Yulyeong

I haven’t been to Korean BBQ in a good number of years, though I’ve passed by it enough, watched the restaurants around it close and change, and remind myself why I’d probably never go back. But, with all that’s happened, it’s remained firmly rooted in this gastropolis waiting. Waiting for my inevitable return. Why do I speak so somberly? Why did I haphazardly promise myself never to go back? It certainly wasn’t because the place is bad. No, no. It is, as are most recollections of my pabulum past, full of nostalgic discomfort. Discomfort at the fact that I cannot recapture my past no matter how desperately I try, or have tried for that matter. Korean BBQ was the coveted Korean kitchen of my dear brother who almost always voted for it when he- not we- wanted to get Korean. To him, its lackluster appearance only spoke volumes of its legitimacy. To him, the rudeness of the help was invigorating; and the voice of the mother in the kitchen like a lullaby. Here, I learned, and to this day romanticize, that for a place to be good it has to be a little scary. And all these allegedly scary things became, like a butterfly’s dream, the paradise of my mind. But that was years ago, and I won’t do that to you today.

Korean BBQ’s father may be the most beleaguered cook I’ve ever come to know publically. For it was in his shop where my dear brother and I would go not thirty minutes before closing, be welcomed happily, and then ignored as soon as the clock struck nine. We took it as latent, aloof rudeness. Still, my dear brother always wanted to go at the same time. Classes finished when they finished, and I was a sucker. So, needless to say, I was almost always irritated.

That all changed today, because although I wouldn’t put it past papa BBQ to shoo me out at closing, I came with all the time in the world to eat (and hours before). That, and he seemed to do a good job of absolving himself of any guilt he may have incurred when I curmudgeonly chose to eat everything on the menu that had been crossed out, but which he happily came back and apologized for, asking me to choose something else. He blushed, I didn’t. He made suggestions, I asked for pallock remembering the days I could get a whole fish on a sizzling plate, and he suggested Korean pancakes instead. Memories.

The menu isn’t as workable as it used to be. I say this lamenting the loss of pallock. And the little seafood options that are left are a little wobbly. There is a squid fried rice which seems somewhat adventurous, but anything else seems reserved to the fishy flavor of a seafood broth and tiny little shrimp. Aside from that, the menu is riddled with familiar Korean fare, all of which I’ve had many times in the past- those familiar flavours of beef, pork, garlic, and chili. There are favourites: bibimbap, pork bone soup, udong noodles. This time I tried to get away from the classically popular, though I think that’s difficult in a food context. Always. Regardless, I took to something hearty, yet simple: a potato pancake with seafood (tiny shrimp); quite classic. And an otherwise mysterious dumpling soup, which I imagined as slices of rice cake in a spicy Kimchi broth.

I waited sentimentally, listening to the soft laughter of Korean BBQ’s mother as she made my pancake in the kitchen. The sea-foam walls, plastic flowers and old paper clippings taped to the wall and glorifying Koren BBQ’s heyday were a testament to the rootedness of Korean BBQ’s food and how it was as strong as its barley tea. My favourite of all places. Its intense roasted flavor was enough to make me forget I was drinking tea. Yes, even if the place has boiling grains down to a complacent art where the family just simply does what it’s done almost automatically for years, I don’t know it any better anywhere else than this.

A plate sized pancake (good enough as an appetizer for two) was placed in front of me, cut in slices and accompanied by a dark dipping sauce. The lack of egg in the humble batter of flour deserted it of all airiness and left it heavy and glutinous. If left alone, I’d have not enjoyed myself, but the dipping sauce washed the pancake of all that glutinous gunk. Its Fermented salt and vinegar flavor made my toes curl. I Loved it; either that or my thyroid was acting up.

My soup was a disheartening spectacle, but only because it wasn’t like I had dreamed. Placed in front of me was a bowl of dumplings immersed in a strong odorous seafood broth, but delicate enough on the palette, sprinkled with strips of seaweed paper. And to make the simple even more so it was dotted with pieces of scrambled egg. The more it soaked in itself, the richer it became. The dumplings, I concluded, were made by hand, tearing them open and finding pork mingling with translucent pieces of some kind of starchy noodle. And if they weren’t, they certainly tasted that way, the pork not tasting processed in the least, but earthy and savoury.

