The Silk Road

I feel pretty comfortable with all of you, dear readers. That’s why I was turning over in my mind telling you a story of culinary heartache. How a rich second generation Chinese girl from Beijing first introduced me to the food of mainland China, out-ate me, stole my heart, and how that kid from Hong Kong, in reckless panache-y Cyrano fashion, attempted to woo her for me, and the food-hole it all happened in. How we tried, and we failed, and how some fish brought us closer together. Yes, it would have been a romantic backdrop for one of my most treasured places, but a new place caught my eye instead, and if there’s anything food has taught me, it’s that I’ve loved women, but I’ve loved food more, and no heart can ever serve two masters.

Trivialities of aside, if you happen to be one of the privileged fuerdai occupying Laurelwood’s suburbs- buying homes, studying, missing the red land, and yearning for food (I can only imagine) both familiar and done extremely right, then why not give Bogda Restaurant a try? Don’t let its salutation of ‘Central Asia & Japanese Food’ fool you, I did that already. To be brutally honest, its 5 dollar student special attracted me, but its unfocussed, all encompassing menu had me expecting the most mundane culinary delights, like sushi and fried rice, and whatever else existed across the pan-asian menu. Luckily, any prosaic pap was off the menu today, and my company and I were given the choice of 3 things on the menu. Over and over again. But before you prejudge my presumably blind adoration of yet another place you assume I romanticize, only to find out it’s alright after you visit it, let me ask you, is there any place in this entire city that makes hand-pulled noodles? This is obviously rhetorical. Bogda is the only place. And its fusion food fare, ripe with Mongolian, Uyghur, even Turkish influences. If authenticity is a real thing, and we are to kid ourselves that it is, then Bogda is as close as Asian cuisine comes around here. Even if two or three items on the menu (two or three affordably stupefying items) are the only things made as fresh and from scratch as possible.



My heart burst when a plate of pulled noodles was placed between me and my company. I’d spent years searching, summers reading anthropological studies, long nights attempting to make something even remotely close, and here it was finally in front of me. Each exponentially long strand was chewy, buoyant, and fresh, territorialized with knolls like little hands that grabbed every bit of sauce they were soaked in- a true characteristic of fresh made noodles which dry quickly, and are controlled only by the most practiced hands. We ate round ones, ones that were broad and flat; every kind of fresh noodle Bogda’s matriach could create, we ate with jubilation.

Our first dish, ban mian: flat noodles, a paradoxically round udon, was paired with cuts of greens, cabbage, dry roasted chili peppers, Szechuan peppercorns, beef, and a small spirit of ginger all in an acidic savoury sauce that I likened to stewed tomatoes. It made our tongues tingle, moored us with the nutty, spicy elements of the chilis that dominated the sauce’s astringency, and upheaved itself with the citron flavours of the peppercorns and ginger.


Our next astonishing, and large, plate was a lamb stew nested in broad, flat noodles. It was one surprise after the other. Garnished with, of all risky things, fresh leeks, it was a close cousin of our first dish, accompanied this time with generous bits of garlic, cumin, dried chillis, Szechuan pepper, potatoes, and a meaty broth that each noodle playfully dived back into after escaping our chopsticks. The pieces of lamb were so tender I found myself chewing even the bones. The leeks’ pungency cut through any richness, something I never experienced before.


And if those noodles weren’t enough, we were offered a courtesy plate of even more, this time slathered in a simple sauce with slices of carrot, chili flakes, and greens. And though we may have had more than enough to eat, we made it our duty to try the lamb kabobs. Fragrant pieces of lamb welded to the steel skewers they were cooked on. Their earthiness was complimented by the spiciness of the cumin and chili, pearled by the moisture that oozed from each bit of flesh. Fatty at times, and if pulling hairs, a little dry, but good nonetheless. But what do such mild faux pas matter? I finally found the fresh noodles I spent a better part of 5 years looking for. Yes, dear readers, the road to heaven has been a steep one, but it has finally led me to Bogda Restaurant.

