The Ill Shing Leung

	My brother in culinary arms.

Eating with Shing Leung always means spending a whole mess of money; but I can't complain, because he's my brother in eating arms and if not for him, I would have never learned to eat, or known what it meant to eat with other people. What it meant to roast coffee beans with a heat gun, stuff a giant nameless fish with noodles, or learn to squat on the curb over a sewage drain with a bowl of pho and thus prevent a potentially bigger mess. Eating alone can be a very lonely thing, so says Gille Deleuze, or so I heard my professor tell me once because I was too lazy to find the text. Regardless of all that, I've spent a small fortune eating with my comrade for the past five years and earning, what I think is, a rare and privileged education in gastronomy.

Sometimes, when I got the guts, I like to hitch a ride on a bus and take my sorry ass to the big stinky city of Toronto and from there take a subway and go make big trouble in little China, which is my affectionate name for Richmond Hill and Markham, amalgamated in my mind into one place of strip malls consisting of Asian restaurants and grocery stores- and maybe some dental offices, but nothing else.

No way. Okay, gross exaggeration.

There are other kinds of restaurants- but seriously, nothing else. I believe they stay afloat by depending on the inhabitants of both townships to work outside the cities, commute back home, and eat- and buy real estate.

Last weekend was a special treat, because while I haven't been to the Hill in a long, long time, the ill Shing Leung and I decided to have a chow down at Guu Izakaya: a favoured Japanese tapas bar (yeah, tapas, that's right- not that Asian food culture doesn't already manifest the idea of small dishes at a communal feast, but in order to get the ignorant Westerner/hipster to come they need the label of ‘tapas’ so it sounds friggin' trendy, but whatever). I was scared. I'm not cool enough for the bodies that meander through the streets with Neon Trees playing behind them wherever they go; instead I look like (my own fault) a sailor on shore leave: hat on head, bags around shoulders, books on food and porn theory in my hands (still to this day). But that's okay, I've come to terms with it.

I came late, but lucky for me Shing put us on a waiting list so we had the pleasure of our company until, unbeknown to us, we were allowed in and blitzed by the hyper-greetings of the entire staff that worked there, shouting "welcome" in unison (in Japanese). From the front door we were circumnavigated in a room that had a stone wall permeated by small squares of light (and electric ceiling lights) to the front bar where we were seated on the heaviest blocks of wood which were actually used for stools. Aw yes, the experience reminded me of my time working off the shores of Okinawa: big wooden tables on the floor where strangers were forced to eat together and dim lighting combined with the huzzah of voices, more or less happy to be eating, much like the mess hall of a barge. To the point, Guu was a total theatre for whatever Orientalizing mouths dared venture and pretend to see what Japan was really like: not overworked salaryman getting smashed and cooks crying back and forth for the sake of getting food out, but cooks who are happy to sing out what order number is called and do cool Night of Fire dance moves between dishes and around deep fryers so eaters wouldn't be concerned with the tapas’ sizes and prices. Just sayin'. Just sayin' the next afternoon Shingzy and I went to a ramen shop in J-Town (another novelty of Markham with Japanese-Italian food, the typical overpriced Japanese grocery store, and what not) and were not greeted the same way. We were greeted, yes, but quietly and humbly with the same "welcome" phrase in Japanese. The shop wasn't fancy and formal, but humble and popular among people on Chowhound with nice chewy ramen that I suspected wasn't anything to be overly praised because it resembled the stuff of instant noodles, but I digress.

			Click the pic for a video of the real, loud thing. ダブルラブ～

But Guu is popular for a reason, and I must humbly admit I was blown away by the food. Specials and all. All kinds of sake, all kinds of beer, novelty soda for earthquake victims in Japan and of course tea- that I was charged for. Phhh. Whatever. For an Asian place to charge for generic tea always seems like a disservice, or so my comrade and I think- unless of course its prepared cold. We don't know why exactly, there's something faulty in our logic there, but I think if we were to really think about it, our heads would implode.

We did the obvious: order tapas and see how full we could get. Considering the size, the price was fair, running from between 5 and 10 dollars; we tried fare like maguro carpaccio drenched in a ponzu sauce that permeated through each piece leaving the slightest fishy taste, aestheticized by fish eggs (forget about using "roe" here, it was what it was), and tuna marinated in a delightful soy, wasabi (reminiscent of the mustard of Dijon) and sesame sauce. We paid for pickled vegetables: sweet coloured radish, mild sesame cucumber and the like. We were probably the only ones who ordered the stuff. We were also adventurous enough- though to call us adventurous here especially with our history may seem a moot point- to try raw shrimp, propped up against each other heads pointed up in the shape of a fountain, like a group of synchronized singers ready to dive into the soy sauce accompanying them. Cool and slimy. I wasn't a fan, but Shing assured me that was the nature of the little sea beasts. That slimy, fuzzy feeling you get when putting the things in your mouth is more or less the way they are anywhere else. I didn't have the perspective to say otherwise. And before calling it a night and heading off to a burger joint to fill our stomachs we opted for the closest, fast food-esque item: deep fried chicken skin, a more aggrandized form of pork rinds, but still crispy and buttery nonetheless. It became one of our favourites, paired well no doubt with beer. But before that still we actually encouraged each other to try an entree off the menu before the rinds came. Like the old man I am, I cried out for a bowl of Japanese hot pot and rice (having never fully mastered my own and thinking the dish could give me some perspective) and Shing, like the Chinese-Italian wannabe he is, romantically asked for a bowl of carbonara "esco" udon with kimchi. The flavours were surprising, when I was reluctantly trying the kimchi in the dish I was impressed by the rich, sharp smoky flavour within that resembled the carbonaras I usually make myself. Using udon was pleasant fusion, and I only hoped that I could someday do something similar.

