University Pub Showdown

*Posted at the request of one habitué to read whenever they so desire, and the same goes for all of you too. Enjoy. Or don't.*

I love you, dear readers. Believe me, I do. So much so, that I had every intention of fervidly spoiling our feuding University’s doppelganger food-hole cleverly named Wilf’s Restaurant & Bar.

You didn’t think anyone had the guts to do it, did you? You all thought about it. Well now we’re all assembled around our own dictatorships of thought. Everyone else knows that everyone else knows we all want the answer to which place is better: Wilf’s or the Bomb Shelter? Well, you can thank me, because now we all have a mutual knowledge. Consider me the boy that said the emperor has no clothes. More specifically, Wilf’s is bad, or The Bomber sucks eggs.

So, with The Imprint’s resident photographer, Bobby D- devote Bomber habitué- by my side, we were ready and willing to skull some culinary scores.
Wilf’s venue is sexy. I admit it. Thanks to dumb luck- or malaqueous domus - Wilf’s was shut down because of a flood, rebuilding, and becoming more beautiful. So, when you’re leery about your food’s quality and its prices, you now know why. You are, as is the cosmopolitan convention, paying for the atmosphere. That’s where I like to think all my money went. Deep browns, sleek woods, high tables, comfortably sized booths, hundreds of fancy new flat screen televisions (unlike the Bomber’s four), flood lights, rococo ceiling trims all compose the space, as does very friendly service. Should we extend this imagery further? I don’t see the need. Everyone who’s anyone has been to the Bomber. We know what it looks like. It certainly isn’t bar chic (it does have a patio, though). It is, pardon my analogy, the country mouse to Wilf’s city mouse. Yes, it was looking pretty good. Bobby was conflicted. He didn’t want to like it. Point for you, Wilf’s, point for you.

But how was the menu? More focused, Bobby said. I took his word for it. It was a good charted bill of fare with drinks listed first. Unorthodox, yes; but when done, seemingly more logical. And if you’re still unimpressed, how about a gluten free menu in the menu? Damn. Bomber don’t have that. Wilf’s was coming up strong. But the food could be the game changer. We were ready to play. Bobby got his Shirley Temple. I got ready to order.

We started with appetizers: bruschetta on an herbed spiced flatbread, and deep fried pickles (the place must have finally got my letters).
When they did finally come, a good while after we ordered during an underwhelming lunch rush, we were aesthetically pleased. Flavourfully, we were both disenthralled. The bread did everything to flavor the bruschetta, other than that, it was a dull mix of cute little tomato cubes left to stew in their own disappointing premade juices, flavourless basil, and plastic parmesan cheese.

My deep fried pickles? Saltier than I would have expected, with a great crunchy exterior thanks to the batter, but not the pickles themselves, which were listless, flat, and lost without that pleasing lip puckering pickle taste I expect when eating them. They were dead, and the accompanying sauce like the paramedic that’s obligated by law to resuscitate even though he knows the subject’s dead.

All was not lost, however. Bobby had his chicken wings coming, and me my Hawker: a grilled chicken sandwich on a ciabatta bun, topped with bacon, tomatoes, lettuce, barbecue and chipotle sauce.
All that and a side of poutine.

Bobby’s wings came with crudite. He seemed to like it. The Bomber never did that for him. When it came time for the wings though, he was hesitant about diving in. The wings were drowning in a generous amount of barbecue sauce, and Bobby knew it was only a matter of time before he got dirty. His long, luxurious hair too. That was the only flaw. Other than that, he was satisfied.
And there I was, just me and my sandwich. Sure, sometimes the bacon was lost in the flavour of a moist chicken breast, calming tomato slice, and generous lettuce, but I couldn’t argue with its heartiness. My only qualm was its unevenly sliced bread. With a roof 3 times as thick as its base, it was only a matter of time before its bottom was an annoying wet mess. Oh, and the poutine? A family of feeble fries, drenched in a scarlet gravy, no doubt premade. What’s worse, is that it didn’t even cover all the curds lobbed all over my plate. The clumps just wouldn’t melt. It reminded me of the stuff from my highschool’s cafeteria, which Laurier practically is. Am I right?
C’mon. You all laughed.

Low blows aside, the poutine is right up there with the Bomber’s; side by side, you can’t tell any salty singularity. So which’s the better house? If both bars’ foods are equally humdrum, check out Wilf’s. The venue and menu make it seem like it’s at least trying. Still not convinced? Of course not. You’re all too patriotic. That’s why I’ve broken it down for you all with a fun little list. Like it, love it, hate it, whatever. Just enjoy it. I heard two girls say that in beautiful vocal fry. Anyway.

WILF’S
The Hawker

•    A chicken sandwich served on a ciabatta bun with shredded iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, onions, bacon, mayonnaise and a barbecue sauce.
•    A moist chicken breast flavoured with a barbecue marinade.
•    Bacon was sometimes lost to the overpowering sauce combination.
•    Ciabatta bun unevenly cut, which made the bottom soggy halfway through.
•    Comes with any side

Poutine

•    Super salty with a deep scarlet gravy more or less constituted from powder.
•    Dry curds that couldn’t melt and fries that bore little spirit.

Wings

•    Tasty chicken wings
•    served in an intimidating amount of sauce that made the pound look more like a stew. 


THE BOMBER 
The Warrior

•    A chicken sandwich served on a ciabatta bun with leaf lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and mayonnaise.
•    Blander than its challenger, but the Cajun version can be purchased.
•    Chicken breast was rather dry, and the lettuce flaccid.
•    Mild on the palette.
•    Its saving grace was an evenly sliced ciabatta bun with just enough bread on either side, unlike its contender.
•    Comes with any side.

Poutine
•    Overpoweringly salty, with fries that need to be eaten fast, or else.
•    Even though the gravy was salty, it had a better viscosity than its competition.