BOGDA RESTAURANT
645 Laurelwood Drive
Waterloo, ON
N2V 2W9
 
519-725-0885

Mon-fri 12pm-9pm
Sat 12pm-8pm
Sun- 1pm-8pm

Any payment

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D'Island

I’ve never eaten Jerk, nor have I ever made the effort to cook it. I did have a sibling who grew up eating the stuff and exposing me to ox tail and rice more than I’d care to remember. That said, you may not think I have much right to write about Caribbean food in general. But here’s my rhetorical counterpoint: having never eaten Jerk eliminates any bias ostentation I may have about the cuisine in general; there are no cultural culinary underpinnings to influence my perception besides the food’s actual taste. It all works in your favour, comrades. Your gastronomic guide isn’t familiar with all foods. Maybe I’m a little ashamed, but only a little. I’ll admit it, I only started food writing to motivate myself years ago while studying Chinese and Japanese, even more so to not feel so bad about dropping mad cash on congee for years. I’ve spent a small fortune. My beleaguered mother said I could have gone to cooking school using the money I spent. Love you too, Mom.

But eating’s an adventure, after all. That’s why I do it. To keep my life as novel as possible. For the most part, it works. A wise man once said, if you’re unhappy with your life, introduce more things to it. A superficial admission, but not without truth. Inspiring quotes aren’t how I keep my life interesting. But looking for new places is, and the Island Grill extended any gastronomic novelty in my life for at least one more week.

I never thought I’d be backed into any comestible corners in my life. But sometimes it happens. Sometimes it can be a blessing. Today was a good blessing. Even though the two places I went to prior were closed; even though I remembered the days I would wait outside the noodle shop beside the Island Grill’s plaza when I was early for my Chinese class thinking about how I’d probably never eat at the Island Grill. I was more cynical in my youth. I’m much more optimistic now. Like today, for example. I thought it might be nice to pretend I’m somewhere warm, far, far away. It might be nice to try something new. And it was.

The space may have seemed sparse and ill-matched, but it wasn’t uninviting. I liked its original dining space: patriated by Jamaica’s colours, crowded with a la carte items behind a glass counter, riddled with DVDs, spices, television, a welcoming cook and his grandmother. Next door was its bigger dining hall, fit with booths, club lights, a very well equipped bar and speakers. Though a quiet afternoon, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Island Grill saw some exciting nights. With all that and a ubiquitous mural of palm trees and sand I couldn’t deny its cajoling island feel, postcolonial, and weathered (in spirit), but enticing nonetheless.



Having no bearing on what to eat we were given some jerk chicken to sway us. Jerk chicken it was. The menu isn’t intimidating, but it does have enough food to make you think deeply. From curries, to hamburgers, to island favourites, all with island overtones. The a la carte caught my eye. Pastries and dumplings, cheap and inexpensive, waiting to me plucked from behind the glass. I asked for the gizzada, a Jamaican tart filled with shredded coconut and spice, resembling the butter tarts we’re so conventionally used to, but with an obvious twist. An affordable 2.50 for two palm sized portions. I certainly couldn’t complain about the price, or the flavor, though the hearty composure of the thing made chewing something oriented toward strong jaws. Nothing would stop me from getting it again though. Maybe the black cake, or other a la carte items.


When we made up our minds, picked our novelty Caribbean soft drinks and sat ourselves down we asked for, of all things, the jerk chicken. A safe bet, but pushed by the cook nonetheless. Accompanying that was a large bowl of fluffy rice coloured pink by red kidney beans, aptly referred to as peas by our cook, and maybe a little equivocated. It was a portion we thought unnecessary, but later appreciated as it helped to slurp up the rich sauce left over from our jerk chicken.


Accompanying the dish was a chicken soup, flavoured with thyme and hot spices, squash and the bad bits of chicken I personally love to grind between my teeth. It was a familiar thing, coloured amber by the squash, I assume, used to make it. Our salad, another equivocated fare, was a good helping of coleslaw, which I always look forward to. This time however, it missed that vinegary tang I so often love in the stuff. This time it was light, regardless of the savoury mayonnaise used to dress it.

