The Young Masters

Years ago, in my more conservative culinary days, I would have done everything in my power to expel it from the collective culinary conscience of local eaters. ‘Fair trade? Whatever,’ I said. ‘Eating local? Who needs it?’ It was all a mere ruse. I thought nothing of the eaters seeking those conventions. Slavoj Zizek in my heart, I thought they were nothing more than degenerates; they’d all turn into monkeys.


However today, as if by some act of serendipity, the motley crew of handsome dudes and dudettes at Seven Shores have charmed my ruddy heart and have me wishing that I was privileged enough to work alongside them. Not because of its campaign for eco-eating, though I cannot deny the merit in that. But because of its crew’s swift work ethic and drive for mastery over food that spreads an infectious charm any customer will come by when seeing the passion in what is being made, whether soup, sandwich, confection, or coffee: the masterwork of the place. There is no resistance against a customer’s opinion, only humility.
When it comes to coffee, nothing but truth and artisanship, something the joint stands firmly behind. The horde is honest and will tell you the better coffee choice of the day, provided you ask. From drip to pour-over to the fabled Chemex Coffeemaker, if you’re lucky enough to come on the days one of the young adherents decides to bring his own in. That’s how much they care.

Yes, it’s a huge claim to say Seven Shores offers the best coffee in town, for there is no right or wrong when it comes to the science of connoisseurship, only mere speculative opinion. And yet, if I am to choose any durable standard for measurable taste I’d be a fool not to say nothing beats the brews at Seven Shores. You can even buy the beans yourself if you like it that much, the place is just simply happy having changed your life a little. But the buck doesn’t stop at coffee. There’s a bevy of other beverages, like smoothies and super smoothies (an intriguingly expensive specialty), cold drinks and potable potations offered from the place’s market shelf full of fair-trade and organic products, and even takeout from the menu. That said, there’s a lot to stuff down at Seven Shores, and the menu, combined with what is being baked or offered at the time can be a little overwhelming, but a myriad of choice might be your only problem. Either way, the help has no problem holding your hand through the process. And teasing you about it. That’s right, the prices are fair, and the humour is free.


I was invited to try a latte to start and have the Miso Sesame Tempeh Wrap: a simple wheat tortilla wrapped around meaty marinated wedges of nutty tempeh, stuffed with carrots mixed greens and, of all things, cashew butter. It seemed an odd combination, already disqualified in my mind, but that first bite cautioned me against my own prejudice. Yes, dear readers, I was humbled yet again; apprised of my spoiled self decadence. Cashew butter and vegetables in a sandwich? Who thought such a civilized combination could exist between a savoury preserve and fresh mélange. Not this dude. Accompanying that was a miso tapenade for extra flavor. A dark dipping sauce of what I assumed was miso, soy, sugar and sesame oil, the side offered a good buffer against a dryness that characterized the roll. And though I could appreciate the sentiment, I felt the wrap was enough to stand on its own.

Next on the dish was the side salad of the day, a coleslaw I couldn’t get enough of. A pungent medley of julienned cabbages, peppers, and root vegetables, the dish was enshrined by a homemade dressing of extraordinarily well rounded sweetness, accenting those Asian inspired flavours of the wrap, and tempering the fermented characteristics of the fresh cut cabbage. I daresay it was my favourite part.

To quell my gluttony further I asked for any baked goods, eyeing the banana bread and what the place called Marg’s Magic Bar, a palmed sized square with a graham cracker bottom and all the nostalgic fixings of the goods our moms’ used to bake us in our youths: nuts, chocolate chips, oats. I blushed at the first bite, the salty, buttery base ablated my sharp demeanor, and the sweet bits quickly picked me back up. Even its burnt edges had me curling my toes. I didn’t care that some might not like it. I did.

However, my banana bread had a mild sweetness accompanied by an unpleasant balminess one finds from using notably over ripened bananas, but its crisp exterior and moist interior more than made up for it.

Ironically, you may be pressed to find a place to sit, especially since Seven Shores has expanded into a larger space. That said, you might get lucky, and be able to pony up the dough to rent out the new community room for whatever venture. One thing’s for sure, regardless of its move away from its older folksy convention of space in place of a homier and more cosmopolitan design, it still manages to maintain its mission of fostering a sense of not only community but, I think, good connoisseurship.

Seven Shores Urban Market & Cafe
10 Regina St. N Unit 4.
Waterloo, ON. N2J 2Z8

Monday to Friday 7am to 6pm
Saturday 7am to 4pm
Sunday - Closed "Spending time with Family & Friends"

All methods of payment

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100TH POST!!! CAMERON SEAFOOD RESTAURANT!!!