But I’ve been keeping the best from you, dear readers. The champions of Korean BBQ, indeed any Korean spot: the side dishes. Korean BBQ’s side dishes are my most loved: bean sprouts with a nutty roasted note, crisp and refreshing; Kimchi that’s calm and quenching with a hint of heat; an ambiguous fish sliced thinly and flavoured sweetly with a little spice; and potatoes, sweet and starchy, slathered in soy sauce and Korean cornstarch. They were dishes I could never forget, and with my meal a sobering reminder of why I came back.

Korean BBQ

(519) 568-7111

265 King Street East,

Kitchener, ON N2G 4N4

Cash and debit

Tues-Sat: 12-9

Sun-Mon: Closed

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Good for What Ails Some

It’s the kind of place people blow into to cure what ails them. Where meatheads regale the girls they take out for breakfast with stories about the worst hangovers of their lives. It’s the kind of place a young family comes to solidify some notion of kinship, community, safety, never expecting to hear someone swear like a sailor in the breakfast crowd. There are others: friends, the young, the old, the bourgeoisie, the proletariat. They all have their own reasons for coming. And of course, they all have a common reason for coming too, that being the food.

After regaling the locals with my own interest in the place, I was told it wasn’t as good as it used to be. That supple yearning for a sentimental past, it follows us everywhere, whether in fashion or food, whether on the barn exterior or log cabin interior of the place. Whether using carriage wheels for chandeliers or pitchforks for coat hangers (kind of clever, I know). So it goes. It’s what places do. Where would the business of food be if nothing mythologized the restaurant? Nothing would give me more joy than knowing that out there there are places that value the food alone. But alas, dear eaters, all of our outings to food locations must be imbued with culinary identity, the business must be appeased that way or cease to exist at all.

The Cedar Barn plays the part well. Known for its breakfast, known even more for its country bumpkin dining pretense, it’s a place where you can come and have a love affair with breakfast that you may or may not regret, depending on your standards.

The menu certainly made mince meat of any mirage the space may have created. It was a food slum. It had everything, a Smörgåsbord board of breakfast, lunch, and dinner- of pizza themed stuffs, chicken fingers, steaks, perch battered, of all seemingly urbane and out place things, in panko breadcrumbs. These were only a few of the things that made me raise an eyebrow at the good sized menu. I was less judgmental when it came to considering what was offered for breakfast. All a comfortable choice of options for a suspicious fee that had me ordering two separate plates: two pancakes for an easy 4 dollars and 15 cents, and a breakfast plate of eggs, toast, hash browns and sausage for a price so low my otherwise miserly mind, maybe for the first time in a long time, forgot about it.

Now, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that in every hashhouse, breakfast is a thought provoking paradigmatic process. We order a choice on the menu and the wait staff, provided it has the finesse, guides us through the syntagm that is our order. We order eggs, they ask: how cooked? We order toast, they say: how burnt? What kind of bread? The Cedar Barn is no exception. Now, the only struggle that comes from ordering might be in the volume one’s forced to speak at because The Barn is a loud place, especially on a late Sunday morning. So, if you don’t speak with a little fervency, there’s a chance you ask for onions on your hash browns and instead get green peppers. So again, a heads up. Speak up, or wait a long while before you replace any creamers, coffee, or even cutlery.

My pancakes taught me a valuable lesson too. Don’t be so quick to judge. The enormous portion made me question where I had eaten in the past and made me conclude that such a cheap price was made for a small quantity. Quality is another story. The pancakes had everything I could have reasonably expected. Dense in volume, but fluffy in appearance. Sweetly flavoured and cooked through. I tolerated the dry caliber of the things because I knew the point was to absorb every ounce of syrup I poured over them. Still, I would have preferred fluffy and dry, because when it comes to making something that’s dense also moist, it takes a steady mind to eat. Food goes down thick and gluey. Either way, went down it did.

