.

I took the pie out of the garage, fully cooled mind you, grabbed a knife and cut through it like the fabric of time. I couldn't lose face - not this time; I was nothing, and everything.

And nothing again.

I plated a piece only to watch it ooze all over.

I cooked the filling long enough! I knew those shitty egg yolks ate up starch particles like pacman -Alton said so! It was thick! IT WAS THICK! I did everything right! Except one thing: make that damned pie right! Regardless, I could redeem myself. Redeem myself with pure ungranulated revenge. The pie had to die.


Afterwards I got to making the eggtarts. Reading the ambiguous email instructions multiple times, and doing unecessary tasks like converting 5/8's of a cup into mL's, and so on. Here's something I couldn't mess up - though I've never made any kind of custard. But eggtarts aren't custards, really. I mean, how hard could they be? I've eaten enough of them. REALLY! So I beat the eggs (more than I should have), I baked the shells, I added the custard powder, I made the syrup, I filled the tart shells, I pre-heated the oven. I did everything I was supposed to. But someone was holdin' out (motif?). And I can't think of a pun clever enough to crack this egg (see?). Why am still going on about it? The egg tarts didn't turn out either! I'd give you the recipe, but what's the point? Do YOU want tarts with a nice soupy filling? Howabout a pie? Howabout a blog entry written with better finesse? Sorry, can't help you there. Not today anyway. Maybe someday, but not today. At least with all the evaporated milk left over I was able to make some Hong Kong tea. And that's never bad. Don't worry Cecilia. I'm comin' baby. Someday. Eggtarts in hand; you, in a nurse uniform (for either a psychologist or veteranarean. Take your pick.). Someday.

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