Its reputation is legendary; its food for the most ambitious of palettes (and wallets). It’s had reinventions, came from humble beginnings, and now boasts a wait time of at least half an hour on a Sunday morning, having cornered the market on dim sum in Kitchener-Waterloo after years of, I can only assume, hard work and culinary dedication. It’s been showboated as ‘fine’ Chinese food, but that may be a title that’s too beguiling; an absurdity in the genre of Chinese cuisine as far as this gastronomer is concerned, especially in a place that builds its identity and success on a dining spirit of loud, happy eating. Yes, there are eons of calm respite associated with the teashops that birthed the later tradition of dim sum, and maybe some days you can pretend you’re on a journey to seek out a gold-branded staff or compliant rod or whatever and come to this place for some reprieve, but the huzzah of voices and cosmopolitan space will make you realize that Cameron Chinese Seafood Restaurant isn’t that place. It is undeniably better. So, if and when you’re feeling a little regal, or a poor student willing to give all of your pennies for the pleasure of food that touches that culinary point of your heart, seek out Cameron Chinese Seafood Restaurant. It may not wish to remind you of its humble past, especially for new visitors, but I happily will, because when I was young and discovering food, Cameron Seafood, which I’ve visited only once in the last five years, was a tottering little restaurant with white thin metal siding and an exterior like a plywood lodge with plastic plants, a large mounted fish on the wall, and throwaway table cloths. Of course, I’m not the only one to remember this. Cameron seafood has a sea of devote followers that know the ropes: what to get, when to ask for tea, and how to order from a slip that has no prices displayed, only dishes. A practice that takes many Sunday mornings to master, unless you have the courage to ask what each item costs, of course. Whether you choose to lose face or not is up to you. After a long dim sum hiatus, I certainly didn’t.

The space made my own penurious person feel undeserving, what with its rich brown walls of alternating wood and mirror paneling, white tableware, emblazoned chopsticks, glass tablecloths, and crystal chandeliers hanging above. That’s right, like some fancy phoenix rising out of the ashes. No old creaky floors here. Not anymore. Alas.

Though I could appreciate the candor of a dining room that mimicked the fancy ones of big cities, at times I felt it was a little much, and that no matter what, the food’s messy attitude reminded me that no one can tame dim sum. Tea will over-pour, dumplings will slip through plastic chopsticks, soup will slurp, sauces will spill. I saw it happen all around me, and I started to miss those throwaway table clothes. Posh was done out by my pangs for a more humble past. But, at least the food didn’t change, and if it did, it was for the better.

On average, four items off the dim sum menu will cost you a good twenty dollars, and there’s a spending limit of at least ten dollars per person. Thus, if you have a big appetite, bring a big wallet; otherwise, drink a shake or something before hand, and get ready for some of the best Cantonese in the city.

My company and I, two humble cooks, bombarded our table with Chinese broccoli, steamed buns, deep fried shrimp dumplings and sesame balls.


Obviously, I will do the courtesy of describing each dish, but in this case, my words do little justice. The food should certainly be tasted beyond the page. I say this with earnest, because for the food to have been so satisfying in such a busy place is spectacular. The broccoli, a plate of soothing greens steamed to a crisp and drizzled with an oyster sauce that was mildly sweet reminded me of the culinary panic of cooking vegetables to submissive edibles of formless mush. It was at Cameron where they were saved, albeit a little salty at times because of the sauce.

The deep fried shrimp dumplings came hot. Impatient, I absentmindedly burned the roof of my mouth biting into a crunchy wonton cloud that came on presumably burnt, only to subside as something nutty and roasted due to the sesame oil dressed pieces of buoyant, juicy shrimp. Accompanying the dish was a redolent dipping sauce that I likened to a sweet red wine vinegar.

To balance our salty and savoury spread we chose two sweet dishes. Guilty pleasures if anything. Our smooth and airy steamed buns were filled with a lucent caramel coloured lotus paste, thick and clabbered with a flavour that brings the simplest comparison to mind: it was like biting into some kind of curiously steamed peanut butter sandwich.

We were most impressed with our fried sesame balls. Coated with sesame and laden with egg curd, each ball was a rich combination of crispy exterior and chewy interior, with a honeyed sweetness that permeated throughout. These treats could have easily stood without the curd, because it was the gluttonous shell that made eating each ball so entertaining, each one playfully sticking to our teeth. You read about things like these, but you only fully understand them when you try them out for yourself.

If I have one ache, it may only be the fact that customers are charged for a pot of tea so bland and generic that they’d be better off asking for a pot of hot water, or ‘white tea,’ so called by the poor, rural equivocating neighbours of China’s north. Otherwise, Cameron Seafood may be a place too ambitious to review, the food is that good. Either that, or I’ve been intimidated by everyone beguiling me to review it.
Cameron Seafood Restaurant
19 Cameron St. S., Kitchener
519-576-3030
Open 7 Days a Week 11:00am – 10:30pm.

