Diamond in the Rough

A weaker, more fragile self likened my kismet move to Cambridge to that of Napoleon’s banishment to Elba. I dreaded the ghost stories told to me by youth in revolt: there’s nothing to do there. It’s a giant flee market- outlets everywhere, no good Chinese food. The great paradox of the place, from what I could understand after multiple run-ins with early twenty-somethings- tattoos and ear plugs and barbells and all- was that if you wanted to understand the kind of city dweller, you should spend some time in a garbage dump. I found no humour, nor sense in the statement. For if you’re one telling me that everyone living in Cambridge is garbage, are you yourself not the same garbage? 

Riddles aside, and leaving any Socratic rhetoric alone, I did my best to tread lightly with my ethnographic accounts. I oozed arrogance and snobbery without even trying, but just by merely asking where to eat, or talking tea with, of all people, young tea enthusiasts. Coffee was another touchy subject. Starbucks was their cup of tea, if only because they got it for free. 

A forced 2 hour conversation left me jaded and unsure. Maybe where I was, for the most part sojourned, really was a sad, sad place, with little night life, and the depraved civilian riddling so many of its spaces, that locals were just turned off of going out and sharing space with them. That’s my biggest qualm with the city’s people so far. But urban politics aside, I was resolute to make my time here as positive as possible. I have a bigger home, nine foot tall showers, HBO, and a restaurant stove my dear mother made a promise of buying all her life. In these past two months, my days, for the most part, have consisted of cooking whatever elaborate meals I could on a stove that doesn’t belong in a suburban kitchen, recording television, reading whatever theory I can get my hands on, and practicing what little kung fu knowledge I have left in the dug out foundations riddling my neighborhood and its million dollar homes. When the scaffolding goes up in one home, I make an effort to move, night by night, on to the next, until everything’s all done. For now though, excavators are still my alarm clocks, and my unfinished kitchen, my own little restaurant.

Architecture is another thing that has occupied my time, as well as the odd teashop, the multiple libraries, and all of the city’s beautiful rivers. There certainly are spaces worth trafficking, which makes me question what the young have told me for so long. Either that, or my years dreading this place have awoken an old appreciation of urban study. Serendipitous, no doubt. And when I feel a little more adventurous, I campaign Joey to come and explore with me. We’ve been to quite a few dives, and so far, liked them all. It seems on most of our outings we’ve converged fluidly with an older crew. Are we getting old? Or is the city just cliché? Polite adults peppered with a majority of bored young people who are too lazy to go out and make their city a playground? My flaneur behavior makes me think it might be the latter. There are, after all, three different downtowns, all charming in their own right. If they’re not cosmopolitan enough, they certainly will be in the near future; but I’m sure the youth will complain it’ll be too expensive to live by that point. Alas, the grass IS always greener. But, I’ve found the grass here to be just as green as my old home. I’ve found an apiarist, a Viet-Thai grocery store, and what I consider to be probably the most impressive coffee shop in the Region. Is that a big claim? Good, because I stand by it. 

***

I’ve been slowly making my way around every café in town, looking for a local bag of beans if only to avoid the devastating shelf life that ruins any chance of a really great cup. And certainly, giving the city’s youth the benefit of the doubt, I expected to find absolutely nothing, just drip. Around here, the barista has been muscled out by laziness and big box stores that could deliver the same simply because no one was trying, or so I thought. 

Monigram Coffee Roaster’s location caught my eye. The building’s outer urban charm, and simple bold font design stamped onto its outer wall lured my cynical attention. It echoed the coffee cosmopolitanism I associated with so many third wave coffee joints. It was obviously the last place I went to look for a bag. And I expected nothing else. Something along the lines of beans brought in, but better than a grocery store; at least there might be  some contact with the mad scientist roasters around Ontario. I was caught off guard by my own defeatism though, because when I went in and asked if they had any bags, the shop's patron pointed to a shelf behind me next to a roaster. I was relieved to know I had finally found a place with fresh beans, but floored more by the knowledge. 

I didn’t really care about the roaster; in fact, when I see any in coffee shops, I never fully trust the places using in house roasting as a selling point. Why would Monigram Coffee Roaster’s be any different? So what swayed me? To the point, my questions of connoisseurship were answered with finesse. There were multiple kinds of beans, each with their own profile; they were shelved, dated the day of their roasting, and thrown away every ten days. Nothing around here is fresher. 

Monigram offers guests the coveted pour over, and the NEVER seen Siphon Coffee maker- the most regal of Japanese coffee invention. In the summer, I was told, they even offered the 24 hour cold coffee drip. All third wave theatrics not even done in Kitchener-Waterloo, pour overs aside. Monigram Coffee Roasters is as surreal as coffee can get. I’d say it’s cornering the market, but in the city of Cambridge, more specifically, downtown Galt, it’s playing a game all its own, and it doesn’t care that it cares a million times more than every other coffee shop. It cares about coffee, not the pretense of coffee for the sake of going to a café. This isn't coffee for the sake of the Enlightenment. It is an epitaph for the gastronomic greatness that can someday riddle this city though; perhaps a dooming one for the cynical youths that claim there is nowhere good to go. I reckon if I still lived where I used to, I’d make the trip out to Monigram before I would the places in my old back yard. If only I knew sooner. But luckily, I don’t have to. I bet my cool coffee friends feel pretty foolish, and if you don’t head to Monigram, you should too.