The customary nature of my second dish made it hard to get excited. I did my best to exalt it to some position of good eating, like asking for dark rye bread instead of white, demanding the fabled farmer’s sausage (a specialty of the house, I was told), but eggs and bacon and the like are never a surprising device of gastronomica- not for breakfast. It’s comfort food, tried, tested, and true. If a place can’t cook eggs, even the humblest eaters deny the cook the slightest of nods. It’s a harsh thing to say my food could have used some salt, because the Barn does this with, I assume, good reason, and that is to appease all taste buds. On the other hand, it is easy to take such an act as a lack of confidence in a place’s own food, but I’ll leave it at that. My hash browns had enough bite, but weren’t nearly as well done as I would have liked them to be. If I learned anything from The Cedar Barn however, it was that the cooks in the kitchen, at least at breakfast, were only extensions of every customer’s hands, because it is up to us to tell them exactly how we like it. That may be the place’s one redeeming quality. It certainly wasn’t the sausage, a saltless banger boiled first and then grilled second to save time and pull the culinary wool over diners’ eyes. Does it work? Not in the slightest. The meat, a dull grey, was drained of all savoury flavour and tasted unbearably off.

I could have easily filled my stomach, especially with the inexpensive portions, only the food couldn’t keep me interested long enough. Then again, it was only breakfast.

The Cedar Barn

(519) 664-2569

1217 Lobsinger Rd
Waterloo, ON N2J 4G8

Open early, e’ry day.

Any payment

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大城小事

SOGO cuisine is my Othering culinary fantasy. Please, let me explain.

I’ve grown up lamenting the hard fact that I could never have a life like the characters in my coveted Hong Kong romantic comedies. My particular favourites were the ones about food. Drink Drank Drunk comes to mind. Literally translated as One Thousand Cups, Not Drunk, or, more correctly, Not Drunk After One Thousand Cups. It was the story of a young woman who, notoriously, could not get drunk no matter how much she drank. One night, she finds a poor drunkard, another Hong Kong native, crying in the streets wondering why no one in Hong Kong eats French food, wondering how he’s supposed to live, a social culinary pariah, because he couldn’t get into college and decided on a career as- well- a French chef. Needless to say, the two fall in love and open a quaint sixteen seater in the streets of HK, making pretzels, having awkward moments, not really selling French food, and so on, and so forth.

It was the kind of restaurant that caught my eye in the movie. Something I thought so impractical and impossible in these parts: the trattoria. The real trattoria. My family owns a supposed trattoria. But in my eyes, it’s a restaurant. Yeah, in some small towns in Europe they may exist, a lone chef sleeping in his own restaurant making new dishes almost every day, needing no one else except the company of his own hands. The same goes for, I imagine, Hong Kong, where food is so frequent and cooks so specialized that they all open their own little holes and have their own little dishes. A normalcy, I imagine. But not here. Until today. Today when I found myself stumbling through the neighborhood of a comrade who had moved away. The streets always made me feel a little less lonely when I missed him, but today I found a place that made me miss him even more. A place that could have very well been our hangout, which, up until he up and left, was reserved for a coffee shop run by a mainland Chinese woman that knew us well before she owned the place and made us, with the help of her young daughters, tea for whatever cash we had on us.

I once learned from an old Italian cook that the best restaurant was at home. Whether SOGO cuisine lives rightly by this belief is beyond me, but I took its Chinese name of 美食美客or ‘good food for beautiful guests’ as an apt sign that whoever cooked for me cared. The space certainly made me believe it, anyway. Because SOGO cuisine was my dream come true. It possessed that homey local charm. No more than two months old, it decorated itself with knickknacks, warm colours, a rococo patterned ceiling, white and ‘au so courant’ tables and chairs that seated a mere six guests, and a small, single person kitchen separated by a counter. If it made me think of anything, it made me think of that part of Shanghai that took its urban character from a more nostalgic Europe. Don’t know what I mean? Maybe you should watch more movies.

I might be romanticizing SOGO cuisine a bit too much though, because although it has a single woman manning a kitchen, the food comes and goes pretty quickly, the seating is a mere accommodation to the odd person (yours truly) who decides to eat in. Not to say that people shouldn’t; they should. But receiving my orders in takeout containers even after saying I’d be sitting in made me realize that SOGO treats itself as a place that is almost of the fast food persuasion. Well, I say this, dear readers. It shouldn’t! Sure, the space is small. Sure, it offers only canned drinks and bottles of water. Sure, it’s someone running a restaurant out of her home, but its food deserves more respect than that! It’s a small, cheap menu of curries, noodles, rice, steamed buns, and crepes, but it is welcomed. Its dishes cater to an assumed customer, because at first glance the menu confuses you with Japanese dishes, but if you ask nicely, and come boldly, you can have some rare and spectacular Chinese dishes.

