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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