HOURS
Opening 7:30 weekdays, 8:00 weekends
Closing 6pm Sunday, 8:00 pm Mon – Wed., 10 pm Thurs. – Sat.

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The Authenticity Polemic

I woke to something very irksome on the culinary web today, which I suppose would serves me right for waking up if only to read and not watch cartoons like the manchildren of mumblecore.  

The fait accompli of said mush was focusing on one man’s journey to find authentic food and then recreate it. Though I’ve no qualms with any sort of recreation, I do, as you all know, have a huge problem with the dangerous snake pit of authenticity. Authenticity is like perfection. It’s a ridiculous, controlling concept. It’s a charmed circle. It might work with one painting that sticks around for a long while, and is the source of copy and profit. Adam’s rib too might be authentic, but a dish certainly can’t be. Or so I like to claim, because it comes and goes. That magic argument, using a little reverse Nietzsche, is made into manure.  But here’s my bigger problem with anything authentic in the food world: authentic food imposes imperialistic ideologies on the less fortunate; it Others cooks, and encourages modes of power. For one White privileged male to spend his time in other parts of an ‘exotic’ world only to come back to the West ‘looking’ for the real thing is a delusional theatric consumers love buying into, specifically because it buys into the Western ideal of the individual, which in and of itself is destructive, because while we cannot find any kind of autonomy from anything authentic because it is a mere fantasy, we continually shell out cash and look for it. Also, it’s lumped under the genre of travel writing, so it’s strictly for entertainment. At least until you decide to impress your friends with a recipe at dinner. And that’s only the political economy of it. I’m not depending on it for making my argument. 

My real problem? My real real problem is this: asinine tripe like this, from a White privileged centre, going out and looking for the authentic and then trying to conquer it, or policing it in a multicultural space couldn’t be more imperial and destructive, especially when you try to own the people doing it to survive through the act of judging the product they prepare as true to the abstract ‘genuine article.’ I hope people know this kind of shit is why museums and zoos exist. So France and Britain could just fight each other like babies and one-up each other by conquering lands and displaying anthropological war trophies. That said, know this: when you go into an ethnic restaurant, or read about a guy who’s going into an ethnic restaurant to see if they made the ‘real thing’, you are entertaining your novel whims, but also Othering those poor ethnic cooks, and rendering them invisible if they can’t do it. This is a huge paradox, aside from a huge slap in the face to the poor folk running their restaurant. Is the Thai cook not making Thai food? Did they not come from their native country and decide to cook their food to make a living here? So how can you argue authenticity when they made it in their land originally, albeit a little variably. That’s why authenticity’s a hoax, man. That’s why it’s so easy to control a submissive party by accepting them or shaming them; unfortunately, if they’re approval seeking, they’ll suffer for it. Unfortunately, if we’re approval seeking, looking for cultural capital to elevate ourselves through consumption, they will suffer, because we’ll judge them on ‘taste,’ not taste. What do these kinds of White shenanigans say for the Thai family I spent two tender years working for? Are they not authentic because something doesn’t taste the same? (A customer once complained the pad thai wasn’t like the pad thai in Thailand- little did he know, pad thai is a Western creation, taken in by Thailand- no peanut butter, no ketchup) Or is their food authentic because they are a specific ethnicity? What does that say for the Chinaman who can cook great, fantastic laab? That’s Othering, man. Ignoring the struggle of a person and disqualifying them if what they offer doesn’t benefit us. 

And if you’re all, ‘Hey, man, no, I mean ingredients are what make some dish authentic.’ Please. Take that shit up with the ghost of Barthes. I shamed an economics professor for trying to tell me Chinese food in China is better than Chinese food here made by Chinese immigrants, in front of a whole Chinese class, so I’ve no bone about doing the same to you. Save that authenticity garbage for 17 year olds reading Thoreau for the first time and somehow, for whatever dumb fuck reason, associating nature with what is real and true and genuine and autonomous. Please. Thoreau didn’t care about wilderness; that’s not why he left. He hated the political climate and wanted to get away from it and try and make his own, only to fail and come back. So, just as an aside, can we stop trying to associate the environment with human autonomy and spirit too? While we’re bringing up the subject. I mean, that’s like me leaving Waterloo’s people for Cambridge’s because, they’re more ‘real.’ Ha. It’s like going to the market to buy Canadian bananas. That’s bananas! It’s like going to China to learn real kung-fu, when everyone knows Mao totally mutilated kung-fu. He destroyed Shaolin, he burned down temples. Now you gotta go to Taiwan, or Japan and find secret masters. Do I sound ridiculous? That’s because I’m being ridiculous. It’s ridiculous! If someone’s good at kung fu, they’re good at kung fu. If they can teach you to defend yourself, then you can defend yourself. Nothing’s more right. And so I make the same claim for taste. 

Seek food not because it’s authentic, because that doesn’t mean it’s literally better! You can allude yourself in thinking that yes, but just seek for tasting good. Period. And there’s the other variability, and even I’m disqualifying myself. Everyone’s palate IS different. Food writing’s just flashy rhetoric, sprinkled with a little bit of credibility. Anyone can eat and say something tastes good or bad. But how well can they convince you? Get out there and eat. Or don’t, but please don’t support any notions of authenticity so some patronizing White butthead can lord his tongue over poor immigrant workers depending on free family labour and illegal workers. Life’s hard enough as it is without categorizing cooks into authentic, not authentic. Can we all PLEASE stop eating the Other? Can we just strike ‘authenticity’ from the lexicon? Call me a communist, but at least I don’t have to listen to another fathead tell me he’s better than me because he had ‘authentic’ poo soup. At least then, I won’t have to see another old Thai woman cry in a corner, knife in hand. 