ANY PAYMENT

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The Big Black Brew

Death Valley’s Little Brother, or DVLB for short, is a gastronomer’s analytical dream. Gastronomer, not restaurant reviewer. You all know, I consider myself the latter. Sure, I relay to you luxurious readers how things taste, but I like to put culture a good step before any tasty meal. Why, out of all the third spaces in town- coffee shops, I mean- is DVLB a place worth visiting? What does it mean for its patrons? A myriad of sophistications.

Does it have a niche?

believe it.

Is it a business monopoly?

Perhaps.

A charmed kind of coffee circle?

Most definitely.

You need only see how the space operates and, of course, how it brews. I can confidently say it is the first place in town to offer the pour over: the cherriest of coffee brews. Yes, it is, as an old master told me weeks ago in a basement bar, a space capturing an authentic past, a sure fire sign of cosmopolitanism, paradoxically. It gregariously pays homage to its Kitchener Waterloo heritage. Once a livery yard, once a private men’s club, once a speak easy, now a dark, mysterious coffee shop. The operation is tongue in cheek, and for that reason, I respect it. It has hours of operation it doesn’t follow, a sign without a name, a light above its front door that glows red when it decides to open for the most devout coffee drinkers, and an infograph for those who want to actually have a good glass of whiskey to level out any polemic coffee gives them. Its lofty appearance, iron chairs, hanging chandeliers, clinical tea jars and jolly roger espresso cups, may make it seem like a preemptive declaration of trendiness, but DVLB playfully demarcates itself from all that jazz, for behind all its smoke and mascots, it maintains its admirable, most patriotic quality: great coffee. And even greater whiskey, I imagine.

And I’ve no complaints with the fare they sell: Scottish pies, pasties, and pastries. It may seem odd to have a 15 dollar expatriated anti-pasto dish on a very small menu, but I can’t find any argument with something savoury in a place that sells liquor. Bocconcini and truffle oil don’t blend well with scotch anyway- so I overheard. And yes, it all seems a little pricey; 3.50 oolong tea, 6.00 crème brulee; but I am merely giving what little bad news there is first. There are reasonably priced confections and I cannot now, nor ever complain about the price of the black brew. Sure, it’s negligibly more for a cup of coffee at DVLB, but I think once you have it, it’ll be hard to go anywhere else. Be forewarned.

My favourite part? That espressos and americanos share the same price point. Thank you, DVLB. And if that’s not enough, how about a tart espresso with a deep, roasted quality, more deep and nutty than tannic and brassy. Combine that with a stick to your rib crema that stays around even after you let it settle. An elixir so slick, oily, and smooth you’d consider using it for petrol if its finish wasn’t so savoury and worthwhile.
My pour-over was a more gentle, tempered story, so much so you’d never know it had more caffeine than its tiny espresso counterpart. It conveyed a piney, apparitional aroma. Sipping its bright, fruity surface, you’d never think it was coffee, what with the over roasted Americanized ashy brew we’ve come to know as Western drinkers. Each pearl of oil was like a star, swirling around its surface, forming a galaxy and a coffee that would take anyone out of this world. It warranted mindful drinking, especially hot, otherwise losing all the qualities mentioned in lieu of a tannic underpinning if left to cool. Is there a life lesson here? Enjoy the warmer aspects of our friendships, lest we lose sight of all others good qualities and have them turn cold and bitter. Deep.

But I digress.

There’s much more to discuss, like the lavender and blueberry crème brulee: a manifestation of pure luxury. A ribbony blueberry sauce lying beneath a creamy surface of saturated lavender custard emblazoned by a caramelized glass of sugar. An earthy aftertaste quenched an otherwise decadent dessert, giving a new level to its crème brulee element. Dazzling.

My lemon tart looked a little dry and gelatinous, but its firm foundation balanced well with its junket of bright lemon custard. Its puckering acidic vista leveled its overbearing sweetness, and its crisp butter bottom gave it texture and shape in the mouth, much more individual than the glutinous lemon squares I’ve been a proponent of for so long.

Lastly, my zucchini muffin, something a passionate customer swore by, was heated to a ripening crispness that left it crackling and a pleasure to chew. Though a bit dry, I couldn’t argue with its warm character, supported by its comforting treacle qualities of sugar and spice. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but it was only a muffin after all.

I’ve left out other options, like cappuccinos and lattes, but all the more reason to go and check it out for yourselves, assuming you still fear the big black brew on its own. Don’t worry, they won’t judge you, in fact they’ll offer a little cream and after that a little whiskey to calm you down.

Death Valley's Little Brother

84 King Street North
Waterloo, ON
N2J 2X4

519-208-6211

Corner of Bridgeport and King N.
(across from the Failte Irish Pub)

“We're open most days about 8 or 9, occasionally as early as 7,
but some days as late as 12 or 1.

We're closed about 7 or 8, and occasionally on weekends at 11.