Obviously, our jerk chicken was the most exciting. By the meal’s end we could have done without the side dishes- and the menu does give you the option, making it even more affordable.

If I’ve any disappointment with the dish, it’s that our food came warm rather than hot- an unfortunate symptom of the big batches of food cooked at a time and warmed later. Still, I managed to overlook it, distracted by the rich flavor of the sauce reminiscent of dishes stewed in tomato. Adding to its element was a spicy, smokey flavor that penetrated the meat and turned it into a moist, tender pull that fell off the bone. Not tough, not dry, not elastic like poorly cooked chicken. Again, this chicken could have just been served on its own, no need for sides that are mere pretenses. And even though the flavours weren’t new, the menu remained curious enough to lure me back in the future with hope of something new, novel, and exciting.

Island Grill
2934 King Street East
N2A 1A7
519-895-0010


Sun 8:00am - 9:00pm
Mon-Thurs 8:00am - 11:00pm
Fri-Sat 8:00am - 2:00am

Any Payment

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On Hog Tails

At the request of my mother, whom I respect dearly, I am making note of Hog Tails Barbecue- mother of the Lancaster Smokehouse, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Straight and to the point: Hog Tails lacked finesse. The coleslaw was runny, too peppery, the pulled pork saturated and sweet, the onion rings salty beyond belief and the Texas Fries a gelatinous mess of congealed gravy and more salt. I had a light-bulby moment. A) that Hog Tails needs better quality control, and I hope to the food gods that the Papa Hog Tails is equally involved in both space, because the 12-15 year olds cooking in his kitchen can't cook. AND B) On the note of the kids cooking in the kitchen- the food probably tastes so horrible because these young cooks grew up eating processed shit and assuming that those addictive sodium, sugary flavours are what equals good cooking. Sorry, young masters. Wrong. And if any of them went to cooking school, I'm doubly sorry. And I'm sorry to my mother, whom I said was being paranoid, having urged me to take her to the Smokehouse because cooks cook differently. I dismissed her insight, but it turns out, it was a very valuable one and taught be a very valuable lesson. That cooks can drastically change the same dish with the most minor mistakes. Also, the cornbread sucked. It was metallic and sodium-y- a symptom of too much baking powder and soda. And that's as about as informal as my writing will get.

Best,

Weezee

Hog Tails BBQ
519-888-9911
645 Laurelwood Dr., Waterloo ON

Mon - Wed: 11am - 8pm
Thurs - Sat: 11am - 9pm
Closed Sundays

*Don't eat here. It's sole purpose seems to be mere profit. It is neglected. Let the Chinese neighbourhood kids eat here and assume this is what Western food tastes like, just like white kids who assume fortune cookies and chicken balls are what Chinese food tastes like.

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The Good, the Bad, the Burrito

When I asked Daryl, one of my many brothers in culinary arms, to humour me with his lime marinated chicken burrito, he said to me, in his most appropriate, fatheaded voice: ‘It’s a tumultuous sunrise of vine ripened tomatoes.’ A beat. We both knew he could do much better. Mainly because, though there were tomatoes in the thing, they were a small part of it. That, and there was nothing tomato about the chicken.

	Ain't he handsome?

Attritional with his second attempt, Daryl did what he could to wow me with as much rhetorical bravado as all his years as a Sous could muster: ‘A tequila sunrise bathed in cilantro.’ A much more meaningful depiction, I thought. Still, I would have been somewhat more articulate. Perhaps, like looking at a tequila sunrise while bathing in a pool of cilantro? He disagreed, and I realized I’d become, like my professor pointed out to me years ago, a terrible concrete thinker, devoid of moving metaphor. When I think about it, a sunrise made out of tequila bathing in a sea of cilantro seems more flavourful than some dude watching it and sitting in it. Unless of course, cannibalistic urges make you in to that sort of thing. Aw, food. How divine.