-w

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Journey to the West

Eat your heart out, Korean-Cosby.

West of Seoul's 'opening' seemed like five long centuries. I like to think I waited for its vehicular arrival for about as long as Su Wukong waited for the opportunity to be released from the Buddha's own hand. I checked websites, looked in the streets, read tweets, even tweeted to the point of being ignored by them. But, eventually I had to come to the understanding that I’d either be around when the damned thing got some gas and hit the pavement, or I’d be up in the air, on a plane to Red China waiting to eat dog in the streets. Fortuitously however, the Universe- at least I like to think so- wanted me to have both. 

Some Sundays ago, Bingeman’s park- just one of the many places Joey and I have been ‘dismissed’ from (Joey for no bad behavior whatsoever; me for corrupting the youth of Athens)- hosted what the Region called the largest food truck event ever. The less backhanding individual would politely introduce it as the 2013 KW Harvest Food Truck Rally for Charity. So, though inevitably expensive, I managed to absolve my cheap guilt by telling myself over and over again, ‘it was for charity.’ But let’s face it, I was perfectly prepared to spend what I still contend is a ridiculous amount of cash for novel street food. That said, let me just answer the question I seem to cleverly skirt with backhanded statements: will I EVER think food trucks are worth the cash? No. Not ever. You’re better off going to a restaurant. At least you can sit, loiter, eat, and not shit in the streets for the same amount of money, tip included. But again, it was for charity!

So, calling Joey out of an inebriated slumber, he, the XuanZang- the Tripitaka, the Tang Sanzang- to my Great Sage Equal to Heaven, journeyed with me if only to release me from the culinary tyranny that had enslaved my curiosity for so, so long.

And then there we were, standing in line with tens of trucks at attention, their engines all drowning out all the obligatory chatter us food fatheads could posture out of our glutinous mouths. We meant business. Joey meant to eat more than I thought he should have- without pacing himself, at least. Luckily, convincing him of the existence of other trucks, and not only the one we had ventured to eat, had him taking his time. West of Seoul’s docket had us choosing what I stereotypically considered Korean, culinary appropriations aside. I ordered what seems to be Waterloo’s proverbial food truck staple: Risotto balls, but Korean; and the only other item I considered patriotically Korean: pork belly. Unless doughnuts and apple cider are something I know nothing about. But cheap shots aside, and using Joey as the name-sake  for our order, we took our appetizers and ran into the giant residual tent left standing on the property after the previous night’s Oktoberfest celebration, where-in-which Joey witnessed a woman get pushed by a big drunk dude. Anyway…

The clever constitution of Kimchi rice balls never really seems clever in the least. In fact, it seemed too obvious when I read it on the menu; but I ate it. The things were hardy with glutinous rice, and briny from the kimchi mixed within. Still, I couldn’t help but think the things were missing an element. Otherwise, when it came to any sapidity, the things were bland, even with the Russian-esque Korean dressing, which’s familiar flavor you find in every other joint. Was it wise to play it safe? Or pander to pedestrian palates? Probably. Especially since I’m probably the most polemic eater around these here parts, and people would sooner listen to me than eat enough on their own and say, ‘hey wait a minute, I’ve had this before.’ Anyway, that’s the worst of it. What I did like was the flaky, light tempura used to batter the otherwise hardy staple. Frankly, risotto balls are the residuals of poor peasant proletarians who needed every calorie they could get. Eat enough and you’ll sink like a stone, so thank high cuisine for some gastronomic gentrification.

Texturally, West of Seoul’s pork belly was out of this world. I could feel the oil wet my lips, the tender fatty pork just melt away when I bit into it. No pull, no fibrous bite. It was unbelievable, especially around these here parts. Otherwise, it tasted salty and usual, which, unfortunately, had me yearning for something more. I won’t argue that simplicity is a good thing. Certainly, the popular convention today is that simple makes for the best kind of food, but the adage seems a little more than overused at this point. Simple can be good, but so can creative flavours, not that the pork particularly needed it. Still, buttery fat wasn’t enough to satisfy my adventure that day, and Joey wasn’t nearly comatose enough at that point. So we surveyed the long line of competition, inadvertently finding ourselves gathered around the attractively creative menu options of food trucks from out of town. What they were doing here? Charity, bro, charity. We were glad. And looking for something lighter than what we not minutes before crammed down our throats, found Hamilton’s Karma Chamealeon, apparently Ontario’s first 100% plant-based and animal-free food truck. Anyway, who really cares? Their Jamaican Jerk Tacos were enough to convert the most staunch carnivore, or the most unsympathetic, cynical eater who believes anything vegetable and restaurant related is a consumer trend. But I’ll be damned if Joey and I weren’t absolutely floored by marinated jackfruit pulled apart to match the texture of pork, topped with papaya-guava-salsa on blue corn tortillas. The creativity, the combination of tastes- sweet with savoury out of nowhere and a heat that came right at the last minute- made Karma Chamealeon our choice truck of the day, and forgetting trucks even existed in Waterloo. We went back just to smell whatever else landed in other customers’ hands. And since Hamilton seemed to dish out a great culinary chariot, we thought we’d try and make it a two-fer. 