Wings
•    Alright. Just enough sauce, but not nearly as flavourfull as Wilf’s

*originally published in The IMPRINT Mar 30, 2012*

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Finally

About three weeks ago, Joey and I made the trek to Hogtown together on our own separate agendas, but didn’t part ways for the day until I made sure we stopped somewhere for a good bowl of pork Ramen with the Ill Shing Leung. Being the responsible ramen eater that he is, and well adept at knowing the fantasy of the dish, he suggested we try a new place that has been abuzz with cosmopolitan cooing: Kinton Ramen. Better, so they say, than Momofuku, the powerhouse backed by David Chang himself, and perhaps the reason for a surge of ramen popularity lately. Any place would have been fine, I was just after some perspective, and a good bowl of noodles. I’ve had it elsewhere in the past and haven’t been too dazzled by the stuff, but hoped this time would be different.

So after a good drive to the richer neighborhoods of Etobicoke, and a long ride on trains and streetcars thanks to an impaired subway system on the weekend, Joey and I arrived near Kensington, an unfortunate two hours after our planned arrival, saved luckily by the sharp Shing Leung who made sure to reserve spots for us in the surprisingly packed Kinton Ramen.

Its long wooded hallway, kitchenette bar, and anchored wooden stools matched so many of the planetary Japanese joints that come to exist in the West along with the artifice I’ve come to acknowledge with so much peevishness: the huzzah of order yelling behind the bar from performative cooks. A fun novelty for some, a curious gimmick for others. The paradox of the ramen place, at least here, may be that you’re entertained by the yelling and urged to stay longer in a long cramped place, unlike Japan, where you’re shuffled in and ushered out because of little room, uncomfortable stools, booths and maybe uncomfortable, if not symphonious, noodle slurpings. But for all that was going, people seemed to get along with or without the hoopla. 

My favourite part about the place? The inexpensive portions that do a good job of filling you up. If I was sad about anything it was that I couldn’t eat more, because Kinton offers more than good focused bowls of ramen; there’re dons, dumplings, even chicken wings. So much so, I couldn’t help but strain my eyes to the right of me, intrigued by the patron eating the place’s original fried chicken.

I eagerly chose the most democratic dish in my mind: Shio Ramen, packed with nori seaweed, a delightfully sweet soy sauce marinated egg, bean sprouts, pulled pork, and pork shoulder, all topped with sea salt. The ammoniated smells blooming off my chewy, effervescent noodles were an attestation to the place's ability to make them fresh, the sinuous nature of the things acting as the perfect vehicle for moving broth to mouth. At first a little salty, but disappearing over time by the savoury quality of roasted pork, reminiscent of both the smell and taste of bacon, I was finally able to put ramen broth into perspective, and damn good perspective at that. How can I say I loved it anymore? Breaking my egg and flooding the broth with the runny yellow yoke transformed the broth’s richness and made for a great finish. My only unexpected pang came with the pulled pork; fine in flavor, its texture was a little too deviant, resembling and feeling like tuna from a can, too ground to be pulled, but all in all, an okay thing in regards to the rest of the dish. 

Yes, we came, we ate, we conquered, all going our separate ways, wondering how long it would be until we shared affordable food in a place that waxed little expense. Only in Toronto.

Kinton Ramen
51 Baldwin St 
Toronto, ON
M5T 1L1
(647) 748-8900

Mon-Sun 11:30 am - 3 pm
Mon-Thu, Sun 5 pm - 10:30 pm
Fri-Sat 5 pm - 12 am
Any payment

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Romancing the Bakery

A gentle reminder for some of the confectionery spaces I've come to know. Mind you, there are many more, but I've tried to be as civil as possible with these places that hold special places in my heart, in no particular order. Enjoy, comrades.

City Cafe Bakery

I don’t find myself at City Café Bakery often, and when I do, it’s because I’m totting around my niece and nephew along with my sister. Nonetheless, she’s resolute: City Café Bakery’s da bomb. And, as I am a democratic eater, I thought I’d give it a good mention, because many recommend it. I personally do not have any major qualms with it, though I feel its offerings are ordinary in the baked goods department. What appeals to the masses, aside from the food, for City Café is the ethos of community it offers and always has. It polices consumer ethics with the honour system. Inside its garage/loft/diner interior customers buy goods and place their change in a jar. That’s right, cash only. But, if you’re feeling a little anarchic you can always stiff the bakers and literally vote with your dollar. You could very well refuse to pay if you don’t think the goods are up to par. An assortment of bagels, tarts, and bars, as well as pizzas are offered. The loaves come at a reasonable 3.25. Smaller goods, like bars at a questionable 2 dollars; but there’s never tax. Coffee’s fair trade. Again, community ethics.

Ottawa Street South

Kitchener, ON 

N2G 3S7

CASH ONLY

The Princess Cafe

The Princess Cafe has a popular following and is favoured, if anything, for its quaint space. Although I myself appreciate it far more for its rare novelties. Offering meal options I think better suited for lunch, the Princess Café offers a great array of potables not merely restricted to coffees and teas. It is the only café I know of in town that offers beer and wine in the setting, so when you’re feeling a little grizzly you can drink like a sailor while your friends all choose pinkies up. Its baked goods are supplied by local suppliers and change frequently based on what the outside bakers have to offer. Great for people looking for constant highs. A word of caution: the Princess Café boasts no barista expertise, so a cappuccino could be nice, able bodied, and foamy one day, but wet and deflated the next, depending on who makes it. So know your help well, and demand they do what they can to make a good and honourable memory of all those Capuchins, tea, or whatever. My novelty of choice? The Italian hot chocolate: a cup of cocoa made as thick or as thin as you like it. Alas, after the Cheeses Murphy debacle (Click here), I’m blackballed from the place, or like to imagine I am, if only to prevent myself from drinking someone’s spit- unless, of course, it’s Laura’s (light of my life, fire of my loins).