Surprised by my candor, SOGO’s matron offered me a Chinese crepe. Fixed with sesame seeds, spring onions, coriander, a nameless sauce resembling Hoisin, and spice, the crepe was fricasseed and folded over a hot crispy wanton. Unconventional from the crepes we’re used to eating here, it was more egg than crepe, but I couldn’t complain about it in the least. Especially not for 3.50. I went a step further asking for a steamed meat bun having eyed the dough rising in a muffin tin on the counter, and she humbly obliged. However, before I went to my seat, I eyed the cook’s own teapot and asked if she wouldn’t mind giving me some of her tea: a deep oolong. Surprised, she poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to me.

I was astounded by my steamed bun. Another unconventional manifestation of a foodstuff I had eaten for years now. The light and airy bun was cut lengthwise and stuffed with minced pork flavoured with green pepper, coriander, vinegar, sugar, and garlic. Needless to say, I had never had a steamed bun reinterpreted this way. It wasn’t dull with a small portion of meat on the inside of a dull chewy dough, but assembled like a pull pork sandwich, more meat than bun, but perfectly balanced. The crispiness of the outer layer fought well against the moist slivers of pork buffered against soft airy bread. It was another great find for 3.50. I commended the cook. To her, it was nothing; to me, it was everything.

Lastly, I did something very unorthodox. I ordered the menu’s fried udon noodles. Now, I’ve been on a crusade against udon for quite some time now, believing it to be a foodstuff glorified more than it should be. Sometimes in a soup, sometimes as Shanghai noodles, but I can’t particularly say its chewy, elastic character is ever done well. Usually, the noodles are a chore to eat. This time, however, it wasn’t so bad. Fried in another nameless, yet savoury and sweet sauce, my noodles, accompanied with crisp vegetables and fish balls, were fried until soft. No chewy noodle eclipsed the other ingredients with starch here. The textures were well received and the chopped cabbage in the dish added a nice fermented feature to something that otherwise embellished a familiar malt flavor.

12 dollars later, I had stuffed my face. For me, SOGO Cuisine was a miracle, or a symptom of something happening in a suburb that I hope manages to stick around. It wouldn’t be the first place in the same neighborhood that tried to be a single person operation. If I’m potentially sad about anything it may be that it has to compromise a lot of its potential for consumer palettes, but so long as the cook is willing, one can still have access to some pretty incredible dishes. That said, my dear eaters, I implore you to eat as much and as often as you can at SOGO cuisine, before it’s otherwise too late.

SOGO Cuisine

(519) 888-6789

UNIT B11

619 Wild Ginger Ave

Waterloo, ON N2V 2XI

Mon-Sat 10am- 830 pm.

Sun: closed

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Die Bread, Die

The Weltanschauung that codifies German Baked Specialties Ltd., or GBS for short, may be that it dabbles in the sales of German baked goods that are made, and therefore consist, of authentic German ingredients. That’s right, the new bakery located on the Uptown strip and no more than a month old has been abuzz with the most svelte of palettes (to sound as ignorantly German and sophisticated as I possibly can). What puts GBS in the current running as a potentially great bakery in a city with deep German roots and a lot of German culinary influence is the very dynamic that each loaf of bread, so I am told, is made and baked 60% in Deutschland and then shipped out here to the little town of Waterloo where the process is completed and customers get the privilege of having something of European quality put in their authenticity seeking mouths. Now, unless you think about what you put in your mouth, eating from GBS can seem like a kind of battle of culinary Imperialism. One can buy the food because of its quality and very well elevate themselves to that level of gastronomic sophistication, knowing where to get the best bread; or, one can refuse because it doesn’t support local eating- the carbon footprint is a big one. These are in fact two points I’ve discussed with those aware of GBS’s existence as of late, and as a gastronome I eat the drama up. Regardless, I’m not a hard sell when it comes to eating, and considering where the bread comes from, it certainly is affordable and I think worth a good try.