Not two doors down, we visited Jonny Blonde, a truck offering a plethora of creative flatbead creations. And since the theme of the day seemed to me to be Korean, and the truck’s bulgogi sandwich offered a creative slaw with asian pear, as well as a mystery teriyaki sauce, I couldn’t stay away. Mixing our last little bit of dough, Joey and I begged for a sandwich split down the middle, and were humbly obliged. A soft, airy bread folded over rich sinewy short rib that curmudgeonly stuck between our teeth, but at least stayed true to a Korean staple. Jonny’s teriyaki seemed nothing out of the ordinary though, and would have saved him face to not call it his own. If anything, it was just more of the familiar. I could appreciate the creative chutzpah of combinations, but found myself done in by mediocre culinary rhetoric. A shame, but eatable to say the least. 

Hey, it took a humble monk 17 years to retrieve the sutras, and 5 centuries for a monkey to reach buddhahood, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t take me nearly as long to find something really remarkable to taste.

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Dragon Meat in Heaven

A hard day’s work had me hankering for the food that has always lifted my spirits, especially when, in our dear culinary gastropolis, every other place seems like an unappetizing tomb. But, even when entrees seem redundant, I’m always enlivened by the comestible stuff that had me serendipitously writing about it in the first place. So, turn away, or cover your eyes, lest you, like me, love absolutely everything there is to love about the food that has me eating first, and talking later, even in the good company of my cibo chum, Joey. That’s right, TAIJI Chinese Restaurant’s food had us eating without a whisper; without the uproarious laughter that always has us celebrating food everywhere. It was a long day, anchored by a meal in a deserted but very much appreciated place.

I went through the list in my mind just to make sure: Mando pop blaring? Check. Plasma television rotating a slideshow of entrees? Check. Portion of the menu in Chinese I couldn’t read but wished I could so I could order the stuff: Check.  Don’t worry, in the humble, warmly coloured space of TAIJI you still have admittance to all your favourites. Chow mein, sweet and sour pork, sesame chicken. And just before you come to a conclusion: stop right there. TAIJI is a civil restaurant. Sure, there are those Chinese Canadian favourites; but there are a lot more of those familiarities from red China, call me a running dog.

Joey couldn’t get his mind off of the curiosity that was egg drop soup, the Italian in him calling out for stracciatella, even if I tried to dismay him. I took the reins after that. There were more interesting things to eat. So I entertained my own guilty pleasures and chose a classic, Cantonese chow mein: a nest of fried wheat noodles topped and softened with a medley of bright vegetables and savoury meats in glistening sauce. If Joey could handle chopsticks as well as me, I reckon he would have beaten me to even more of it.

I’ll be damned if Joey’s stubbornness didn’t pay off, because I was pleasantly surprised by our egg drop soup. Crystalline and viscous, it was a textural pleasure with a clean broth, flavoured with an element of spiciness reminiscent of cumin.

Lastly, and much more to my indulgence, we were graced with fried green beans with minced pork. Traditionally cooked with tough, chewy, and pleasantly bitter long beans, our dish, an homage to the original, was a little more texturally delicate. Supple crumbs of ground pork peppered a plate of soft, tender green beans, juxtaposing the salty, savoury dynamic of the dish with refreshing vegetable balminess. With a little heat, and briny pickled vegetables, our tastebuds were firing synapses like fireworks. If Joey and I were any quieter, you would have heard little pops and bangs, but the happy sounds of our chams and chomps were paradoxically even louder.

Yup, there might be dragon meat in Heaven, but when you’re at TAIJI, who needs it?

Mon, Wed, Thurs: 12pm-9:30pm

Tue: Closed

Fri-Sun: 12pm-10pm

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It Ain't All Gone

When you inevitably find yourself making a day of visiting (what’s left of) St. Jacob’s Market, you may give glance to the antique stores and other outlets surrounding the cusp of it. If you’re like me, you may take a lifetime to slowly approach every building if only because you take a long, long time in life gathering interests and acting on them. Years ago, I spent a good portion of my time antiquing, looking for anything made in Occupied Japan. I found like, two teacups. Anyway, after that, and more recently, it was a serendipitous interest in cosmetics that had me looking for supplies in the bulk store next to the antique store. I know what you’re thinking. And you’re probably right. Anyway, most recently, not a day or two before, I was told about the eatery sharing the space with both places. Yeah, I saw it in the past, and acknowledged it. But like I said, it takes me a long time to act on interest. Don’t live like me, kids. Otherwise, you may regret having stayed away from the Crazy Canuck for so long.

That’s right, as thick as the name may sound, it’s cozier and more welcoming than you’d think. Its crew is small, and quintessentially Canuck, humouring me with nicknames like ‘big guy’ and ‘bud’, enduring my indecisiveness, and having nothing but earnest at my embarrassment for not knowing what chomo (chocolate milk) means. The menu’s eclectic, and I can finally say that and mean it. The space, almost as much; seasoned with Canadiana, with a single wall of record sleeves of anything classic rock and Canadian: Kim Mitchell, Rush, Max Webster. License plates from every province, snowshoes- Its identity encompasses so much of what I have always xenophobically believed when I think of my own cultural identity. Why? I don’t know. This is a food review, not a psychology study. 

