Please Wake the Captain

If by chance you find yourself environed by a wilderness of big box stores and country, your stomach sojourned in a sea devoid of worthwhile culinary delights, the captain of The Boat: Fish and Chips will be more than happy to throw you an onion ring the size of a lifesaver, saving not only your stomach, but maybe even your faith in good treasured food, even if it’s fare as feeble as fish and chips.
And there may be no bodies of water in sight, and The Boat might stick out more than the lighthouse beside it that advertises The Boat’s existence, but when you try the fare, you may be inspired to cast yourself out to sea, lest your stomach tow you that way.

Don’t worry, I’m not getting soft. Even your dear gastronomer was suspicious of the boat with sailor silhouette, wooden seagulls, and multiple open signs, stranded in the lot of an antique shop. But the novelty of the thing was enough to see if its food was true, especially on a bizarrely warm winter morning in February.

I made my way to the stern and noted the ordering window: shut, dark, and dim. The only thing to grab the attention of the figure manning the kitchen was a buzzer and a crude, but tenderly written, sign courteously asking customers to wake the captain when they were ready to order. I, on the other hand, was lucky enough to have been spotted eying the posted menu by the captain himself.
Aside from a roadhouse literally manifesting nautical kitsch, the menu did a good job of maintaining the same seaside theme, keeping in mind the typical canned drinks and odd menu option of a POGO. A branded corn-dog that some of us may be familiar with. That’s as much as the menu strays from its genre, I think. But that’s a small fault. Otherwise, it’s a Maritimer’s dream. Simple, straightforward, to the point. Enough meal options to satisfy any passerby, and so little that they all fit on the back of the place’s business card. That was more than enough for me. But if that isn’t waveless enough for you, the prices will be enough to make you drift happily out to sea. So affordable, it’s a wonder this boat stays afloat, but I’m definitely not complaining. The food is well worth it and the price makes it seem too good to be true. For a slash fund of 8 (tax included) dollars I was happily spoiled with fries that flooded out of a box, stuffed with a fillet of battered haddock, coleslaw, and the captain’s own humble dessert of the day: a sinful medallion of deep fried chocolate. And just in case that wasn’t enough to satisfy me, I did myself the service of ordering an equally large box of 5 dollar onion rings, displayed to me like a wedding proposal, but big enough to be worn like bracelets. A 13 dollar meal that could easily satisfy two seafaring people.

My batter had just enough salt, was light like a cloud with a crispy silver lining. It cracked and shattered as I chopped my fork into it, my lemon wedge’s juice rolled right off its golden concentration, and the haddock, though moist, still managed to have a smooth and feathery, yet toothy bite.

My deep, purple hued fries were rich and meaty. The bits of skin left on their edges gave them not only an earthy reserve, but a deep charred undertow. I would have liked them crispier, but when packed like they were in a box, it’s hard to avoid any sweats. Not to worry though, dear readers, the Captain had a solution for that. Charred right under the burner in the oven at 350 degrees- and I’ll be damned if it didn’t work. I’m still astounded by the cook’s trade secret.
My coleslaw was a mere affection. The artificial processed stuff we come across at so many other eateries (though I have to admit, a guilty pleasure). However, that said, there was too much right going on to really feel wronged.

My onions, fried in a batter of pepper and dill were nothing out of the ordinary, but certainly done appropriately: the crisp batter was balanced by the natural sweetness of the onions, which, I might add, didn’t pull apart like the chewy strings that make the fare so off-putting. The captain certainly runs a tight ship.
And my chocolate fritter? I’m at a loss for something that was so satisfying. A waffled texture and a thick chewy centre (not runny) with a nice cinnamon note that had me wondering how it was done, and how much more decadent it could be, as blue collar as it was. Love at first bite? I think so. That said, let The Boat’s Sirenic foods call you out. Don’t be fools and leave it stranded.