I considered coming late in the afternoon a good advantage, only to be caught in the eye of a storm of customers because GBS, unlike other bakeries around that I’ve been to, was still knee deep in dough. Surly bakers rushed in and out with treys of bread, while their more gentle counterparts attended to me as best they could. All-the-while, there I was, treading connoisseurship in a sea of housewives and flaneurs. The Bourgeoisie sentiment of the space was enough to remind you of your great Imperialist Aunt’s house. You know? The one with dendritic prints on her wallpaper, a gaudy glass chandelier, and a fireplace where your Uncle reads about, I dunno, Thatcherism? Yes, GBS certainly sets its long interior up as a narrow yet dazzling 3^rd space of the Bourgeoisie, as paradoxical as that may sound. I can only imagine what the spirits of our political ancestors would say. But don’t be so quick to judge, because though GBS offers a focused bill of fare (that being bread), it gives good reason to just stay in and enjoy. Coffee is one of them. I had to get the coffee, because during my second experience hearing about GBS I was made to promise to buy the coffee, the only coffee the place offers. One simple, focused, allegedly brewed right, cup.

Now, I may have learned kung fu from a grandmaster from the hills of Hunan province, how to eat from a kid from Hong Kong, and how to cook from an old Thai woman, but everything I learned about connoisseurship I learned from a woman who knows it better than I know myself. Who ate fish so fresh it was like fish candy, who picked wild berries as a child and ate them immediately with fresh cream, and who to this day keeps a lemon tree and red hen in her backyard. And as always, my old Bourdieusian master was right. It was one clean cup; no acrid, tannic acidity, but just tart and clean. The kind of stuff that makes the back of your throat roll over in submission. There was no need at all for any sugar or cream. My only qualm may have been that it is offered in one large cup; still, for a cheap price in retrospect. Aside from a good cup, GBS offers other great café-esque fare like doughnuts, light and chewy, and covered in chocolate fondant a little rich for my mouth. Closer to a soft cake rather than the gooey things we’re used to in the superfluous doughnut shops of our town. GBS has cheese cake, it has spreads for slices of bread, it even makes an array of sexy sandwiches running between 4 and 5 dollars. And mark my words, if I wasn’t drowning in a sea of Saturday afternoon socialites I’d have stayed for a slice, but I was satisfied asking for the helps’ favorite loaves.

A loaf at GBS will run you a good 5 dollars, give or take a little more. That said, they’re a good size, and asking for an even half is ample enough in my humble opinion. First, I was offered a dark organic rye. A loaf with a chalky exterior, it was the toughest of the group, but a potent rye nonetheless. Strong and full bodied with a smoky smell and even smokier aftertaste, it was the kind of savoury flavor you’d expect in German cuisine; a perfect partner to any pastrami.

Next, I was shown the polenta; a delicate corn bread with a muted flavor, but resilient shell dusted with cornmeal. Its interior was pliant and its flavor enhanced by a sprinkling of sunflower seeds throughout.

After that, I went after the rye sour dough. Hearty, but surprisingly not dense, it was another rich rye, this time with a charred back note. Any character from the sourdough was weak, but instead a mild sweetness permeated throughout.

Thanking the bakers and on my way to work a shift in underemployment, I was graciously met with a spelt loaf before I left, free of charge. That’s right, even gluten freevangelicals can enjoy what the GBS has to offer (kinda). GBS just may be the bakery that raises the bar for the elder bakeries still operating in this city, but lacking in a city where bread may have become too comfortable.

German Baked Specialties Ltd.

226-291-1147

94 King Street South

Waterloo, ON N2L 1P5

UPTOWN

Mon.- Sat.: 930-5

closed Sunday

Any payment

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Burgers for the Boy

I’ve been sick this past week, and soup did no good for this succulence seeking soul. I needed to carb up, Bro. It’s a risky thing eating next to nothing a near week and then having the gull- no, no, making the conscience choice- to seek out the kind of sustenance that could either put the bench presses back in my gym routine or make me another kind of sick. That said, I’m willing to bet the latter is more likely, mainly because I’ve never been to a gym in my life. There is, however, one kind of place I frequent more than I’d like to admit, which certainly can make any Baldwin or Betty meet their carbohydrate requirements.