46 King Street North
Waterloo, ON 
N2J 
(519) 886-0227

Any Payment

 


Sabletine Fine Pastries 

Sabletine Fine Pastries is my chart-buster. A quaint retrofitted home, unfortunately overshadowed by a high-rise of late millennial capitalism, Sabletine connects eaters to a very romantic French culinary past. It has a monopoly on any other patisserie, all goods being born and bred by its pâtissier, trained, I’m told, in France. It offers all café fair, from coffee, to tea, to an espresso with a rich, heady crema, slight almond body, toothsome aftertaste and sugary aroma I liken to a honey glazed donut. One of my favourite novelties of the place is regal cups and saucers given to the humble and well mannered customer ordering tea. Its chocolate croissants, sprinkled with sugar and pearled with chocolate centres are flakey on the outside, chewy in the middle; and if you can, I recommend going early and getting them warm. Don’t even get me started on the joys of the French Éclairs. Its macaroons are a rare breed in these here parts, and the rich almond meringue that encapsulates a flavoured butter cream worth the exalted 1.50. It may be a lot, but nothing compares to that crunchy, chewy, perfectly balanced dessert, rich enough to have you satisfied with just one.

203 King Street South  

Waterloo, ON 

N2J 1R1 

(519) 568-7373 

Any payment

The Cake Box
Straight and to the point, the Cake Box offers a cupcake that eclipses all competition. And aside from that you can have sugar cookies, prettily dressed, and if you’re lucky, a hearty piece of artisanal cake. Though memory recalls there being more coffee options, the cake box limits itself to coffee, tea, and a small choice of cold beverages. These, I take it, are mere courtesy’s, the coffee being rather tannic in nature, but still tart. The cupcakes, however, are what’re worth the trip, and the lovelies working the line of cake decoration give a good reason to sit, watch, and make anyone feel uncomfortable under the gaze of someone stuffing his face with sweets that have the most unique and impressive flavours, like chocolate mint, coconut, and rocky road. I opted for red velvet as I always do anywhere. A moist chocolate topped by a butter cream with a touch of acidity and a whole lot of sweet. A safe bet for anyone wanting a little familiarity. Cupcakes will set you back 2.50, but quite frankly, I’d pay for them even if they were more. Cookies are 3 dollars each, so I advise a little leeriness, lest you accidently get a stale one. I am also told its legatee was also schooled in L'hexagone as well. Fancy. Check out the new location!

70 Victoria Street North

Kitchener, ON 

N2H 5C2

(519) 579-6230

Any payment

 

Cafe 1842

Café 1842 is the underdog in this culinary battle for café contest. Though I wouldn’t dare suggest a great coffee here, I’ve recollections where my lattes have had great foams. Again, it all depends on the help. But that’s not what makes it a coveted place for this self-conscious culinarian. Yes, its tables are wobbly and its matcha latte at times resembles the eggy aura of an omelette, but if you need a place to go in the late hours of the night, Café 1842 seems a fitting place. Open late, and often in the company of other peaceful café-teers, 1842 is a clean well lighted place for anyone seeking solace, and with the Jazz Room opened next door, you can stay awhile and swoon over the smoke-and-honey voices of the singers that grace the stage Friday and Saturday nights. But its baked goods are my raison d’etre. Don’t be fooled by its lackluster qualities, I’ve never been disappointed with the stuff baked by the cooks upstairs every morning. The lemon squares are my favourite: a crusty, gooey, lip puckering dream. Its array of brownies are another chewy reverie, and the ones that are gluten free expel all guilt, not that I need them. 

59 King Street North  

Waterloo, ON 

N2J

(519) 886-3350

Any Payment

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The Ghost Ship

A wacky Black Friday weekend had Joey re-entering the Great White North with a consolidating cold, and I had just the cure for what ailed him. Him and my own trembling heart. Food I had come to know and love quite well, striking the wok for two good years of my life. So it was no wonder when, just a week earlier, we passed what I had reviewed last February as the Sushi Boat, sunk, and salvaged now by the Red Ginger Modern Thai Viet Cuisine restaurant. Yes, another place built on what seems to be one of the city’s many cursed locales. Will it last? Time, obviously, will tell.

At the risk of sounding redundant, I was nagged by the strange feeling that I had been there before. I was jaded, yet again. Black and red walls, dim lighting, inappropriate, but clearly unintentional ornaments. Those fish stenciled on the walls were still there, as if ghostly pulses still stirring from the dreaded place it once was, and, strangely, still was. It was Joey and I, and no one else gazing at a long, somewhat familiar menu. Long, familiar, and more expensive than I would have liked, which may be one of few thrilling setbacks to Red Ginger restaurant. Yes comrades, I’ve had my fill of 3 dollar Vietnamese coffees and can’t help but feel a little cheated when similar restaurants scatter the city’s landscape with much cheaper cheques. So before you enter, be marginally prepared.

Before we were well on our way to ordering, Joey strained with the waiter for soup, soon calmed by my suggestion that he get a small bowl of pho, lest he want something he couldn’t finish. But admittedly, I was wrong. Finish he did, in no time, and while I waited for my papaya salad, sticky rice, and tamarind sauté, the smells were breaking my heart, reminiscing with my past self about the cold days I spent in Mummy’s kitchen- my old Thai employer- warmed by chili peppers, wok hei, and insurmountable amounts of coffee mixed with coconut milk and honey. But pleasant remembrances were few and far between, my glazed gaze broken by the chintzy soup Joey was slurping. Barely any onions, greens, and no coriander to be seen. I told him he’d be better off eating it at my house. But again, eat it he did. 


And it seemed a good eternity before my papaya salad was brought to me, especially since we, like the fish on the wall, were the only other specters occupying the restaurant that night. 