My hot pot was everything I imagined it would be: hearty with a deep barley noted broth, combined of course with the usual kombu presence. It was especially comforting considering how much we both yearned to be full. The vegetables, hard egg and strange processed fish pieces were what I needed.

After a staggering 80 dollars and trip to the bathroom, equipped with mouth wash and rustic stone bowled sinks watched over by the voice of Ou Yang Fei Fei singing Love Is Over, we were up and on our way to catching the subway, but not before urging Shing to go Karaoke to the song before we left. I couldn't believe it was playing; more importantly I couldn't believe I actually knew what the hell was playing. I did know one thing though, Guu certainly knows how to work a crowd and pander to an audience who likes to romanticize the East with bubble economy love ballads. Shoot, I wouldn't have been surprised if they served coffee and put gold leaf in the brew, but the people get what they pay for, even if it’s unrecognized, but very much appreciated by this eater, Japanese love ballads.

And yet, that was only one of the many charming food adventures that weekend. We told ghost stories, argued about Bourdain and Brittany Murphy and did it all again the next day at places like Sam's Congee, a joint packed with family and popular, yet temperate congee, deep fried devils and free tea and J-Town, where we paid for our cold malted chas (I’m bein’ fancy- that just means tea).

Yes devoted readers, I can honestly say that if I ever forget why I go out to eat visiting Shing Leung will always certainly remind me.

Guu Izakaya

398 Church street

Toronto, O.N. M5B 2A2

TEL: 416-977-0999

Mon - Thu 17:00-24:00

Fri - Sun 16:00-24:00 

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Great Wave Off Kanagawa

You may not know this, my dear readers, but I’m leery about sushi places in these here parts. I find buffets especially fishy (mind the pun, because it was on purpose). I’ve no right to argue about quality, because we eat in a place far from bodies of water that provide fresh fish (or real sushi chefs for that matter). However, I hold firm to the personal belief that I have perspective in regards to everything sushi related in Kitchener-Waterloo; and therefore, a little reason to say what is worth buying. Indeed, no spot has escaped this trawling tongue. I’m a big fish in a small pond, and although the nautical metaphors may seem a little much they are not without due cause. Mine’s a mind that’s anchored with a whole lot of cynicism.

The all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant is a perfect example. It coddles the growling stomach and staunch wallet and therefore can compromise good eatin’; that is, if you know what else is out there. I unfortunately, do not. However, this works to my advantage, because I can give an honest, well catered review. Now, when it comes to any kind of authenticity in food I’ve loosened my kung-fu grip over the years, because there is no need for such crude inflexibilities. The French culinary school may be the only form of cooking trying to hold onto any kind of charmed legitimacy, but I dare say if food tastes good, it tastes good. But why this digression? Simple. The all-you-can-eat sushi bar antagonizes this dynamic perfectly, and shows that authenticity isn’t all that important, so long as it tastes palatable. What this says about our culture, I’ll save for a Baudrillard paper.

It’s easy to find what’s wrong and Othering with foreign restaurants catering to Western palettes: phonetic mis-spellings, inherent Orientalizations of names. This next place is certainly a portent of what can happen if we all don’t pay much attention to where we eat. The name alone alerted in me a kind of casus belli which made me quick to judge. An honourific Japanese ‘O’ in the title and an Orientalizing phonetic diminutive for ‘delicious’, packaged into a submissive, charming synonym of ‘Yummy,’ with ‘Sushi’ tacked on the end, made my company and I both guarded and hesitant. I haven’t been to an acceptable all-you-can-eat Sushi place in town since July 2006; my memory sinks that deep. All times after have been full of mis-orderings, hair in food, and callow servers who swoop in like seagulls to take your scraps away and make you feel unwelcome, spurring you to leave at a faster pace. Thankfully, it was a Monday and lunch, so there was no chance of the later happening. As for anything else, I’d have to eat and see.