You’d think the burger place would have me jaded by now. How many have I reviewed? How many have I complained about? Snaps. I complained briefly about burgers a few posts ago, but when carb cravings hit you, carb cravings hit you, and nothing satisfies more than deep fried, stuff your face, can’t breathe fixings. And, I admit it, there was still a place I had my meat eating eye on. Hey, I heard things; anyway, by now my hamburger restaurant reviews have been pretty underwhelming, so I figured what’s one more potentially sub-par review?

Frat Burger has been getting a questionable buzz. Maybe because it’s located across Wilfrid Laurier University and the fraternity mindset is a questionably easy marketing ploy in them there parts, but that’s all the cheap fraternity jokes I’ll attempt to make. For all we know, dear readers, Frat Burger could be the burger golden boy this town needs. The grindhouse guild all the best brothers want to be affiliated with (last frat allusion). Either way, I would be the judge of that.

Let me first set a cynical, anachronistic, and unimaginative stage, larger than expected, corrupted with time-honoured movie posters, a beer bar, chalk boards, neon signs, televisions on sport channels, stools, those old swollen plastic chairs that have sparkles in the fabric and steel legs. I could go on. Everything you could possibly imagine in a sports theme eatery Frat Burger does well to reproduce. Did I mention the wooden booths? Why? Perhaps to move customers in and out quickly? Although I can’t imagine Frat Burger thinking like a cramped Japanese Ramen shop. How about the industrial ceiling? Aw, yes. I could certainly go on. But you understand the platitude of the place even if you haven’t visited it. You’ve lived long enough, and watched enough television. Don’t fret. I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It has the ambiance it needs.

But what I love about Frat Burger is the food. The simple menu, the uncomplicated choices, the burgers and the fries and nothing else. Okay, some poutine too. And drinks. But nothing else. That’s it! The choice is easy! The portions worthwhile. I’m always a stickler for price. You all know I am. 4.99 for a plain burger may seem somewhat pricey. Extras like sauces and cheeses (one extra dollar) and bacon fixings (a comparable 1.25) can certainly add up. But when it does, it still isn’t that much. The most expensive item on the menu is a 6.99 Portobello mushroom cap burger with thin bun; the vegetarian burger, a quinoa, lentil bean base, 4.99 too. Of course, if you purchase fries with your ground sandwich there’s some lax. A huge serving can be a mere 7 dollars before tax. But the price alone isn’t what won me over, oh no.

Seated charily by the help, I was offered a beer to start, but declined, having expressed my marked discomfort of getting over a bad cold like a bad breakup. Whiskey was the next suggestion, and though I felt the waitress was a woman after my own, potentially alcoholic, heart at one in the afternoon, I expressed that water would have to suffice. Next, we talked burger. I yearned, for whatever reason, for the soy based savoury sensation of a vegetarian burger, but was stopped there to be told about the vegetarian option. No fakers at Frat Burger, unfortunately for me. Hey, sometimes processed can be damned good. So I settled for that dear ground round, smothered in guacamole and guyere cheese, accompanied with pickles, tomatoes, lettuce and, of course, fries. Low and behold, that was all I was gonna need.

Settled in front of me in a basket with brown wax paper was a palm sized burger in a soft white bun, and a whole lot of fries. It wasn’t too disconcerting. The more I thought someone was pulling the one over on me, the more I thought I could work with. I picked up the burger, and though the size intrigued me, I soon forgot about the burger being the size of my tiny hands, because I had already bitten in. The lettuce a little limp, the guacamole a little bland, and the guyere a little dry, I thought nothing of it all, the chucked paddy being a spectacle for any eater. Pure ground beef dripping clear with juices, not fat, and a flesh that was pink inside made me wonder just what was going on? The paddy was enough on its own, sharing the characteristics of a medium well steak, the meat needed no spice, no seasoning. It was firm, it was moist, it absolutely melted. Or maybe it was me.

I was always afraid to cook a burger like this, but I was glad someone had the cuts to keep that raw, yet paradoxically fresh flavor. Sure, I didn’t like the idea of kids in sweats cooking my food, but it was so good I didn’t care. Before I knew it, like some sirloin spirit, it was gone.

