Some Dives Just Aren't Cool

*CLOSED (Thank Buddha)- but potentially re-opened down bridgeport E., Waterloo)
Now this place was a dive. Pink, pastel paint, checkered tiles, wallpaper from decades ago curling off walls, tables with limbs like chess pieces, over-produced novelty photographs of exotic animals hung in gold frames (of which my company contended reminded him of his parents’ basement), water stained ceilings, menus made out of construction paper, some options crossed out when whatever cooks decided they just didn’t feel like cooking them anymore. How on earth do I ever end up in these places? This is what I’m asking myself in retrospect.

So, what’s a dive, dear readers? I throw the term around a lot, and I know I owe a solid explanation, because I eat at a lot of places and a lot of them don’t care much for atmosphere which in an ironic twist of fate creates a kind of fun atmosphere, assuming you like to pretend you’re in a movie and are planning to maybe knock off a bank or leave a horse head in someone’s bed. Anyway, to me, and for the sake of all future reviews punched out by my fingers, a dive is a restaurant with a poor, neglected appearance simply because the particular proprietors, I firmly believe, depend on the quality of their food to carry the reputation of the restaurant, not the way it looks. In the popular discourse of our restaurants the omerta is as such: good looking place means good eating experience; therein lies the paradox, my eating compatriots, because some people in attempt to rearticulate that old code of honour seek out dives believing that they are as legitimate if not more than those places hiding behind fancy appearances. A poor appeal to a perceived nostalgic past, I reckon. There are tons of cultural anthropological, gastronomical reasons for why else they are the way they are but I’ll leave it at that.

All You Can Eat Hot Pot has been around for about a year’s time, albeit, a rather neglected one; at least, that was the impression I got when I entered the place. I asked for a takeout menu and was apologized to, the lone cook there offering up what single menu they did have, the same menu I asked for again when I returned to actually eat a week later but was refused. Instead I was directed to the paint chipped wall and the menus taped against it; it was there that my company and I, a fellow cook and comrade in culinary arms, chose from an array of casseroles, noodles, and appetizers. And, of course, there was the all-you-can-eat hot pot, running from 14.99 and up, depending on what meat and soup broth you chose to have with it. Though a sucker for a deal, I convinced my party and I to try the inexpensive and seemingly appetizing options on the menu. From baked eel cakes to lamb on rice, it was a plethora of potentially pleasurable eating. Yes, my theory that dives always serve the most enjoyable food was bearing out yet again. It was me, my compadre, and the two lone cooks. No one else.

We chose what we were told was the most sold dish: braised spare ribs with noodles, and to that added appetizers of salt and peppered chicken, eel cakes, and the intriguingly named Taiwanese sausage. Good portioned items for a good price; though we ended up getting the appetizers after we received our noodle entrees. To that we added a strangely brewed and fruity red tea on the verge of slimy (a symptom of over-brewed and old tea) and a dirty jug of water. This place was a dive alright. I was getting excited. Though we had our noodles in front of us we patiently waited, at least, for the first appetizer: the salt and peppered chicken. Pieces of chicken coated in a light dusting of flour, salt and pepper, deep fried and slathered with a sweet sauce I couldn’t place, the dish lacked the adroitness of conscious cooking. That is, it seemed like the two kids who cooked our food didn’t know, nor care how good food could be. They needed mentorship I thought, they needed passion. The chicken was fried to a point of being dry.

When the eel cakes arrived my friend guessed it was ketchup used for sauce, perhaps a play on the dish of fish and chips? The eel, deep fried in a tempura cake had a crisp bite that at first was reminiscent of the rind flavor of a melon, immediately overpowered by the salty fishiness of the fresh eel. An interesting medley, and if there was any point to the ketchup it was to cut through the at times off-putting fishiness.

The Taiwanese sausage, at first glance having the appearance of thick strips of bacon, had a fatty tenderness accompanying any well prepared pork. My only qualm with the dish was the sauce- another flavor I couldn’t place accompanied by an unwelcomed fruitiness.

	Ugh. Udon.

Our noodle dishes were nothing special. The ribs’ dry outer appearance suggested that they were in fact brewed with a beef broth for a long, long time, which was well respected among my company and I, and the meat itself was rather tender. The noodles used were, surprisingly, udon, something I hate to see in a Chinese dish and feel cheated against whenever I get them, the commodity being a cheap substitute for good Chinese wheat noodles. As my colleague and I debated the certainty of the broth, whether it was made from scratch or a mere facsimile (I chose the latter, my friend chose the former, suggesting the cloudiness and the flecks of beef supported its authenticity), we both agreed that there was some flavor, aside from its typical beefiness, trying to get through, and that because it was an over-stewed, oversaturated concoction, whatever it was just couldn’t get through.

It was while gazing into the abyss of that broth when I noticed a small fleck of what I thought was spice, but much to my balk, alas, was a small insect. We had a conundrum on our hands. We sympathized for the small mistake and didn’t want to make the place feel bad about something that happens from time to time, debating the best way to handle the situation until finally my friend, in his experience as a cook expressed that he would like to know any mistake so as to know better next time; I agreed.

After getting the attention of the cook and telling him the situation, he asked if we wanted him to take it out. Another bowl would have been a better gesture, but I dismissed his own complacency by telling him that it was alright, and to just be mindful for next time because some customers may not be so understanding. I continued eating, buggy soup and all, keeping my readership in heart. But if the soup bug debacle wasn’t bad enough, when reaching for my second eel cake I couldn’t help but notice, in the light of the afternoon, the small white sheen that came off a hair baked into the cake. I picked it up and pulled it out, calling the cook back. I felt for this place because it seemed to me that it was slowly disappearing, though I couldn’t know for sure how busy it may be, especially as an all-you-can-eat hot pot place, but there was always the possibility that those cooking here just didn’t care.

To my vexation the cook was unfazed, and seemed inconvenienced for having had to come and defend his meal, assuring me that it wasn’t a hair but something from clothes. With no more than a tired apology and no attempt to offer a replacement or a free meal, I decided I couldn’t finish. The place clearly didn’t care. We wondered how much farther down this rabbit hole we could have possibly gone, especially if we chose the hot pot. We didn’t bother to find out. Two strikes were enough. With stomachs half full, and like civilized culinaires, we left with grace leaving no tip but still paying for our meals. It was 18 dollars I’d never see again, which is fitting for a place I’ll never go to again either. So much for dives.

All You Can Eat Hot Pot

Mon-Fri 2 -1030
Sat-Sun 12- 1030
255 King St. Waterloo

Cash only

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