THE BOAT: FISH AND CHIPS
805 King Street North
Waterloo, ON
(NO NUMBER)

THURS-SUN 11AM- 7PM 

CASH ONLY

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The Toxic Other

This morning on television I saw a chef make what he claimed was an Asian soup. An udon soup. As far as I'm concerned it was a bastardized version of Asian cuisine which had as many different blurring flavours as possible, and which just muddied it up and made it an exotic Othering dish for the Whitest of eaters. Now, as per usual, I'm a staunch supporter of nothing authentic, but goddamn if I wasn't shocked. This 'chef'- I think his name was Rob Fini- is no chef in my mind. Why? His coup de grace was drizzling olive oil into a bowl of 'udon soup.' Why? Because, he claimed, it looked good.

Fuck flavour, fuck focus- just put flavours you call 'Asian' in a dish- ginger, soy sauce, fish sauce, mint, coriander, basil- call it Asian. What the hell's the point? There's nothing there you can appreciate, mainly because there's nothing there to focus on. Now, I've been to Japanese hole-in-walls in J-Town in Northern Ontario where the Japanese chefs make dope fusion cuisine between Italian and Japanese, like an udon carbonara- that shit was dope. It was simple and it had focus.

Rob Fini- if that is your real name- you're a playboy- not a chef- or at least, not a good one. Go write a cookbook for rich White women. As far as I'm concerned- you don't know how to eat.

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Come and Catch the Sickness

	It's art, dad.

Vegetarians beware. Carnivores rejoice. Omnivores, you too. The Lancaster Smokehouse has inherited one of the city’s most proletariat of spaces and made a place for the most troubled of us eaters looking for food to pacify us against a sea of working class troubles. Where the portions will spoil you, and the waitresses will introduce you to other waitresses, if you’re charming enough to ask them. Let your troubles melt away, come and catch the sickness, because you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten at Hog Tails BBQ’s bigger little brother.

You heard right, the popular joint has expanded its business and transformed a dear old dive of mine, the Lancaster House Tavern- a place where serious drinkers would mock you by asking where your sherry was- into a champion of barbecue and Southern eating.

Now, I ain’t ever been to New Orleans, but I reckon if I’d a’ gone, this place sho’ woulda reminded me a momma’s cookin’. Maybe papa’s. Maybe ma brudda, o’ a’ sista’s. A forty-five minute wait at a shy hour or two before the place is set to close on a Friday night can’t tell no lie. The food’s gotta be great; either that, or the remote location makes it the most exploitable restaurant in the area. And don’t let the look of the place fool you either. The tables may remind you of your grandmother’s farmhouse, it may look like a ghost of its former self, trying to come to some sort of covenant with its new conventions, it may look like everyone’s having a family reunion at the same time in the same space, like some big picnic with walls. It may even remind you of some sort of tacky set up for a joke. Something along the lines of: a school, a pool hall, and a basement apartment decide to diplomatically go into the restaurant design business and accept each other’s respective love for orange walls, lacquered tables, and cobblestone pillars; punch line, laugh, and so on. Will it affirm an identity in the future? I don’t know. But I don’t care, because with an atmosphere of lively customers, a band playing blues and guitars squealing higher than the pigs slaughtered to make the pulled pork sandwiches, the look of the place is the most of the Smokehouse’s troubles. That’s right. I said most.

I can’t begin to properly tell you what’s on the menu. An array of fare from expected barbecue dernier cri like ribs, and sandwiches, to Louisiana favourites like gumbo, shrimp calas, and jambalaya, to anomalies like pig tails. Yes, it has it all, and we got it all: Carolina style pulled pork sandwiches, pico de gallo- that’s salsa for those of you who don’t know- and what the place calls Texas fries. Or what the waitress affectionately described as ‘poutine on crack.’ We laughed. But don’t worry, dear readers, I told her there was nothing funny about mixing food metaphors with drug abuse. We ordered so much, the staff obligingly put two tables together. People couldn’t help but stare in appetizing admiration. And if you think it cost an arm and a leg, guess again, nachos were plentiful, the fries were larger than two grown mens’ heads and the pulled pork a mile high. But we’s a just gettin’ started.

	I wish she was my neighbour. Coincidentally, I wish I had better camera skills.

Like the hoi polloi we were, we asked for everything at once. No need for any eating pretenses, we intended to dig in and dig in we did.