Holy Guacamole isn’t anything out of the ordinary. And yet, as roundabout as it may seem, it does offer some unique character. Namely, that it is an assemblage of Tex Mex (how’s that for metaphor?). In its modest space of green tiles, warm coloured walls, spicy food photos, and hurried painted ceiling, it borrows from the conventions of this town’s sandwich assembly hideaways but with, you guessed it, Mexican sandwiches: or tacos, or burritos, or quesadillas, or whatever you call them. ¡Caramba! You can even get everything in those foreign wraps without the wraps themselves! Just a bowl full of fresh, Mexican fixin’s. How’s that for alliteration? How’s that for all you carb counters? You can even opt for wheat flatbreads. But I feel like I’m losing focus. The fixin’s are fresh. I can say that much. Holy Guacamole can say that much. Never frozen, always fresh. Even the bits of corn for a topping. Sweet kernals of corn. I believe it. Heck, I ate it. It’s simple food. Easy in its composition, civil in its choices. Quick food for vegetarians and omnivores alike. Daryl and I both thought the vegetarian option could be as satisfying as any meaty meal, what with choices of lettuce, tomatoes, red onions, cilantro, cheeses, jalepenos, cilantro lime rice, refried beans, black beans, sour cream, burrito sauce, hot sauce, a guacamole with a buttery texture and calm stoney flavor that uses its avocado character and nothing more; a good way for allaying any overpowering spiciness that may combine with it. And I can’t forget a typical, but well balanced salsa, furnished with ripe tomatoes, diced fine (thank Dios), cilantro, red onions, and lime juice. More impressively, the servers knew well enough to squeeze the juice out of it before putting it on my spread or otherwise have my burrito a juicy mess. But that didn’t affect the overall flavor of any of it. In fact, it was the pungent favourite of my first burrito. A packed roll of marinated chicken and choice fixings that I begged the help to choose for me. Cilantro lime rice, refried beans, cheese, burrito sauce, guacamole. A Fixing of flavours lost in the lake of Texcoc itself. Take that metaphor, Daryl.

Daryl and I agreed, the chicken was a little more minced than we would have liked, but still stayed true to the flavor it advertised itself as having. Daryl loved the rice, I recalled wanting it a little less cooked, the gobby nature of my burrito being too soft for my liking, though still kept in check by my wheat wrap. But this is no fault of HG. That’s what I call it now: HG. No, no. It takes some consumer responsibility. HG can be a very empowering place. Offering you the option of making your own fare. The choice, and fault is all yours. Still, with fresh ingredients and bright, pleasing acidic flavours, it takes a lot to screw up. My advice? Treat whatever future wrap like a good pasta sauce. Simple, and focused on one discernable flavor, or a few that compliment whatever meat goes in it (or roasted vegetables).

My second round wrap consisted of the Mexican pulled pork. A burrito that felt right in my heavy hand. And though intentionally packed with pulled pork, still not messy. My only qualm, maybe even Daryl’s too, once I convinced him, was the not unflavourful, but unwelcomed processed flavor used for the pork. It was a strange familiarity of nameless spices, hot, peppery, chalky in composure, perhaps earthy in fantasy. Like the stuff you get in packs for taco meat. If we’re wrong and unfamiliar with the flavours of chipotle, we firmly apologize. But we have experienced and vagabond-like palettes. Or at least we like to think so. But the worst is over and very difficult to come by. Fear not, dear eaters, you’re in good hands at Holey Guacamole. Repent, and the spirit of Tex Mex will set you free. Free from all those gyros, subs, and pitas you’ve had in your regretful past.

	The End. (I've always wanted to write that in company with a pretentious food photo.)

Holy Guacamole
519 513-2495
8 Duke Street East Kitchener

Mondays thru Wednesdays from 1100am until 600pm
Thursdays and Fridays from 11am until 700pm

Any payment

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