It was O’Yummy Sushi’s grand opening, and the smell of the place certainly signified the newness of the establishment. Though I couldn’t exactly say how long it was open for, I could certainly sniff out that it was still in need of customers and cooked food to break it in. The smell of drywall and plaster still permeated its banquet hall, but that only made me all the more excited for trying what it had to offer; that and seeing if there was anything worth sticking around, save for the obvious 12.99 all-you-can-eat lunch price.

The space was another chronic creation of a contemporary all-you-can-eat sushi place. Brown, red, black and beige decorated a hall with booths along the windows and tables in the middle with a sushi bar up ahead where diners could happily watch their sushi being made and servers rush in and out of the kitchen feverishly. Orb shaped flood lights and ceiling hearths that washed the ceiling in pools of changing colour gave the hall a kind of urbane feel, reminiscent of the neon lighting that pervades huge metropolises. These kinds of stylistics materialize in so many all-you-can-eat sushi places around town. If there is any other design at the end of the sushi place spectrum it usually offers beige walls with bamboo trims, bonsai trees and lucky cats.

Taking it in cautiously, we were greeted by a server that took our orders to start rather than handing us the proverbial order sheet. This may have taken away from the ambiguity of customer/server but I couldn’t help but wonder how time consuming it eventually would become, having to eat and order again and again. The sentiment was certainly appreciated, and there’s no doubt in my mind that people often feel neglected even at arm’s length, but this effort could hardly last in an all-you-can-eat place. And it didn’t, we were eventually given order sheets. Yes, there was some confusion; yes, servers misunderstood our questions about items on the menu, but that kind of feature seems so common in every all-you-can-eat place, why bother to worry about it? The staff was quick to clear up any confusion by coming back and asking about our orders if there were any problems anyway. My only beef may have been that our tea was refilled too often, usually more than half still left, and the over-service became somewhat unbearable, but better than none at all.

The menu was simple trial and error. Ambiguous but well stocked, my company and I often had trouble deciphering how much of something we’d get, and often received items feeling foolish, especially when we thought we’d get more in a serving. This problem could have easily been avoided if the already bare menu gave a description of items. My face was red enough when I got what the dessert menu called a sugar ball and what came back as a dollar sized ball of deep fried dough slathered in cheap chocolate sauce. Customers may be familiar with sushi, but not everything on the menu is found at every sushi spot. Speaking of variety, assortment was a refreshing change at O’Yummy Sushi. Aside from offering the obvious, it offered some original ideas like cream cheese filled wantons. Crunchy on the outside, rich and smooth on the inside, it was a Western flavor that amalgamated well into a package from the East. There were other seemingly out of place but well appreciated options, like onion rings and, believe it or not, French fries. I can’t complain. Although at times I often wondered about particular item ideas. Baked mushrooms come to mind. They were nothing more than poorly stemmed mushroom caps baked in an oven sans stuffing or any kind of sauce. And a good amount of roll combinations were almost identical to others. The only difference was maybe one or two ingredients less in a roll or two kinds of rolls combined into one maki reminiscent of what one might see in the drain of a kitchen sink. That sounds harsh, but I never said they tasted bad.

We started our meal with seaweed salad and beef soba noodle soup. The salad was a pleasure. I couldn’t recall the last time I had a seaweed salad with just seaweed. Though a little sweet, I was glad to have found it. My soba on the other hand was a slap in the face. As if trying to pull the noodles over my own eyes, the dish wasn’t the buckwheat noodles I breathlessly expected, but instead the wheat based instant noodles one can expect to find in a tub. Though the stock was sweet and delicate and the beef added a surprising buttery taste to the dish, equivocation is inexcusable and a huge insult to any customer that comes to eat. The menu had other ambiguous names for dishes, like ‘sexy snapper roll’ and ‘ice island roll’. Needless to say, when they came to my table, I couldn’t tell what was potentially sexy or from an island. The salmon roses were actually an example of good culinary presentation: thin slices of fish wrapped around a ball of rice with a dollop of mayonnaise all in attempt to mimic the shape of a rose. Delicious and delicate, each piece demanded a hand gently pick it up; it would otherwise fall apart by way of chopsticks.

O’Yummy’s menu has infinite things to talk about: sweet and pleasing short ribs, an extensive vegetarian menu, pretty garnishes (though tasteless, seemingly tired and dried out, and no doubt prepped ahead of time) that it may just be the saving grace for the all you-can-eat sushi place in town. I can only hope it doesn’t become overwhelmed by an influx of customers in the future and compromise quality. I’m glad to have been humbled by such a seemingly unoriginal place. I’ve disqualified sushi a great deal, and considered O’Yummy just another drop in a pond which to my surprise turned into a great wave off the coast of Kanagawa.

O'Yummy Sushi

646 Erb Street West #101

Waterloo, ON

Phone: (519) 954-6555

Mon – Sat: 11:30 a.m. – 10:30 p.m.

Sun: 11:30 a.m. – 10:00 p.m.

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