Our pico de gallo was a fresh cut of big clumsy cubed Roma tomatoes, green onions, red jalapeno’s, cilantro, olive oil, and lime juice, partnered with house nachos sworn fresh, but unfortunately, rather stale and greasy, not crisp and airy as expected. And although the salsa was a quenching compliment to all the savoury food we ordered, it did little to hinder the chips’ stale quality. The size of the salsa’s pieces was also a mess to eat. Without the tenacious quality we expect from popular salsas- that kind of viscosity that grabs onto whatever is dipped in them, we were hard pressed to tiredly fork it onto each chip. I could appreciate the sentiment of making a fresh salsa, but hated the practicality. Still, that was about as bad as the meal got. It was all uphill from there.


The Texas fries were the paramount player of our meal. Fries swamped by blushed bits of tender pink brisket and fatty gristle the size of my fingers were smothered in a white cheddar cheese and gravy. I was glad the place had the boldness to sell such a daring dish. The fries absorbed a smoky quality, and the peppery cheese blended well with the silky quality of the meat. For an 8 dollar dish it was more than worth it.

Our piled high pulled pork sandwich was a calm combination of bald slow cooked pork, mild but uplifting thanks to the homemade peppery coleslaw piled on top, and the sweet familiar sauce on top of that. I was relieved the pork was an arid constitution, not saturated in its own juices like the sandwiches I’ve had before that do nothing but make every grinder I have fall apart, resulting in a wet, frustrating mess. Of course it was messy, but it was fun. And the chewy Portuguese dinner roll that wrapped itself around it did a good job of matching the pork’s own textural tone.

For me, it was a dream come true for barbecue, and if dreams come true in New Orleans, then they certainly come true at the Smokehouse. And if, by some culinary act of providence, the Smokehouse ever decides to make beignets, I’ll have no qualms about never waking up.



The Lancaster Smokehouse
519 743 4331
574 Lancaster St. W, Kitchener, ON
N2K 1M3

Mon – Wed: 11am – 9pm
Thurs – Sat: 11am – 10pm
Closed Sundays

ALL PAYMENTS

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Abandon Ship ***SHUTDOWN

It’s that time of year again. When grizzly winter days eliminate any perspective I have about the food of food reviews past. That’s right. I admit it. Sometimes, I make foolish comestible choices. Sometimes, my culinary stirrings can betray me. As I write this, I can still taste the displeasure on my palate, like some unappetizing apparition (weird, right?). My anger may very well be a projection of my own anger at myself for having chosen such a disenchanting place that had such disenchanting food, which would imply that it was actually the food, and not myself that made me, in retrospect, so angry. Did I just melt your brains? It may very well be for the best, because here comes, as I regretfully write, yet another ‘dooming epitaph.’

Let me wax poetic, dear readers. Something has to entertain you, because it certainly will not be the food. Harsh snowfall produces in me a nostalgic yearning for the Japanese food I remember having many times in my past. In retrospect, however, I think whatever perception I’ve had was only vividly dreamt of through a screen, having been forced to watch a multitude of culinary shows about Japanese noodles- soba, udon, ramen- by that kid from Hong Kong. I’ve never had such bowls in this city. And yet, again, the very screen I type this on, like the television we all use for fantasy, served the very same purpose.

But let’s not blame the internet for my follies. I was foolish enough to fall victim to my own archipelagic cravings, cravings that might forever play out until I’m on a boat, or learning noodle mastery on the island of Okinawa. Cravings, I think, after my most recent culinary adventure, I have finally learned to control.

Sushi Boat’s online menu looked promising, and I assumed I could avoid any trouble if I saw an affordable meal option. That was enough to clinch any prejudgments about the city’s newest sushi place. There were some appealing options. Aside from a menu that optioned pretty inexpensive combo choices that could easily be split between two diners who wanted to try different things, there were some unexampled dishes I hadn’t seen and thought worth a gastronomical shot: like tofu salad, egg corn soup, and Sunomono: glass noodle dishes with varied ingredients tossed with a styled vinaigrette.

	Oh, hi Mark!