I was visually apprehensive about the look of the thing, piled atop a julienne of crunchy pale green papaya, were dull whole peanuts, squeezed together with immature tomatoes, garlic, more fish sauce than I would have liked, sugar, and the squashed rinds of lime. How those, along with the knarly end piece of garlic wound up in the dish wasn’t beyond me, but it certainly did a good job of adding to my frustration with the pricey appetizer. I hoped my rice would get me back on track to a pleasant meal, but I was served with another fickle purchase. A knobby square of sticky rice, steamed to dryness in some corners lay in wait, and all I could think about were the mounds Mummy and I would pile into a wicker basket and give to customers. Still, I did what I could to enjoy it, rolling it and dipping it in the sweet salty dressing.

There's that rind again . . .

The tamarind sauté was a fabulous change, and not something I catch in many other places. Slices of beef battered and deep fried were stir fried along with red peppers and deep fried onions in a sweet tamarind sauce. Charred by the wok, and nuanced by ginger, each airy protuberant piece delivered that bright sugary flavor I wanted with anything tamarind, and any chewiness helped it all linger. It was a fabulous choice, and everything I expected. Two could have easily shared it, but it was for my stomach only. The Red Ginger on the other hand, isn’t wholly for my heart.

Red Ginger Modern Thai Viet Cuisine
465 Highland Rd W,
Kitchener, ON
N2M 3C6

519-954-8088


SUN-THU: 11:00 am- 9:30pm
FRI & SAT: 11:00 am- 10:00pm

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The Infamous Gastronomer

In attempts to fulfill my misspent twenties and thereby cross off whatever section on my life's bucket list, at least until Ms. Wu beckons me back to the hills of Gukeng where I can continue working on the family's tea farm, I found myself applying for whatever job lay in wait in Waterloo's culinary landscape. You know? To pass the time.

Luckily, someone told me Princess Cafe was giving employment a go, and while I was leery of my ability to procure work with the place, I couldn't help but elbow myself into applying for whatever mediocre, underemployed position it offered, but just until I get the call for delivery driver at Boston Pizza. 

Looking more familiar than I probably should have, I said my hellos, handed in my extensive resume, and waited if there were any other questions. There was.

Its proprietor, sporting his everyday dracule haircut, and his habitual short sleeve plaid shirt combo, asked if I was the guy who wrote food reviews. Now, I WAS a guy who wrote food reviews, I don't know if I was THE guy, but that's a different beast altogether. Anyway, I complied, humoured him with a 'yes,' and then had his assurance that he would never hire me.

I asked why? He said because I wrote about Cheeses Murphy, and then reiterated, I'm sure in his mind with something a little wittier and gastronomer shaming, that he would never hire me.

I probed further. I asked what exactly he didn't like about my review, and he responded with a resounding, "It's cunty. It's just cunty. It's cunty." Over and over, and over again. As an aside, I hope he's a feminist trying to reclaim the word, otherwise, that's total slandering, innapropriate, and sexist language, and I hope every woman who goes there questions his use of the word.

What I would have preferred was an honest explanation of why my articulate, honest review, written almost a year ago, was so dissatisfying beyond ascribing it with such a hateful word.

I respected his opinion, even in lieu of his scenester, Ramones sweatshirt wearing employee cowering in the corner and snickering as if also trying to shame me like I'd just been served with the illest hook. But I felt I really didn't do anything wrong, besides give a good honest review, unless otherwise admitting not to. I humbly left, saving my smile for the exit, because when I did leave, I felt nothing but infamy. The people cared, maybe only when I disagreed with something they did, but they cared, and that made me feel pretty good about myself. 

But my own infamy aside, what would have actually shamed me and impressed me about Princess Cafe's owner would have been a genuine response as to why he felt my review wasn't an honest assessment. In an ideal world, attempting to hire me in hopes of changing my opinion about the food, or showing me how good the food really is would have really changed my world view. In a more civil world, after a solid year's time of holding a grudge and hoping for the day where the place gets to confront me, I would hope they would, after assessing my review, ask me instead to try their food yet again, because we really got off on the wrong foot and it's really improved. But if it's not their ego, it's mine. And it's a crying shame. My review was harsh, I admit, so harsh that there was rumour I had shut it down months after- and I didn't bother to ask them about the review I wrote about the actual cafe almost two years ago, which could be just as harsh, I don't know. Again, I think it's honest. And I'm sure as I left, he and his employee had a good hate fest, stewing in their juices about how I'm some sort of 'cunty' food writer who thinks he's all that. I'll accept that as a good possibility; but it's a small sacrifice if it means they did consider my critique and used it, even if not admittedly, to improve something as novel as a grilled cheese sandwich, which, again, should be phenomenal if you're going to sell it to inebriated undergrads at 3:00 am. Bridges . . . you never know where you're gonna burn 'em.

So, I guess this is goodbye, Princess Cafe. I can't particularly say I'll miss your acrid coffee, your flacid cappucinos, your platitudinous paninis. I will however miss the chance to be a part of your team if only to contribute to the improvement or passion that is desperately needed in your food, not just part of a cafe that depends on rhetoric, and Rotello decor. I'll especially miss Laura, the girl behind the counter who I'm pretty sure doesn't work there anymore. Yes, Laura; she was like a sexy cross between an un-crazy Miley Cyrus and even sexier Kat Dennings. Oh, the hours I spent in that place reading Japanese and pining away for any bit of conversation with her. So Laura, if you're reading this, get in touch, I'd like to take you out for dinner. Maybe for grilled cheese. Until then, I'll have to lament the fact that I'll have to get a grown up job with my two graduate degrees, diploma, and fluency in multiple languages. It's tough, but I'll get through it, thanks to the Princess Cafe's stern, woman shaming, proprietor. Again, I thank you, まだまだ強くなれる.