Nothing was left but a basket of fries cooked to a deep golden brown. My only qualm may have been the flaccid character that accompanied them. The element of crunch was a simple memory of all the fries of my yesteryear, but the bold starchy flavor was still there, smothered in salt, and all the collected flavours that came together in a clean deep fryer. But even after, I was still dreaming about my burger. It’s a huge claim to say that Frat Burger offers the best burger I’ve had in town, but even as I type this, I’m still willing to stand by it.

Frat Burger

519.954.FRAT (3728)

1a & 1b- 247 King St. N,

Waterloo, ON

N2J 4V2

Mon-Wed: 11:00 am- 1:00 am

Thu- Sat: 11:00 am- 3:00 am

Sun: 11:00 am- 1:00 am

Cash, or credit. No debit.

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The Yellow Menace

I couldn't resist a cheap Chinese meal- and I kept passing this place so I figured: whatever. The counter girl was cute. I hope she reads this. But I hope she stops there, because it's typical Chinese-Canadian fare. Unpopular, cheap, and loved by the old and White. Fr realz. That's all I saw coming into the place: old White women. Late teenage Cantonese boys cooking for old White women. Go if you want a cheap lunch, but don't support the continual Orientalization of China cuisine. The most interesting surprise? They dice the vegetables instead of slice them. A sure fire sign of catering to a White, barbaric, Western demographic that pierces with a fork and knife, not the tender touch of two tiny chopsticks. How unorthodox. Oh, and the Coup de grace? the cook- again, a late teenager mind you- who comes out of the kitchen to stomp down the garbage in the lobby with his cool converse shoes. Someone was more concerned with looking like Jason Derulo then showing a little culinary grace. Another day my heart breaks. I cried on the inside. There I was, a man who yearned to work even in the most pathetic of Chinese food joints all his young life. Even Star Wok. And there that kid was, stomping garbage and wishing he could be laying chicks in a rap video. I know. I heard him and the other cook belting out Cantonese love ballads around the corner of my booth. But no, people see my Whiteness, not my passion. They see his Yellowness, not his complacency. The theatre of culinary performance is still big business to the old people who keep shitty places like these in business. I can't blame them for living on food that was processed, and over-salted, and loving Star Wok's rice reminiscent of Uncle Ben's instant rice. Whatever. Let's not forget the mixing of pre-made sauces for a stir-fry, like chili sauce with peanut. Oh yeah. I went there. I'm taking it personally. But droppin' truth bombz like Reagan did drugs, I wouldn't be surprised if Star Wok stuck around but eventually plateaued in the realm of profit. That's right, this star won't fizzle out any time soon. Again, diced vegetables- seriously? Yeah, it's cheap but so what, last time I checked, even successful, tasty food restaurants buy cheap ingredients, but can still make good tasting meals. Proof that food is the ultimate commodity fetish. Value applied to the artisanship of the cook, who's creativity is enough not to make crap, and ballsy enough to make you think you should pay for it. No Barthesian shit here. There are no rare ingredients inaccessible in this town- hell, even in Chinese food. Let's stop catering to bad, unhealthy, dare I say, overweight palettes, shall we? Maybe we can introduce a better fare, and eliminate this dreaded food Orientalism.

Oh, and if there's one really important lesson I took away from this venture, its to not put a packaged egg roll in your bag, unless you want an oily memento. I'm talking about a stain. An oily mess. An apparition of Mao forever reminding me of what real Chinese food isn't. Happy eating.
Love,

Weezee

Star Wok94 Bridgeport Rd E
Waterloo, ON N2J 2J9
(519) 886-1688

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Like an Old Master

Pho ‘95 is a place that’s managed itself as an effigy in front of my eyes for a long time. A place that, to me, seemed like a kind of Byzantium, shrouded in legend, in urban mystique. An obscure, yet pervasive place that’s existed in the mythos of Kitchener-Waterloo for so long. And yet, for so long, I’ve kept myself out. There were never any real objections to the spot, everyone I spoke with who ate or didn’t eat there always told me that, “Yeah, the food’s pretty alright.” Was that why I never even bothered visiting it, having eaten at literally every other Vietnamese spot in town? Maybe there were more pressing places to go, places readers would value more. Maybe Pho ‘95 is too obvious, and maybe too much of my reputation as a gastronome is at stake. But I’ll be honest, my stomach is tired; tired of hamburgers, Chinese food, café fare, places too barefaced and unfamiliar to my old hungry heart. So I thought, as an homage to myself, and to my humble beginnings, I’d visit a place with the dish that ushered me into food appreciation. Anyway, it only seems fair that this column pay homage to Vietnamese cuisine at least once in its lifetime. And what better place than Pho ‘95? It’s like an old master. One of the oldest, rooted places in town.