It was a tempting menu though. It took no shame in deriving its ideas from every culture it could think of. From taco pizza, to pizza poutine. I finally settled on the day’s special: A sliced beef hoagie with a posturing, and therefore hypnotizing, mango chutney coleslaw; pizza poutine, not poutine pizza, and what the place called a ‘snowshoe,’ for dessert. Between you and me, that’s what I was waiting for.

I lazily waited for my casserole of fries covered with meat sauce, two seasoned slices of salami, and baked mozzarella, reminiscent, of all things, of a chicken parmesan. I laughed tenderly to myself. Beside it, my hoagie, which, if I didn’t know any better, was a slider smaller than my fist, packed with resilient steak slices and topped with slaw. My enthusiasm for the thing waned as much as its old bread, which absorbed the flavours of the air from the fridge. Mean to say, but no less true. Its coleslaw, a little too curried with the yellow stuff and distracting from the idea of mango chutney made into a vibrant salad. The cabbage was limp and too fermented to cherish any good flavor. In two bites, it was gone. I couldn’t reconcile whether I should have been happy or sad that it was gone so soon. But that was as bad as the meal got. I treasured my poutine. It wasn’t anything in the forefront of poutiness, but I’m damned if I didn’t love its tangy, peppery, savoury meat sauce, or its crispy fries with an indescribable malty flavor. The weirdest association, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. It was rich, it was hardy, it was mouth filling. If the Canuck couldn’t do poutine, I guess it would have been a culinary hoser. But culinary hoser it was not. 

And my snow shoe dessert? Let me tell you: a deep fried fritter in the shape of the footgear, topped with vanilla icecream and rained down on with cinnamon and sugar, floating in rich raspberry coulis. My adulations were embarrassing, but I couldn’t help ooze over crispy dough with a tender, airy, chewy inside. I chopped off pieces, went after my ice cream before it listfully melted away, mashed everything in the coulis, licked the plate clean. After that meal, I reckoned the Canuck’s food could make any guy crazy, because by the end all I could think was, O Canada!




Any payment

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Sunday
10:00 am - 06:00 pm
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday
10:00 am - 08:00 pm

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Don't Judge

If you were apt to judge a place just by walking in, you may not pay Safa Kabob any mind. Still, don’t let its glowing menu board deter you. The motif of the fast food restaurant certainly engrosses the physical space, what with its washed out lighting, quiet atmosphere, and spacious dining room. But given a little toleration, the Middle Eastern kitsch that decorates its sand coloured walls may be just enough to charm you. It certainly charmed me.

Now, I’m not particularly polished when it comes to Traditional Eastern cuisine, but I’m acquainted with enough culinary consultants who are more than happy to spoon feed me when it comes to trying new things, and this time was no exception. Luckily, my fellow comrade in culinary arms was well versed and able to enlightenment me on just what made Safa Kabob Restaurant the modern twist on Traditional Eastern cuisine it claims to be. In fact, what makes it different from other Middle Eastern cuisine is its fusion with markedly Indian dishes that share the same underpinnings of Middle Eastern flavours, but aren’t particularly combined in any fantastic way. That said, the option of a menu that offers kabobs, curries, wraps, and specialty dishes still offers great choice and a meal that can easily fill two for under 30 dollars. 

We elected to try a dish from every section on the menu, and were ambitious enough to eat every dessert. We ordered the lamb kabob (11.99), a seasonal favourite of the place, using its limited but privileged supply of fresh Ontario lamb chops, the beef Gosht Masala (10.99) curry dish, and Safa’s eggplant vegetarian dish (10.99). Confoundingly, our desire to sample every dessert was dissuaded, as we were assured all we’d need to drink was the jug of Mango lassi (5.99), more than enough for two. It was a moment before I could come to terms with a restaurant trying not to sell its customers everything on the menu, but the trolley cart wheeling out copious amounts of naan bread and dishes of rice along with our meals had me rethinking why I had been leery in the first place. 

Yes, we were laden with a buffet of potent purees and succulent stews, accompanied by undressed salads, plain rice, and ever so popular naan bread. To the untrained eye, I was assured the hodgepodge of food could easily appear dull, and the only thing with any flavor reserved to the humble bowls of beef and eggplant; however, the creative eater could make a patchwork of all the flavours offered. Our vegetarian eggplant dish was a compote of aubergine, onions, tomatoes, garlic, and spices. The oily smash was a pungent, spicy mix speckled with quenching minces of coriander that turned any overpowering salty savoury flavor into something bright and clean. Mixed with rice, it became a fulfilling mix of samala spice reminiscent of the curry flavor we associate with so much Indian cuisine. 

Our beef Gosht Masala shared the same spice foundation, enlivened with a fiery concentrated stew of tomatoes, onions, garlic, and fresh green peppers. The dish’s beef tenderly surrendered to any fork, revealing a deep maroon coloured flesh. My naan bread, with its crisply roasted crust and perforated pillowy interior, had no reservations about wiping up any stew left over in the silver bowl. And the mango lassi did a good job of tempering the fire in our bellies; the small, yet surprisingly filling, jug of pureed mango and yogurt coated and calmed the insides of our stomachs and left a memorial sweetness that lingered on the back of our breaths even hours after our meal. And though our lamb chops were more done than I would have preferred, the charred exterior matched a motif of meat that depended only on its own earthy flavor and very little seasoning. A welcomed gamey quality added a good change to the family of flavours in our meal, and had me wondering why I had even thought twice about Safa Kabob Restaurant in the first place.