Love, 

The 'Infamous' Weezee

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Dollars to Donuts

Muscled onto the 401 by three Mack trucks mere car lengths before our exit, your enraged narrator and his despot compatriot, Joey, found themselves driving, driving, driving yet again- without any cellphone service, without any direction, without any canteens (that I haven’t already been to), lost first on the bucolic roadways of Ayr, then Cambridge, and then, hours later- cars later- in the downtown of our boondock sibling city, Elmira, which by the way, I didn’t even know had a downtown. A downtown that’s only a few block long mind you; but, a downtown nonetheless. And as a quick aside, if you’re from Elmira, and find yourself angered by my own ignorance, don’t be, I’m already angry at myself for not knowing its dives, its expensive dollar stores, and its damn friendly locals, who seem to have had a radar for two guys who don’t live in the town and came off as the kind of folk who drive Mack trucks and muscle people onto the highway. Seriously though, the amount of hellos, ‘can I help you’s, parables, and blushing school girls were uncanny. I can’t for the life of me remember so much charm, especially when I spent a good deal of my own youth terrorizing so many parties in its neighbourhoods as a teenager.

That said, today was no different, because it wasn’t long before Joey and I were polling residents, comin’ off as big city folk, askin’ for the three best places to eat, laughing because there were only three places to eat, having strangers interrupt strangers, making jeunesse teenage girls feel embarrassed by the sojourning temperament of their town, wishing they could, like Joey and I, come from the big city where we sauna, drive recklessly, and drink all of our parents' vermouth. 

But eventually, we settled for the most amusing novelty suggested, a Mennonite diner called Donuts & Deli, chaperoned to the spot by one of the locals, this time an old lady on her way to the hardware store. Are your hearts gushing yet? They should be, it happened. 

And so there it was, unconceited, nowhere near overblown, filled with storeys, filled, no doubt, with stories, painted plain with walls the shade of emerald somewhere and lime somewhere else, old oak wood, eggwashed ceilings, Kulture, gold ambience, quilts, bread, it was like being baked into your grandmother’s meringue and left out for days. We loved it. Its cheap banana splits, its donuts, its baked goods, its bizarre house specials. Its life lessons. Joey’s being, that for a diner you should expect the food it gives you. So, if a plate says taco salad, don’t expect fixings in a tortilla bowl, expect nacho chips crumbled over salad with cheese. 

I want to write about Donuts & Deli, dear readers, but I don’t want to be honest. Not at all. The governing gourmand in me says, ‘No,’, but the novel seeking adventurer says, ‘Yes’, all the way with Donuts & Deli. It was a confusing escape. I ordered the day’s special, chucked ham and cheese on a Kaiser, broiled, mashed, tough around the edges, a salty, buttery mess that set my stomach on fire, that destroyed me cognitively, releasing dopamine from eating something that was so bad it was good. Combine that with a ridiculously inexpensive price and no one could resist even the most ill-suited thing on the menu of a diner run by Mennonites. Again, I’m talking about the taco salad. It’s so far removed from restaurants, it can’t be judged. 

The locals loved the food they were eating, they asked if we got what they got. They loved their egg salad sandwiches, Joey his turkey sandwich, his potato sausage soup. The stuff was dull as dishwater, but we knew we’d be coming back- for breakfast, for donuts, for girls in bonnets, for the baked goods we love because they’re simply nostalgic. How could we not. Like the blue hair leaving the place told us, ‘better soup with a friend, than steak with the Enemy.’ Damn right, darlin’, damn right.

Elmira Donut & Deli
22 Church St W,
Elmira, ON
N3B 1M3
519-669-5353

PAYMENT: CASH DEBIT

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The Tame Fox

Wayfaring for food with Joey has once again taken me to the farthest reaches of the region’s culinary landscape. But dread not fellow eaters, because I still managed to keep my iron stomach in town, though this particular place may be a ways in our culinary pond. Still, if you are like me, the chancing culinary type, you would risk wandering somewhere far for something potentially good, as Joey and I do, and always seem to be doing lately, our meandering mouths aptly choosing a place that suits the wilds its situated in. I’m talking about the Rabbid Fox. Not particularly wild, but in the wilds of Kitchener, as wild and suburban as things can admittedly get. And as wild as the place allows its actual essence to be, its selling point being that, as rabid as the fox is, it has a ‘twist.’

The flushed aroma of beer hit us hard, and the patrons at the bar would have otherwise intimidated us if we hadn’t been, by some act of Providence, dressed for the occasion. Yes, Joey and I fit in well, what with his handle bar mustache and my thermal undershirt button-front combo. But that’s enough small talk.

There’s nothing particularly rabid about the Rabbid Fox, unless you consider its attempt at pretension, because behind its manifesto one will discover, as I did immediately walking through its proletariat sports bar decorated with lethargic, unwincing browns, hockey jerseys, and flat screens commingling with a dining section that can only remind a person of those large mysterious mansions we see while driving in the countryside, no doubt belonging to misanthropic surgeons, that the Fox is just a gastro pub. Certainly, the butcher paper tablecloths and silverware combination cements the conception.
And, like all gastro-pubs, the Fox does everything it can to coalesce the best of the two rivaling sibling worlds that have existed ever since the birth of the Market. So much so, that the special of the day was escargot; combine that with poutine and you might have some sort of sibylline utopia. I’ll never know.
Nevertheless, you can have a hardy, but well thought out meal for just under 20 dollars. I can’t deny my interest in all of the things I wanted to combine on the menu, offering trivialities and house specials which did catch Joey and my fancies.

We started with the saganaki appetizer, a Greek cheese flambéed in an anise flavoured liquor, contrasting salty and sweet powerfully by way of melted, curdled cheese mellowing in a wonderfully reduced syrup of liquor. If we were patient, we would have taken our time to dip our flat breads in the stuff, but we were having too much fun piling cheese on bread and chewing away. I had to settle for dipping my knife in the stuff when all was good and done, it was that fantastic.