But it was when I walked through its doors that I was nagged by the strange feeling that I had been there before. I was jaded. Black and red walls, dim lighting, inappropriate, but clearly unintentional ornaments (like wall stencils of angel fish). It was another sushi place catering to the most alien of culinary tourists. A phantasmagoria of what the Japanese dining space is thought to be like. What’s worse? It was all-you-can-eat. This became a disheartening realization when I was seated and faced with familiar lists of paper awaiting pencils and numbers. I asked for the menu, hoping that what I saw on the restaurant’s mounted plasma screen was actually edible choices and not yet another fantasy screen out to trick customers into believing what was shown was what was served. So I cried, I prayed, and I begged- that’s a small music allusion for you all- for a menu that wasn’t all-you-can-eat, and I was happily obliged.

Unfortunately, what I was looking to eat on the regular menu was also offered on the all-you-can-eat menu. Guilt ridden, I accepted it, and picked up my pencil. While waiting, I was bombarded by yet another screen. A tablet was set down in front of me with even more photos of what was on the menu. I was becoming more and more leery. Could the food actually speak for itself, rather than depending on so many screens? I hoped I was wrong. I didn’t want to disavow Japanese restaurants altogether in this town, but I was prepared to do it.

	Original.

First, I ordered what I initially intended to: the Sunomono, or ‘vinegared things,’ with mixed seafood. An outdated dessert goblet was placed in front of me, cradling a batch of noodles (not glass like the menu said) swimming in a sweet, overbearingly pungent vinegar and topped with strips of crab and a tough rubbery snapper. The vinegar was offensive, the crab imbued with the chemical quality of the plastic it was freeze dried in. Next, my beef udon soup was a mess of overcooked noodles, tough beef bits and a salty broth with a smokey undertow that I hoped was imbued by the tuna flakes traditionally used to make it.

	I've taken better photos. Then again, I've been to better places.

Is there a silver lining to any of this? I’m sure the menu’s not all that bad, there are a few mentionables: like the white tuna sushi, a smooth textured fish that would have otherwise felt great creamed by my tongue if not for an eerie warmth that tailgated it. And the short ribs, though somewhat fatty, offered more meat on their bones than I had seen at other places. I did enjoy the capelin; a deep fried salty whole smelt- that’s a tiny little fish for those of you that don’t know. But this is as tender as I get. My tofu salad was a mere sprinkling of deep fried curd on iceburg lettuce. Chewy and fetid, the outer crust did nothing to compliment its silken interior, nor the entire dish. I couldn’t understand why it existed as an option at all. Tempura was lackluster, and if I remember anything about it at all, it was the unevenly cooked batter across the terrain of some pieces. My sushi pizza was the worst I’ve had. Labelled as ‘rainbow’ it was nothing more than a thin rice base with even thinner slices of fish, and shrimp so thin it looked shredded. Aside from a saturated, oily crust with odd pebbly bits of deep fried rice, it was also drizzled with a sauce that was spicy, sweet, and overbearing. More than anything, I wanted to eat what the cooks on break were eating because, I assumed, it wasn’t anything like what was on the menu, and probably made with more effort and care. I was tired of trying to make sense of the food, like what makes something called a ‘Thai roll’ Thai? Was it the pickled radish? I doubt it. There were no conventional Thai flavours; it tasted too similar to everything else. Too sweet, too salty, too sour.

Sushi Boat was sinking faster than Costa Concordia (too soon?), and I only wondered how long it would stay afloat. I can’t forgive it, even it is an all-you-can-eat place, because there is too much competition around. I’m sorry, dear readers, sorry to have trolled you along like this.

	I bet.

Sushi Boat
465 Highland Road West
N2M Kitchener, ON

 

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Cheeses Murphy

The culinary underbelly of Kitchener-Waterloo has been whispering a sibilant buzz these past two months during the dark hours of Friday and Saturday nights; and though the streets are usually humming with the most ritualistic of drinkers, there are circumscribed spaces that attempt to cater to good food and good eating for the mass of hungry, maybe even lovelorn, individuals that saunter out of any club after the doors have closed.

I always hear things. We always hear things. And I had it on good authority that the obscure, cleverly titled Cheeses Murphy, an ambitious attempt by the folks at the Princess Café (unless I’ve otherwise been misinformed) to elevate grilled cheese sandwiches, was something I had to try. And, aside from my dictatorial culinary underpinnings always looking for places that focus on small menus which attempt to master a kind of fare, I was baited by its short hours of operation: Friday and Saturday nights, from midnight until the wee hours of the morning. I won’t bother to wonder why not longer, if the grill cheese is as good as people say it is.


