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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