Next, I was misdirected by the waitress into trying the bar’s special Po’Boy sandwich, stacked with sliced beef, cheese, caramelized onions, deep fried pickles (the coup de grace), and a creole sauce. I had high expectations that fell too short for it, and all Po’Boy sandwiches in this town, because I’ve never really had one I’ve enjoyed, simply because they’ve never been done well. My bun was soft and warm, my beef, boiled, fatty and bland, which did no good to balance the textural quality of the bread. The caramelized onions too were weak and squeaky, with no real flavour. Half way through I found myself pulling out my deep fried pickles before they lost any composure, but I’m always a sucker for the things. I thought maybe the dipping sauce it came with was reason for its dull composure, but it just made it a salty mess, visually reminiscent of some oil spill somewhere. Too bad.

Now, the Fox’s locale may make eating there forgivable, but I can only hope my bad sandwich was the only bad undomesticated thing on the menu.

THE RABBID FOX
123 Pioneer drive, 
Kitchener, ON(519) 748-2404

Mon - Tue:     11:00 am - 11:00 pm
Wed - Sat:    11:00 am - 1:00 am
Sun:            11:00 am - 10:00 pm


PAYMENT: VISA MASTERCARD DEBIT CASH

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Call To Arms

A Table for Maple is the epiphanic name of a 'local foodie's' blog which, to the trained, critical, culinary eye, appears as nothing more than a blog rhetorically pandering with a bombardment of instagram photographs nostalgically turning the author into some individual of some charmed, experienced circle. Obviously, this is a dangerous thing, because Maple, whoever she is, is just that. A foodie. Not a journalist. Not a food writer. And it's this irresponsibility that makes food writing a laughable thing, and a destructive thing to the poor restaurants who do their best to serve, but have individuals eat, without perspective, or proper knowledge, and post their thoughts about the place on their blogs. But I won't go into that. There is no need. Not in Maple's case. Her short sentences, her pandering photos- all obvious contemporary requisites appealing to the market. Again, flashy rhetoric. But the red flag for me, was Maple's 'To Be Reviewed' page. A page of restaurants the foodie wishes to review in the future, if not already, which explicitly states at the top

 '*Not interested in chain restaurants.' 

Yet, poor Maple does just that. She lists chains and has visited chains, and makes no apology for doing so, even when I requested she change her interests (feel free to check our twitter conversations). Obviously, a dangerous thing. Because clearly, Maple doesn't do her research, and assumes she knows what's what. That something's originally placed, when in fact it isn't. Not only is Maple a bad food blogger, she's a bad journalist, and has little integrity, because she'd rather post a reply of 'Nah' so as to not bruise her own ego, or justify her actions by meaning 'non-local corporate chains', whatever that means. But if being really picky, there are still some on her list. I can think of two. And I will name them if you ask me. That's the biggest red flag of them all. She doesn't care about being honest, or restaurants, as far as I'm concerned. She only cares about herself.

So what do we do? Well, I can't do much more than what I've done, which is bring attention to it. It's up to you dear readers, to suggest Maple have some integrity and reassess what she aims to speak about, without elevating herself to a more worthy authority by 'being local', and caring about 'local' business, because she's not. She's lost in a Bourdieuian mess of cultural capital. Trying to join the ranks of people hypnotized by ecologism, which is today's worst kind of consumerism.

I implore you all, please help before it's too late.

Love,

Weezee.

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Good Gracious, Gordita!

Joey’s stomach knows no bounds. And when it receives the call for a particular cuisine, not even a sushi spot where the host calls him handsome could make him choose otherwise. Not even a 2 hour’s drive could make him change his mind. No, it would only make him want it more. Even if it meant driving out of town; even if it meant driving to Cambridge. That’s right, my dreaded culinary wasteland. What keeps bringing me back to this place? A jaded palate in Kitchener-Waterloo, a big wide culinary world, and a little bit of serendipity, I suppose. But all that aside, I was humbled by Joey’s tenacity because it brought us to what I consider the only true Mexican restaurant between the two cities: El Rinconcito Mexicano. Forget the stalls, forget the tienda-esque Mexican places in Waterloo, they can’t compare. Its own name is even too humble for the sturdy meals that bolster it to local culinary admiration. If you’re in the mood for Mexican, you’d be foolish not to make the journey to a fantastic, and already well received place like El Rinconcito. And if you already live in Cambridge: congratulations. You have somewhere worth eating. 

El Rinconcito’s great kitchen is pulled together by its culturally themed dining room, well thought out with Mexico's colours, as well as edifice that you’d like to expect in any South American restaurant, but done well, even with whatever items of kitsch strewn along the walls, which surprisingly don’t unravel the illusion, but make it more inviting. The menu is nothing short of manageable; reading it, you may think the prices daunting, but when you receive your meals, you’re most likely to change your mind, thinking you ordered too much, as Joey and I both did asking for sides of poloze soup, a phenomenal Mexican stew rooted in culinary ritual and complex flavor. Garnished with crisp diced lettuce and radishes, the maize based stew was reminiscent of nothing else but Creation. An earthy flavor bound up in its savoury tomato tart broth, and accented further by oregano and juicy pulled pork, the 5.99 dish came as a side, but could have easily been a meal all alone, especially with the deep fried, puffed up tortilla shells that accompanied it. 

Pozole and laughter.

We took our time extolling the dish, adding copious amounts of lime, dipping in constant shells, deciding that if anything came close to a garden, the pozole was it. My entrée, another meal in itself, was a delightful, generous combination of gorditas, rice, and refried beans. 