The operation happens behind the ticket booth of the Princess Cinema twin, whereby customers are herded into the lobby while each one lines up to take his or her order from an appreciated and focused menu dealing in grill cheese and nothing else. You pay an even six dollars per sandwich, unless you get the simple classic which is four, and watch as the counter attendant does the run around to tell the two grillers in the locked down Princess Café what you ordered, but not before handing you a small card of kitsch so they can call you out when your order is ready. Did you order ‘The Sticky Frenchman?’ Well, if your card is that of NBC’s poster child for teenage sweethearts, Kelly Kapowski, your order’s up. An entertaining way to amuse the hot messy masses that come in and have a hankering for a sandwich which’s title is as sexually charged, I assume, as the sticky Frenchmen they plan on going home with. Did I mention they sell dipping sauces? No ketchup though.

Yes, cherished readers, novelty seems to be the backbone of Cheeses Murphy. An unfortunate dilemma I played out in my mind as I read a menu full of rhetorical flash therein. I wouldn’t otherwise seem so harsh if I didn’t have the perspective of knowing the food, that statement in itself being a dooming epitaph. Cheeses Murphy has great potential. A funny menu with funny titles, even clever item altercations alluding to even more popular culture, like the “inception”: a grilled cheese sandwich put in any other grilled cheese sandwich, making it, hypothetically, that much more delicious, metaphysical, and expensive.

Unfortunately, each sandwich is made with plain white bread; perhaps an adulation to that cherished cheese dream of the Great Depression, but I think a lazy copout for potentially better fare that could be paired with more finesse and character in our culinary age. Because in my mind, brie cheese and caramelized apple deserve more than the processed mushy bread that lacks any artisanship, texture, or body. I’m civil when it comes to paying an arm and a leg for something as trivial as a grilled cheese sandwich, so long as its ingredients play the part. But I’ll be brutally honest: searing a sandwich and skimping on ingredients does a faux food stand no good. And I’ll be even bolder by saying that pandering to an alleged inebriated, starved, late night crowd is no excuse for subpar food of Americana. My only fault may have been coming sober, thereby maintaining my scrutiny. The bread could have been crisp, but was saturated by too much butter, which, oddly enough, did nothing to prevent the crusty edges from being dry, stale tasting appendages. Were these symptoms of old bread? You be the judge. Combine that with skimped stuffings, other than the cheddar cheese, and you get a sandwich that has the potential to choke down your throat, and become nothing more than a salty afterthought.

	Bizarre, right? Don't be alarmed, nothing more than propaganda to convince you what you're getting is worthwhile.

When I ordered the namesake of the place I expected my sandwich to be a grandiose spectacle of balance, satisfaction, and sandwich progress. Imagine, a grilled cheese with bacon and jam? Sounds odd; strangely adventurous, even. Unfortunately, the nameless jam and spattered bits of bacon did a poor job of fostering a good reputation for the sandwich aptly named Cheeses Murphy.
And its South American inspired companion, which I looked forward to eating (when I was recommended it), may have reminded me of the familiar flavours of a taco, but still fell short, the choice of white bread for a canopy giving it an unfamiliar and bizarre mouth feel. And the butter that greased its sides did no right by something filled with ground beef and chipotle sauce, a smokey, earthy cream that did a moderately good job of balancing saltiness, but still fell short. The coriander could have quelled all the guttural brawny flavor of spice and meat, but unfortunately it was haphazardly sprinkled to one size. Although, I have the strange feeling that even if not, it still would have fell short.
If I’ve anything left to say, it might be that at 3 am, Cheeses Murphy may have a monopoly on its hands, so long as its customers are in the right frame of mind. Take from that whatever meaning you will. But with fare of ill-matched ingredients and poor textural qualities, I’m willing to bet it’s not too hard to put together.

Cheeses Murphy
46 King St. N. Waterloo
FRI & SAT 12-330AM

CASH ONLY- tax included.

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