Hours
Monday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Tuesday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Wednesday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Thursday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Friday 11:00 AM - 9:00 PM
Saturday 11:00 AM - 9:00 PM
Sunday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM

ANY PAYMENT

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Poor Ol' Fuji-San

If you’re tired of making any kind of effort to visit any kind of all-you-can-eat sushi place in town, your prayers have been answered, because Itamae sushi is the newest ubiquity bogarting on the phenomenon of cosmopolitanism that has been diffusing the neighbourhoods around Waterloo’s university blocks. That’s right, for all the lucky students, all-you-can-eat is a mere jaunt. 13.99 for lunch, 20.99 for dinner. You’d be foolish not to grab a filling, almost irresponsible, lunch every day. And now, when you do, you don’t have to feel like a contemptible in-debt student at an all-you-can-eat facsimile, because Itamae feels and looks a little more urbane. I’m ashamed to say, I found myself hypnotized by the chic, Orientalized space. Cool browns, blacks, greys, forgiving tiled splash-backs; thick, stocky furnishings, pearled dining tables, waiters setting orders on hand held tablets, faux sushi itamaes in blue hakis with murals of origami met with bursts of warm colours on aesthetics reminiscent of the origami motif of the space. Even its centre made the place exalted and heavenly as the gold ceiling reached up to a point representing none other than Fuji itself. The bathrooms had granite counters, and robotic paper towel dispensers; it was a fantastic feast for the eyes, an alright feast for the stomach. Unfortunately, our orders took a good amount of time getting to us, so much so that Joey lost any truck he had with the wait staff, taking his own order and walking up and handing his tab to every sushi chef, making sure he would get what he wanted. And there were the usual chronic mixups and mystery orders that constantly happen at sushi places too.

Itamae offers nothing particularly new, some different menu options, some half-assed desserts masquerading as haute because they look, like the space, really good. That was my biggest tension. I’m a devote fan of egg tarts, but what we received was a beaten egg baked in an obtusely folded wonton, too eggy and off putting. And the Itamae apple pie? Nothing more than an apple fritter, with no spin on it to imply the character or personality of the place. Just an apple fritter. A boring apple fritter. Everything is hit or miss, and that seems to be the complacent accession of all all-you-can-eat-sushi spots. It can’t all be good. But, I argue it can if it didn’t want to seem like a cash grab all the time. Some sashimi was good, the white tuna, clean and salty, the salmon and red tuna, a little stale and brassy from sitting in a fridge. Some sashimi came room temperature, some uncomfortably cool. The eel on my sushi pizza was another climatic affliction. Cold seafood on hot deep fried rice in other words. We did very much enjoy the lotus rolls, though. A series of rolls rolled with bean paper, reminiscent of a thin cabbage, rather than the usual seaweed. And the mango banana roll was somewhat amusing. Mango stuck out of it like shoots of bamboo, wrapped in usual seaweed and rice. It was an ambitious project. The fruit wasn’t as ripe as we would have liked, and the flavours juxtaposed too much to really want it again. Even if a dessert, which it wasn’t, it still fell very short. But again, the menu’s a big thing, with a lot to try, so you’re bound to accept something. We liked the bacon asparagus rolls, and the curry chicken was enlivened by lime and notes of star anise. The grilled mackerel was surprisingly good for something expected so fast.

Itamae sushi doesn’t need to try at anything. Hell, if it had any professionalism, I imagine the waitress would have stepped aside to let me through a hall of crowded people rather than elbowing past me when I approached. But when customers just want to fill themselves us with alright food, forgoing great taste and service, can you blame them? Still, why not just buy a bag of rice? Let’s hope it’s not a representation of the superficiality of cuisine, or anything for that matter, in our break neck developing city, even if substandard goods are conventionally associated with developers just interested in a quick buck. In that case then, I reckon Itamae is in the right place.

ANY PAYMENT

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The White Whale

The Chinese Bakery is my White Whale. It’s elusive, and reminds me of my incredible lightness of being. I’ve spent the largest of my culinary fortunes travelling to eat at as many as I could, hoping someday one would come to my town. I’ve turned over the idea of starting my own. I’ve had an 8 year vocation of trying my best to bake the things they sell, let down and overwrought by the fact that every place everywhere seems to get the same baked goods from some ominous supplier. There is an universality to everything they sell; a capital mentality to the exponential increase of profit in exchange for convenient goods.

 The bakery behind my house once held Chinese owners from the Province of Neimenngu who, when asked, had egg tarts ready for me within the hour. That was a golden age. It was there where everything came from the artisanship of their hands. I liked to pretend that the German goods they baked were a mere cover for all the mian bao they would make me. Sadly, it was short lived. They didn’t stay long. It was an ill-fated space. Their son Mei promised me tutelage in the art of noodling. I brought him tea during the dragon boat festival to seal the deal. That’s how serious I was; but the day I came, they were gone, and the new owners had no idea where they had gone. I never saw them again.