I can’t begin to describe how my sandwiches lifted my spirits. Stacked between two of the most texturally satisfying corn cakes was more pulled pork (my choice), creamy goat cheese, and a pungent, but reviving medley of bright coriander, onions and lettuce, which, it seemed in all of El Rinconcito’s dishes, do an excellent job of lifting up the heaviest of savory, otherwise over-satiating flavours. My chewy, but exteriorly crunchy gordita shells had a unique smoked corn quality that contributed to the pork’s meaty and reminiscent barbeque quality, even though stewed. And, contrary to what you may think, the goat cheese, though mild, took nothing away from the flavor. 

My only qualm with the dish was the rice and bean sides. Though the beans tasted canny, and the rice, riddled with diced vegetables, and too familiar to the stuff we boil from boxes, I was imparted with some advice by another party joining Joey and I on our meal: we didn’t come for the rice and beans. I was apt to agree, even though it was my first time. I’d be apt not to, however, if everything wasn’t as delicious as it was. That said, it was delicious. It was food I could eat every day. I thank you El Rinconcito; eating is exciting again. 

EL RINCONCITO MEXICANO 
49 main street 
Cambridge, Ontario 
N1R 1V6 

(519) 623-4100 

CASH AND DEBIT 

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The Owl Could Be Wiser

Just when I thought I had uptown Waterloo licked, it hit me with another new restaurant. I should count myself lucky. We should all count ourselves lucky. We have somewhere to eat yet again. But what newest installation rests in the cultured culinary court of our uptown? Another Korean restaurant. Yes, you heard me, and I’ll whole heartedly accept your hating me for reviewing a Korean place so soon, but what else could I do? Nothing else is new. For me, anyway. 

I’ll be adult about this. No I won’t, I’ll be totally immature. To add insult to injury, the joint’s a chain. A chain you’d be better off confusing for an ESL cram school, what with its owl in graduate cap mascot and all. 

There’s a lesson here. Yearning for more Korean places leads the universe to deliver more Korean places, and that can be a bad thing, especially when all Korean places seem to be doing the same thing. The ‘Famous’ Owl of Minerva Korean Restaurant & Bar is a little bit of an exception, because it has the most expansive, different menu I’ve seen, all while offering the same things we’ve already seen. But hey, why travel blocks away to one Korean place when you can just go up the street to the other? That’s one redeemable quality, I suppose. 

Its large dining hall shares a familiar vibe with the other washed out Korean joints of bigger cities. Intense lighting, a cool open, airy chamber, and an ambience that eliminates the time of day, all copy the same atmosphere portrayed by the restaurants of Korean dramas, all of which were playing on the multiple televisions resting on the place’s walls. Exposed brick, red and yellow swatches, regal chairs and tables echoing a woody Korean aesthetic all echo something we’ve seen before, and I suppose that’s the point. It can be comforting in its familiarity, but paradoxically agitating if you’ve been eating in these places for far too long and are tired of the performative bellowing Korean hellos. I wouldn’t expect any different, however. If you want something hardy and familiar, then it’s the place to be. 

It does fall shorter than I’d like though. Yes, it has a large menu, but mixing and matching is few and far between, especially if you want to stay under a 20 dollar budget. You can squeak by if you’re really clever, and compromising. Bowls of soup and rice aren’t partner to bowls of noodles, so if you want meat dishes, be prepared to pay a little more. Oh, and if you love black bean noodles, look somewhere else. But that’s a small flaw for the amount of options. 

I ordered an honest bowl of instant ramen noodles, because I’m a sucker for inexpensive dishes, and apparently a bigger glutton for punishment. Set in a stoneware bowl was a quota of noodles lumped together with slices of rice cake, dumpling and a soft boiled egg, all in a bath of boiling fuzzy foam and salty spiced broth. The bowl lacked any balance. No vegetables, no real meat, and in a bowl too hot to warrant eating immediately, so much so that by the time the bubbles settled down, the thing became a kind of starchy porridge. 

In between that and my plate of spicy ricecakes I consumed a smattering of side dishes, meager and all too similar in flavor, featuring a spectrum from spicy to sweet to brakish. I’d expect better from such an established place, especially since other places in town offer great arrays, and half the time, it’s the side dishes customers come for. 

My plate of ricecakes, combined with vegetables and fish slices, smothered in a spicy, sandy sauce, was my favourite choice. It had balance and clear, simple flavours of sweet, savoury, and spicy, calmed by sesame. Texturally, it was a treat with chewy cakes, firm fish, and crunchy vegetables. But regardless, with a stiff opposition of already established Korean restaurants in town, I’d expect more wisdom with cuisine from a place as 'famous' as the Owl of Minerva. 

The Famous Owl of Minerva Korean Restaurant & Bar
2 King St N, 
Waterloo, ON 
N2J 2W7 
519-886-7275 

11am-11pm every day 

ANY PAYMENT

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Shameless Plug

I'm on twitter now. Because I figured, hey, I could be more important. Check the column on the left!

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Responsible Eating

I knew I’d need a good amount of perspective before writing about a place like Bread Heads. I planned on indifferently stating the obvious- that Bread Heads made bread. That’s it. But the pangs of disappointment that came from its owner regarding people who ate there and wrote about it without really thinking about how personal food is to each and every one of us reminded me that I was still pretty responsible when it came to eating anybody’s food. That is, as much as I like admitting that I review with the notion of entertaining my readers first, I do have to consider that even if I don’t like the way something’s done, it doesn’t mean that it’s done badly. The demarcation of food writing allows a lot of wiggle room for this dynamic, choosing your own palette in favour of what you are given to order.

With all that in mind, I took the long way home after spending the better part of my evening sitting against a communally mounted table that shared its space with only six chairs, the most unambitious wood fired oven I’ve seen in the city, and a bread cart displaying the leftovers of what the bakery could turn out for the entire day. Yes, I walked through a graveyard, drank some tea, and thought long and hard about how I could give Bread Heads the good honest review it deserved.

