There's a Fire

Not more than two years since that hallowed of diners, Mel’s, went up in smoke in the great university plaza fire of 2010. I recall the plumes in the sky during twilight that night, riding my bike, trying to clear my head of the vice grip of a thesis that attempted to analyze cooking shows as a kind of food pornography using Deleuzean theoretics. 

Granted, though I never really was a staunch supporter of the place, I knew it held a flame in the hearts of all the students that depended on it for late night bites, or morning after binges. Yes, lest we forget, Mel’s Diner was a moderately okay place. So, you could imagine my intrigue when I spotted such a simulacrum elsewhere in the world. I hoped it belonged to someone else. Someone fired up enough to exploit that honored name. Why? I kind of like being the bearer of bad news, especially to the patriotic. We live in a culture that feeds on drama, after all. Think: reality shows. Think: Glee. So, you could imagine my trepidation. Yes, I was doused with disappointment. It was Mel’s reborn, but in the vast wilderness of development and big box stores. 

There it was, brand new, looking fresh with photos, strangely enough, from its old location, hung on its walls, not damaged in the slightest. No yellowing, no broken frames, no fixed glass. As if nothing had ever happened. I was having a Twin Peaks experience.

Calm greys, navy blues, neon pink lights, and glass tiles decorated the space, making it seem to me a more elegant place from what it was before. The red booths were still there too. I liked it. Yes, Mel’s deserved its new location, it deserved a little self respect; it deserved its antithesis crowd of octogenarians. No rowdy students here, unless you read this and decide to go. Know this: if you do, you better have a way of getting there. But don’t let that deter you, it seems more nostalgic as a destination farther than a stone’s throw away, as if located back in time. That also said, I was no veteran of the Mel’s before it. This visit, for me, was a kind of baptism by fire, because I had no recollection of price; I had no recollection of menu; my only recollection was that it was a popular breakfast place, and if you want to know about any deals, you better bring a seasoned veteran, because they don’t tell you about them on the menu. My company made it his business to ask about Mel’s Favourite, an affably affordable 3.99 breakfast platter of eggs, pig, and toast. To the point, he had no qualms about the stuff, and from my end, it did look pretty alright. 

I went another route, opting for a monte cristo sandwich, stacked with ham, turkey, and cheese. That, and the best iced coffee around, or so the menu insisted; a huge claim, in my opinion. Though not unappetizing, it was far from setting the world on fire. A familiar syrup stirred with ice was all it was, sweeter than I would have liked, but ironically tempering my salty meal quite well. Not that that is a particularly good thing. The dualities of Mel’s seem to rest in the appetence of salty and sweet. Translucent fries crowded my plate, sodium bearing against whatever earthiness the potatoes wished to impart; no doubt a symptom from dusting every single batch fried and thrown into the fryer’s shared oil. The ham in my sandwich was no different, nor the cheese, its glassy edges making me wonder how old it may have been. And as I peeled it off, I wondered about the lukewarm, chalky, dry turkey that thickly set itself between egg battered bread that was so soft it needed not be softened by eggs at all. But hey, who knows such food lore? Who cares about standards? Mel’s exists. And, as I was cheerily told, I, as well as all of you, can rest assured, for someday that old lot will be rebuilt with Mel’s third incarnation. And if you can’t wait, you can always come here. I can only hope however, that Mel’s tries a little bit harder. Because you know, moving three times is as bad as a fire.  

Only thing worth photographing, quite frankly. Ain't he handsome?

 

Mel’s Diner 

645 Westmount Rd E, Kitchener 

EVERYDAY 6-9 

ANY PAYMENT!

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Weeds Are Food Too!

Years ago, a farmer told me about purslane, a weed I had likened to aloe vera, which was in fact not aloe vera; I had only called it aloe vera growing up not knowing what it was. Today, I noticed the weed rearing its assumed ugly head in the popular discourse of foodie-ism. Otherwise it is bitter, flat in flavour and nothing more. Some say it can be salty and have a mild citrus taste. this, I do not know. It is always bitter to me and always has been since I was told I could eat it and reckoned, during my naive years of gardening that I may as well since it took the initiative to root its way through my vegetables. I don't need to tell you about purslane's popularity today, and how, I'm sure, it'll probably be put on the haute menu somewhere. Until then, it remains almost secret, placed in Chinese stir-fries and old womens' Greek salads. Nonetheless I am grateful it is there offering a little bit of serendipity. 