A year later, another bakery opened in the deeps of Kitchener. Yup, there lay the fixed threads of the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging vibration. It had it all: bubble tea, lemon tea so chalky it’d close your throat, egg tarts, rolled cakes, red bean buns, all settled in a long, PCB lit corridor, lights leaking Won Kar Wai’s own florescent imagination. Everything toted in plastic, prepackaged and ready to be plucked. It was a hard sell, however, especially with the Chinese grocery store next door, which more or less sold the same pre-packaged stuff. And before I knew it, it was gone too. I was surprised. Still, I never expected to see anything like it again, especially if it couldn’t survive where it was. Nor did I expect to stick around long enough to see another incarnation, especially in the old-line uptown space of Waterloo. But hey, I don’t have a crystal ball; Uptown does have a Crystal Palace though- coincidentally owned by the same confident creators of Hot Wheels Tea House, the newest incarnation of the Chinese Bakery. But I’d be a fool to call it that- it’s so much more. Tea House seems an apt label for what it, I imagine, will grow into. For now, while it practices opening, it offers all the baked goods I’d come to expect, as well as Chinese breakfast familiars. Inexpensive breakfast familiars. And if you want the cheapest bubble tea you can find, don’t hesitate to pay the place a visit, at least until it gets its bearings, because you can get a good glass for a nominal 2 dollar fee. That’s right. That’s it. Nothing more. There’s no tax for the time being. It’s too good to be true. Macaroni and toast, chewy steamed buns with crisp cucumber, and sweet tender peking duck; barmy, bitter Hong Kong tea I love, and as much as you can drink thanks to free refills- more than enough to slow down time, or be faster than it. So far, it’s a great place, smack with Sino-Western hybridity, after enough tea, you’d think you were living by The Bund.



N2J 2W7

519-208-8989

Hours: For now, whenever it feels like it.

Any Payment

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In This Corner . . .

If you’re feeling a bit peckish, for both food and self-reflection on your own class position, Luchador food truck might just be the perfect tool for a little culinary reflexivity. The mobile restaurant totes itself as a Mexican fusion machine, and though that may be a moot point for any cuisine in the West, I’ve enough gull to say it teeters more on the side of anything haute. Yup, its new school cartoony mural of little luchadors will dilate your pupils, and its portions will have you feeling the pangs of today’s current food trends and the price you have to pay to be a part of them. Only the most socially obedient can belong to Luchador, because I’m willing to bet it’s a one time visit for a lot of us. Not because of the food. No, no. It’s pretty good. But the portions had me crying and reviewing social constructs of control in a Victorian era residually present today, of all things, in what is supposed to liberate high cuisine from the tyranny of restaurant costs. Oh food trucks, I thought you were for the people? I guess not. Instead I found myself shelling out near ten dollars for two tiny steamed buns postured as ‘tacos’,  and 6 for two tiny slider hamburgers with pudgy finger sausages. If we can agree though that eating anything from Luchador is about taste, and not sustenance, then there’s nothing to argue; I can only hope the masses are as civil as me. I was culled by the coos of the masked Luchador calling my name and telling me that my ‘lil Filipino tortas lonagnizas’ and ‘momofuku steambun tacos’ were ready. I wondered if Dave Chang knew Luchador was alluding his food? I felt quietly had when I discovered how small my portions were. I expected enough food to fill the salt-of-the-earth. Two tiny tacos. Two tiny burgers. By now you all get it. You’re gonna pay for it; and it’s up to you all to appreciate it. I certainly could appreciate Luchador’s finesse for managing some things. Its proprietor is a powerhouse of culinary knowhow. Don’t be fooled by my polemic. A serendipitous chat with Luchador’s owner had me more than humbled, only because he himself was. Articulate, well-versed, aware of the performance of food, Luchador doesn’t claim to be cutting edge. It just looks for what people like and tries it. No rock stars here. Only food industry perspective, which is why I imagine everything turned out so well. 

Luchador’s infusion of flavours were impressive. I could taste the five spice in the background of my bacon-esque pork belly. I could taste the heat and lingering lime of the cold slaw of my sliders. I could appreciate the chewy airiness of my steamed bun ‘tacos’ (a food feat I find finicky). The mallo-like texture of my mini slider buns. The tender give of my charizo like sausages. Luchador corners a texture market, there’s no doubt. Even the pork belly had an interesting crunchy exterior with a fatty interior, albeit a dry one. Still, I was wrestling a hoisin sauce too sweet and overpowering, and sprigs of cilantro that had me wondering why even bother? There was nothing there to lift up savoury flavours that otherwise pinned my palette down. Paradoxically, the coldslaw was a little languid, put over by the rich sausage. It would champion being eaten alone though. I loved the creativity of the stuff.

My meal was a rushed finish, a quash in the portion department, but a strap in attempting to deliver flavor. I’d like whatever else offered to fill a proletariat stomach, but I can’t be too angry about that. Luchador does good by the market; and certainly by food. 

LUCHADOR GOURMET STREATERY
Twitter: @kwLUCHADOR

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Say Cheese

*Alas, CLOSED down.

Joey and I were despondent. Full of ennui. It was cool, muddy, clouds were rolling in, snuffing out the city with black. Hong Kong tea couldn’t even help us. We watched a couple sit alienated next to each other while we waited for our cups. It broke our hearts. We were lovelorn. What else could we do but ask complete strangers where to eat? We argued, we broke cardinal food writing rules. We went after places not even open a month. Went in, sat down, read menus, lamented, left. Defeated and driving in the dark.

It was near 9 o’clock before we saw Joe Fromaggio’s bright yellow lights calling us late into the night.