What I respect the most about Bread Heads is the thought that goes into what it offers, even if a miniscule amount compared to the bakeries in town. But that is only in Bread Heads’ static bakery, because aside from that, it has its own mobile cart bringing bread to the people of our fair city. In its bakery, it is a more delimited story. The space is small and cozy, heated throughout by the oven that is fed wood throughout the day. It offers a choice amount of baked bread, but not without having thought about what is best suited to the day. Organic whole wheat loaves are the choice. One type of loaf supports the place, reinforced by offerings of particular baked goods that suit the hot environment: muffins, scones, squares, nothing too baroque. Entrees come in the form of sandwiches and melts, using the buns baked for sale, as well as a smattering of thin crust pizzas which I found to be the most indulging. All these things are apt to change, so although choices seem small day by day, there is always something new the next. 

I chose the day’s pizza special: the harvest. A pizza topped with local vegetables, sheep’s cheese made in Stratford, and a balsamic vinegar reduction. I appreciated the spot’s attempt, no matter how bootless, to seek out the business of the community, and give the food an identity from home. More importantly however, was that it was done with finesse and in good taste. 

It was the fastest pizza ever made for me too. It was not more than 5 minutes before a 9 inch pie was placed in front of me. A sparse, but harmonized amount of cubed roasted vegetables decorated the thing, signaling my mental bellyaching about why there looked to be so little, but soon absolved when I realized that there was no need for so much with such a thin, light crust, speckled with spots of char from the hot oven. Its roasted qualities didn’t interfere with the balmy butter quality that mimicked the comforting character of an English muffin. There was no raw dough here, only light leavened crust, sweetened by the mild nature of the cheese and the reduced balsamic vinegar that was drizzled all over it. I’d otherwise dread telling you the price, but the quality ingredients perfectly justified the payment, and maybe coming back for a muffin and a cup of coffee. 

Bread Heads
16 Duke Street East 
Kitchener, ON 
N2H 2G8 

Hours? I dunno. 

Any payment

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The Guanaquita

I can’t contextualize Guanaquita Restaurant’s space as much as I’d like to. It’s a hodge-podge of South American culture. I think. It’s a static space of South American otherness. El Salvadorian otherness, actually. It’s a deep lofty dining hall where one could easily have lived. Today, I interpreted it as a room of micro-table culture. At one end, before its discoteca, it manifests itself as a veranda where diners can look out onto the city. Beyond that, before its bar, exists those reminiscent place settings of thin framed chairs, multi-layered tablecloths that echo some transferred Mediterranean place settings, all before it phlebotomizes into a warmer, more well lit stucco dining area where booths with protruding wooden columns have orbs of light resting on each one of them. After that, it becomes Appadurai’s ‘bazaar of thingness,’ full of obsolescent items used to decorate the space, proliferating in excess with photos of piers, books on shelves: space fillers. My dining companion likened it to Narnia meeting Dawson’s Creek. It was poignant. For a humble El Salvadorian restaurant starting out, it was on the mark. If its walls could talk, they wouldn’t ask for admiration, only mouths to come in try some good, honest food. 

Not too renowned in this city, El Salvadorian cuisine rests in some quiet corners and begs for dabbling mouths. Simple tapas make each restaurant more than any meals that could be served, and what makes a place like Guanaquita Restaurant so enjoyable is the fun you can have with food. If it’s your first time, and it’s not breakfast, give traditional dishes like pupusas, tamals, enchiladas, and pastelitos your tongues. It’s these dishes that make El Salvadorian cuisine such a treat. But if it is breakfast, definitely have it at a place like Guanaquita. In all my experiences, El Salvidorian breakfasts have been some with the most finesse. Inexpensive and hardy, they include not only typical choices, but odds and ends pertinent to the cuisine, like fried plantains or beans, without, believe it or not, all of the oily residuals greasy spoons leave with us.

More than affordable, Guanaquita’s menu comes with many options, appetizers, entrees, and desserts. But I say forgo all that in favour of every single tapas on the menu, offered by way of the restaurant’s own Guanaquita Platter: a visually sparse looking plate of pupusas, tamales, enchiladas, and pastelitos, but a powerfully filling thing paired with tomato sauce and my absolutely loved Salvadorian relish: a simple coleslaw; its mild, tart flavor is accented by the oregano used to give it a cool, earthy quality I can never get enough of. The pupusa was, and always is, however, my favourite. A thick, pancake like tortilla stuffed with pork, cheese, and green peppers, its playful texture and charred aroma make it, in my mind, a holy trinity of El Salvidore’s cuisine.
 
The tamal was another first for me. A corn dough mixed with chickpea, pickled jalepeno, potato, and olives made for a thing of complex flavor, busy flavours, complicated even more by the leaf it’s steamed in. Texturally reminiscent of polenta, the vegetative flavor from the leaf added a whole other, brave, element of flavor.

And if you want the play of culinary tourism to hit home, treat yourself to a thrifty glass of Horchata: a percolated glass of rice milk flavoured with cinnamon and sugar that tickles the back of your throat with its smooth, yet chalky peculiarity. And if its sweetness still isn’t enough, go for any and all desserts. Everything’s so well priced you can eat a lot for under twenty dollars and still have your fill, like the plantain patties: deep fried fist sized dumplings stuffed with plantain and custard that oozes out as you shatter a caramelized exterior, dusted with sugar and harmonized by the meaty fruit’s tartness and the custard’s creaminess. Did I mention how inexpensive everything was?


Guanaquita Restaurant
273 King St. West UPPER
Kitchener, Ontario n2g 1b1
 

Tue - Fri:  10:00 am- 9:00 pm
Sat:          9:00 am- 10:00 pm
Sun:        10:00 am- 8:00 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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