I recall the day I picked it out of the basil patch growing by the back door of my uncle's restaurant; he met it with an unrelenting confusion, as he did with most of the things his youngest nephew showed him. Why not pick the basil? Why bother with a weed? Alas, my uncle's from a time of classically trained, haute eating- which certainly had an affect of leaving people out of the dining room and creating anxious- social eaters. Oh I wonder: why bother labeling it a weed if it only keeps people away? Purslane's an example when labels really do damage. If there's anything the relic of purslane does, it's remind people to be grateful for the food that is at the end of our forks; again, another little bit of serendipity. And though my uncle may still refuse to eat it, like he does ramps (claiming they have no taste), I will be forever grateful for the oddest bit of food in my city's otherwise urbane gardens. It beats dandelion (something super bitter) and certainly garlic mustard, a weed with limited use as far as I'm concerned. Purslane may seem like the glorification of a staunch foodie or proletariat eater, but I take it always as a reminder to be forever grateful for all the food around me, because it reminds me that there is always food around me, there to be eaten, there to tell me that duck confit can seem a little ridiculous if it somehow convinces you to leave other food out simply because of some label that denies it access to the table. Yes, purslane's a weed, but it also contains more omega-3 fatty acids than any other leaf vegetable (or fish)- and that may be the most health conscious I get on this blog. And if that's the case, is there not merit in all food? Is all food not worth eating?

Love,

Weezee

Yes, comrades, this familiar looking clover is the thing.

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Poisson Not Up to Par

The city has once more privileged us eaters with access to yet another dizzying sushi restaurant, auspiciously named Dake, as if the ‘only’ one worth visiting. And, at the request of my dear culinary brother, Daryl, and a little bit of my own contention, I wearily agreed to check it out.

We were ready and assuming we’d do nothing more than stuff ourselves, Dake being a big restaurant from the outside, and therefore an assumed all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant on the inside. So, stepping through the doors, and feeling a little out of place, our garbs juxtaposed by a space of ambient blue and purple lighting, gaudy chandeliers, wooden frames with paper membranes, a sushi bar, booths and hearths, we managed a quick perspective, remembering the city we live in, and that any cosmopolitanism seems like nothing more than a jeunesse ruse to be culturally superior, especially in another Japanese place that is nothing more than another Japanese place; an aesthetic monster under our culinary beds. Nothing more.

 
Boothed and ready to write on whatever little piece of paper laid before us, we were both surprised, wondering instead if we should have both been confused at our waitress’s assertion that Dake is not another all-you-can-eat sushi place. It’s just a sushi place. However, that little bit of news did nothing to dismay the very necessary skepticism that rained over us like a sudden shower at Atake. The menu is big, the choices typical and underwhelming, and any combo platters patronized with something as trivial as a free pop (which I never received) with meals that run, at their least expensive, just under eleven dollars. There are, of course, things with some artifice, like a Tuna appetizer seared with ponzu sauce, but which warrants purchase for only the wealthiest of connoisseurs as far as I’m concerned. But don’t let me stop you. That may be enough.

I asked for a bowl of vegetable udon soup, seeing if my own skepticism could be smashed with a simple dish that floats its way around every Japanese restaurant in the city, and with that, a combination plate of what the restaurant named the Waterloo roll: a sushi roll of shrimp, crab, avocado, and cucumber skin made into cheap matchsticks. Rolled in tempura crumbs it was dry fare, with pieces that required large mouthfuls, but nothing I couldn’t forgive, if only because I didn’t really care to. Accompanying that was a spicy salmon roll: salmon chuck rolled in crab and sauce with a good layer of chewy rice. Texturally pleasing, it was nothing out of the ordinary, so familiar to these parts that my only problem with the thing might have been its banality. But don’t worry, there are tons of other rolls to entice you, or at least have you giggling- like the love love roll, strawberry roll, or, of all patriating things: the Cambridge roll. Y’know? In case you feel a little homesick and want to be reminded of a place with factories, sprawl, and cheap developments. Oh, and a downtown with coffee shops that serve cigarette ash in water. To each his own.

 
Bathing in a steaming stoneware bowl, my udon was a savoury combination, albeit a little salty. Topped with tempura crumbs, seaweed strips, and bitter greens, the dish did its best to uphold any veritableness as an udon bowl, but fell short with vegetable ingredients like broccoli, cauliflower, and button mushrooms floating in the soup. In a city that openly offers ingredients available to a true bowl of udon, I’d at least expect mushrooms on the level of shitake, or at least portobello. Although, I did spot a few enochi in the batch.

It’s only been three weeks since Dake’s Grand Opening, and though my own skepticism was solidified with familiar food and average taste, it’ll be up to its patrons to decide if familiarity is all Dake needs. 
 

Dake Japanese Fusion Restaurant

519-744-7557

607 King Street West, Unit 1
Kitchener, Ontario. N2G 1C7   
 

Fri-Sat: 11am-11pm

Sun-Thurs: 11am-1030pm

ANY PAYMENT

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