Its size stupefying, its small exterior a humbling declaration of its banquet hall interior. It was uncanny. But casing the joint made me wonder, before Pho ‘95 was Pho ‘95, what could it have possibly been? Its yellowed stucco archways and faux stucco maroon wallpaper reminded me of the Mediterranean reception halls of my youth. Through time, it seemed to rearticulate itself into something more static and culturally performative: fish tanks, Buddha statues, shiny Japanese prints, and those oh so typical fake emerald cushioned chairs and tables that set themselves up in every other Vietnamese place around. It screamed Chinese restaurant, but served Viet food. There were even water coolers with signs pointing in things’ direction in case people were tired of the courtesy of tea. Yes, Pho ‘95 seemed a watering hole for all walks of life; where you could get together with hipster and salary-man alike, have a Styrofoam cup of distilled or spring and make trivial talk about Ray Bands, or the Smith reports.
I was impressed by the clientele that came and went. My eavesdropping even led me to discover that there were a lot of regulars, and valued ones at that, because the staff knew exactly what they wanted right when they came in. I was touched by the sincerity of the staff, the novelty of the space, the suits who came for lunch, the vibrant, yet calm atmosphere. I was more than ready to eat.Pho ‘95’s menu is able to bear even the tiniest of wallets, the most expensive dish being 13 dollars, and even an inexpensive bowl of small beef noodle soup, a meal all its own. That said, I sought that which encouraged me into food-dom, choosing to have the beef noodle soup with raw beef, flank, and cow’s stomach. Why go to a pho place and not get pho? I think I did the right thing.Accompanying that, I chose an appetizer of shredded pork skin rolls; a choice, I find in retrospect, for more tolerant palettes. And, as I am the critical gastronome that I am, I made it my responsibility to purchase that most notable of Vietnamese drinks: coffee with condensed milk.


Like a proper meal, my rolls came first. Stuffed with vermicelli noodles, resilient pieces of translucent pork skin, dull iceberg lettuce, and peanuts wrapped tightly in rice sheets, the starchy rolls were accompanied with a thick sauce of what seemed to be Hoisin and more peanuts. The thick sauce adhered well to the rolls; however, the dry elastic nature of each made eating tedious. The sauce did nothing to temper the nature of something so dry. At a time, I found myself taking them apart and placing them in my soup’s broth as if dumplings. I thought they needed some moisture. The sauce wasn’t bad; however, I felt that old, musty Hoisin huzzah could have been paired better with something a little less torrid.
When my soup arrived, I dove in. It had been a long time since I slurped on the dusty flavor of rice noodles in a salty beef broth. A little cloudier than memory served, probably the most intriguing quality of the broth was the grit of separated fat rowing through the bowl. Usually, one would expect fatty pearls in a nice clear broth, but not here; I took it as a sign that the broth, though not strained to an exorbitant degree, had at least been made from scratch. I hoped, anyway. The raw beef didn’t put up much of a fight, separating easily as I chewed. The flank sunk to the bottom of the bowl, tough as usual and lending spirit to the dish. The slices of cow stomach gave perfect balance to a trio of chewy, tough, and tender. Overall, it was well received.

My coffee completed my meal, arriving as lukewarm as I had expected. Something that percolates so long should be served with ice, so I couldn’t complain, because I requested it without.


It was familiar: creamy with a mouth puckering sweetness that fought off the deep tannic character that came with a long brew. Bracing myself for each sip, I made note of the minute eyes of oil reflected in the coffee’s surface- another symptom of a long extraction. I found myself tempering the coffee’s richness with alternating sips from the cheapest of luxuries: tea.By the end, I was rubbing the sugar crystals that settled as sediment in those last few swallows on the back of my teeth. I loved the stuff, and every minute I spent at Pho '95.
Pho ‘95
Tel: (519) 744-0199
331 West King St
Kitchener, ON N2G1B8

Every day 1030-10

Any method of payment

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