Some days or afternoons we aren't here at all, and lately we're here
all the time except when we're someplace else ;)”

ANY PAYMENT

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Prodigal Sandwich

Years ago, in my most exuberant days of discovering the joys of eating, I was made a sandwich of cold roast beef and cilantro- shoots, roots, and all. At the time, I thought nothing of its frivolity. A mere sandwich made by my friend- that kid from Hong Kong- to quell the growls that surged up from inside us both. We were, in fact, on our way elsewhere to go eat, but wanted something, for whatever reason, until we made the trek in my unreliable, yet affordable and inherited, minivan. To me, at least at the time, and before I was forced by the big-wide-world to have any kind of culinary perspective, food had rules. Recipes and dishes were strict, natural, black and white things. Fusion did not exist. There was a reason I found my cilantro and beef sandwich boring, and that was because it wasn’t natural, as paradoxical as that sounds. Of course, there were a myriad of reasons why it was boring. I didn’t appreciate its flavours, and as a kid from a heritage of rich food, it tasted bland.

Now I reckon if I had eaten a sandwich from Givral Deli that very day I would have understood the transferability of food much differently. It would have been the sandwich that opened my eyes. And in a sense, it did the very same thing today. Ironically, sandwich shops to me today are dull, redundant things, overpriced and patronizing (again, ironically) with things like prepackaged cookies, potato chips, and whatever else. These are conveniences we are used to, and dare I say, doomed to depend on when we want a foot-long. Givral Deli, on the other hand, offers a great alternative with choices that have stood ground for a long, long time.

I won’t bother to tell you why you shouldn’t let the space conclude Givral’s quality, because so many of my foodie forefathers have already written about its green marbled vinyl floor, its green paint chipped walls, its long corridor leading out back, the charming boxes of eggs laid out in front of the counter and the loads of beauty creams behind it. The atmosphere is a pretense we’ve used too many times to judge the quality of a food hole. Let’s save such trivialities for the big cities where such dynamics matter, but not for Grival, please; because it need only depend on its unmatched fare, and even that may be an understatement.

You’d be foolish to never visit Grival Deli at least once, though with the price of a submarine sandwich being 3.25 at most I can’t see why you wouldn’t want to visit all the time. Even though it offers a mere nine sandwich options with a similar flavor base, I’m willing to bet you’re capable enough, food-wise, to fall in love with at least one choice. And if that’s not enough, it offers other Viet street options, like spring rolls and steamed buns bigger than my fist, stuffed with fixings like pork and mushrooms, made by the proud owner herself. If I hadn’t already ordered 5 of the most inexpensive submarines in the world moments before, I certainly would have opted for a bun or two. But now I have a reason to go back.

Though a tight menu, it runs a thoughtful selection. From sardines, to buttery barbeque pork in a special, ‘juicy,’ sauce. Each sandwich is filled accordingly with julienned marinated carrots, wedges of cucumber, red onions, and cilantro- stems and all. This was reason enough to understand those people in the past who’ve railed against the urbanity of putting lettuce in a sandwich, especially when there are so many other kinds of flavourful greens. It’s because of these Vietnamese staples that each sandwich is bright and uplifting, and brought down to earth by the hardy meats placed within, whether the sardine sub, stuffed with whole deboned smelts and flavoured in a simple and light mayonnaise that doesn’t overwhelm in the least, but balances it perfectly. Or whether the chicken teriyaki sub: slathered in an amber caramel coloured sauce that is sweet, salty, and smokey, sprinkled with heat from chopped chili peppers. My only qualm may be that the chicken teriyaki comes dangerously close to flavor with the chicken ‘satay’ sandwich. Then again, it’s understandable that my palette became muddled by five of nine sandwiches with similar fixings. But again, it’s this strong foundation, a signature of Vietnamese flavor, that builds such strong fare. And if you’re worrying about the bread, don’t. At first, I thought the crusty buns were too much to bear, having been spoiled by the soft buns of our conventional sandwich sellers; but after letting each warm hoagie mellow with its own stuffings, I was left with firm, chewable bites.

My sandwich of choice? The cured pork sausage sub. Wedges of pressed pork similar in nature to those cured European sausages we eat so often. Imparted with garlic and pepper notes, the meat gave the sandwich tongue tingling heat that contributed a dyanism to the sandwich’s vernal nature. I was reminded of the days I spent eating lunch with my old Thai employer, dipping deep fried pieces of the same stuff in ice melting chili sauce. That I spent my life so long without such a place is beyond me. And now, thanks to Grival Deli, I can afford, along with the most empty-handed of eaters, food that is not only affordable, but esculent. Culinary. Simply great food.

Givral Deli Vietnamese Subs

(519) 743-5558

203-301 King St E

Kitchener,ON

N2G 2L2

Mon 10-6

Tues 10-7

Sun 10-5

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