OH-MAI-GODT! Real Egg Tarts!

Deleuze wrote that we can always trust in the universe. Now, to everyday folk that seems pretty darnd optimistic. To the trained academic however, it means that Deleuze meant that the universe is random and we can always trust that the universe is random and that the universe will always send random stuff our way, good or bad, or grey, or gray. And we can take comfort in that.
Let me demonstrate. About three days ago my mother told me that my grandmother told her that the bakery absolutely right behind our house had been bought out by new owners. These new owners were mainland Chinese. I was mainland ecstatic! Thank you, Universe.

The next day I made it my business to drive all the way to the big city of Toronto, have a job interview, and barrel my way down the 401 back home in order to check out the bakery I had, for the longest time, bought fresh yeast from. So, tanked, run down, and looking like the whitest salaryman in the great white North, I entered the German bakery owned by mainland Chinese. Nothing. Pastries, cookies, bread. All the same. Thank you, Universe.
I went home, I called my mom at work, I told her grandmammy was lying, my kokoro yureru’d and I booked it to Chinese class, not sharing my lament with my Chinese teacher, but talking about how I neglect school work for cooking and I’m sorry my Chinese homework wasn’t done.
The next day, I read some Bennet, hate some museums, read some Gramsci, hate Gramsci, write about gung fu and dream about a Chinese bakery in the lowly town of Kitchener-Waterloo. Just one. That I might someday be lucky enough to work at. I’m not greedy. A boy can dream. Thanks, universe.
The next day (that would be today). I go to the bakery to get an almond cookie for my grandmother because after getting the skinny from her about the new owners she makes it her business to tell me there was a cookie there she wanted to try. But I digress. My grandmother had told me that upon buying breadcrumbs she was introduced to the new owners by haggling for said breadcrumbs; and that she had found out that they had owned the bakery for about four months and lived in Germany beforehand for 8 years. And that they hardly spoke English. This coming from a woman who’s lived in Canada for 50 years and hardly speaks English. Again, I digress. So, I go, speak to the woman that has always worked there, and who I’m quite familiar with, and ask about the new owners. She says, yes, they’re new, not from Germany, lived in Canada for about 15 years, had other food ops running, settled for a quaint little bakery. Good choice, I reckon. I grill her some more and coyly ask if she thinks they’d ever make any Chinese pastries. She points me in the direction of a glass cake display case. How I missed it the first time? What can I say? Under thick glass Chinese red bean buns look like danishes. Not to mention other peculiarities: sesame balls, deep fried donut (of the Chinese variety). I die a little. The good dying. The petit death dying. Not a lot of pastries, but still, too good to be true. No Queen’s Patisserie here. No chains. No chain.
NO CHAINS! Legitimate, homemade Chinese pastries! I express my elation at the woman at the register, and my subsequent lament at no egg tarts. Because, I explain to the woman, it’d be pretty fly if they made egg tarts. As much as I liked shipped, premade egg tarts from T&T. Because, hey, in this town, that’s all there is. So, I pay a miserly 2.75 for everything (i.e., everything there is cheap and that’s a great thing), and go on my way. But, not before the lady at the register says, “hey there, youngen, hold on, you still wanna ask about those eggy tarties? I’ll go get the owner~” –but not like that- lady gets the owner’s son and has him come out to speak with me about eggy tarties. He says, can I help you, I say, would you ever consider making egg tarts, he says, let me ask my mama. Mama comes out says how much you want, I say, don’t mess with me, man. She says you want a dozen? When do you want them (no rush, not imperative, I say) Come back this afternoon. Better yet, give me your number, I’ll call you when they’re ready. They must, of course, be eaten fresh.
Quite frankly, I still don’t think it happened. But those egg tarts on my counter can’t be a dream. THANK YOU, UNIVERSE!!!




So, I go to school, bide my time, photocopy readings I’ve neglected to read even until this moment, and lament. But why you ask, dear reader? Because the entire situation is so very beautiful and I, alas, am in school, unable to beg for a job at the Chinese bakery, and under threat of deterritorialization by my mother who has been looking to move. What’s more- these new owners have been around since September. That’s a whole lotta egg tarts not even created. Again. My heart. It wavers. Thank you, universe . . .


I suppose I should be grateful. My friend, in retrospect, tells me I should be grateful. It’s a little gift, given to me while I still have the chance. Still, it all would’ve been nice . . .

But hey now, I haven’t even told you how they taste- real, genuine egg tarts. Real, genuine egg tarts right behind my house. As Puchi Bruce says: OH-MAI-GODT! 決まっているんだろう。

So, after an unproductive afternoon, I arrive home, consider having a sit-down with Jennifer Love Hewitt and figuring out why she makes the acting choices she does in episodes of the Ghost Whisperer, and diligently wait for that one phone call. And call it did. 6 o’clock I was out the door, meeting the Bakery’s son in the alley, saying my helloes, going around front, entering, and talking to mama about her life as a baker all while I politely wait for the egg tarts and she politely stuffs my face with fried sesame balls and donuts. Sound sexy? It was.

So, while I ask her everything I know about Chinese pastries and she stuffs my face with Chinese pastries, I’m told that the family comes from a place 9 hours North of Beijing (sounds like “su sun,” probably isn’t “Su Sun”), and I tell her she has a monopoly on her hands (I hope she understands the word “monopoly”). That something this wonderful could have ever happened to me? Good God. This was long overdue. Not that I necessarily deserved it. But, OH-MAI-GODT! It sure was wonderful. Happy Chinese New Year to me.

So, the evening draws to a close, I promise mama to tell everyone I know about the only place in Kitchener-Waterloo that makes genuine egg tarts (or any genuine Chinese pastry)- and for a cool 7.20 get a solid dozen.

Come, comrades.

Dear readers, I don’t think you understand the severity of this circumstance. This is the ONLY place in town to offer egg tarts and pastries made not from a package or chain, but from real experienced hands. I can watch them at 3 am, from my window while they leave the alley doors open and work in their kitchen, covered in dough, covered in clouds of flour, covered in 功夫. Nothing has existed in this town. I have spent my life as a young cook eeking out places that sell egg tarts. And there was none. Until now. They’re here. They exist. In my town. In my own back yard! In the bakery my own grandfather once owned! My bakery! It’s just- I can’t – I don’t even know . . . I never thought there would come a moment when words wouldn’t be able to explain my absolute joy! If there is anything I can say it’s to come and get them! Throw away those tarts and coconut brioche-esque breads in light plastic packagings. They’re good, but they’re not GOOD! Sure, they’re real. I mean, you can hold them in your hands. But, they’re not REAL! All I have left to say is that I ate pastry today and I was part of a movement. I ate pastry today and now, I am part of a movement!
謝謝, 面包家. Thank you a million times. I’ ve a reason to wake up again. Thank you, Universe.
Bread and Bretzel
255 Toll Gate Blvd
Waterloo ON, 
N2L 4M3 
519-746-6511



p.s., fresh goods can be obtained Thursday nights and Friday mornings, before they frequent the St. Jacob’s farmer’s market, the Kitchener market and the Stratford farmer’s market on the weekends. And of course, if you ask nicely, maybe with a little luck you can, like me, have your egg tarts made fresh for you.

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