It was a nostalgic space for me; I recalled last summer on EI, pining for a waitress day after day, hunkering down with barflies, waiting for afterhours every single night. Its space still held onto some residuals of its old design: floodlights, polished tables, smooth wooden chairs. Only now, it was like the home of a newly minted urbanite trying to reconcile his own Thoreauvian guilt by adding rough wood paneling and forest greens, as well as kitsch that explicitly showed a bizarre obsession with cheese. Of course, this is Joe Fromaggio’s selling point. The name says it all. Sure, I thought it was something Italian, it’s everything cheese and novelty. Is there any other way to live? Not here. You can’t escape the stuff on the menu, but I’m not sure you’d want to. The combinations are a riot. Joey and I couldn’t stop laughing. Grilled cheese sandwiches, and even sushi, with macaroni; some with Sriracha, that popular pervasive internet hot sauce, a confusingly popular condiment for cooks everywhere; pastas, and sandwiches made with what the place wants you to believe are leftovers. If you’re in a good mood, you probably can’t wait to come back. I was already imagining what I’d get next time, before even ordering anything. We started by splitting an appetizer of sirloin spring rolls. Shanghai style wanton wrapped around burger beef, pickles, onions, and of course, cheese. It was a fantastic idea, and even more delicious. Savoury, rich and dripping with cheese, tongue tingling with pickles, so greasy it would put BP to shame. The worst culinary oil slick Joey and I ever came across. There was enough oil left over on our plates to fry whatever else we wanted. But damn was it fun and gluttonously satisfying. Next, Joey asked for deep fried risotto balls, fried darker than we would have visually preferred, but not enough to do any damage. We weren’t particularly impressed, however. Creamy innards sprinkled with bright green peas were bland and carried only with a stale pungency brought on by paprika. The dish was accompanied by a pasty marinara I thought raw and obligatorily peppered with spice.

My meal was one of many novel grilled cheese sandwiches on the menu. They called it the ‘Life Changer’: a peanut butter and aged cheddar sandwich sacked with bacon and sprinkled with, yes, Sriracha. I chose to accompany my entrée with a side of cheddar ale soup. Cheesier than I would have preferred too, it wasn’t reminiscent of a good chowder for me. A little too thick, a little too salty, and without any elements from the ale it was made with. It was a crying shame for a side.

My sandwich came to me on marbled rye, grilled golden without a hint of char anywhere on the bread. It worked well. Neither peanut butter nor cheese were stealing each other’s thunder. It was always a savoury bite of cheese, followed by a smoky bang of bacon, finished with peanut butter that lingered on the palate. And if you think I’m missing something, you’re right. The Sriracha, unfortunately, was barely there. It appeared once in a while, but usually when I peeled back a slice and scraped it off of wherever I could find it. A crying shame too, the sandwich really could have changed my life.

Joe Fromaggio

50 Westmount Road N,

Waterloo, Ontario

N2L 6N9

​

(519) 884-8558

Mon - Fri: 11:30 am - 12:00 am

Sat & Sun: 12:00 pm - 12:00 am

ANY PAYMENT

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Two Plains of Culinary Existence

An apprehensive conversation about the viability of food trucks in Waterloo led me to the latest bandwagon. It took me days to track it down. And if not for the curiosity of my Chinese teacher, I would have never known it even existed. In fact, many passersby might view the thing with worry and discretion. Big, ambiguous, and black, nothing but S.W.A.T. is seen across its blocky, armored truck demeanor from afar. And the blithe pop music blaring from speakers surrounding it may make some think some psychological warfare is being used to draw out whatever terrors are taking root in the buildings of the parking lot it occupies. In reality, however, S.W.A.T. is just another of the city’s food trucks delivering itself in a nifty package with kind of nifty food.

Toting itself as curbside gourmet- like every truck so far- its S.W.A.T. moniker cleverly stands for Sandwiches with a Twist, offering food stand fare we are all oh-so-familiar with. Hotdogs, hamburgers, fries, you name it. However, what makes its food so Hallmark, in theory, is the riddling of all menu options with paradigmatic gourmet signifiers. There’s pulled pork, but with a brioche bun; a back bacon sandwich with a maple syrup reduction; a philly cheesesteak with provolone cheese; even a grody double entendre menu option equating food with touching yourself. Yes, high cuisine at its best.

To me, S.W.A.T.’s truck stands between a plain of high cuisine and what we affably call ‘street meat.’ Does it teeter more in one direction. Obviously. Will I say which? Heck, no. I will say this: it’s alright. I’ve eaten enough hamburgers and poutines, and I’ve taken a pretty decent sample in my culinary investigations. I made S.W.A.T. part of the research. I got a poutine. A plain old poutine: gravy over fries and squeaky white curds. Was it anything different? No. The gravy was thin and familiar, and the curds didn’t melt, even in 29 degree weather. But no censure here. It would have been nice to see it with a twist though.

My sandwich? The Pulled Weiner. That’s right, that double entendre. I couldn’t resist. A footlong slathered with creamy coleslaw and, of all things, pulled pork, packaged in a soft white bun. The footlong, a shriveled thing, slit down the centre, definitely reinforced the metaphor. It looked like it went through a beating, but it didn’t taste bad or burnt. The coleslaw on top? Showcased by a powerful tang, almost winey, no doubt from the vinegar. Either way, it was familiar to every other Carolina coleslaw in every other way. The pulled pork was salty and smokey, familiar too in all barbecue bill of fare, but far from being the opus of the dish. No flourish, no fantastic spice to elevate it to curbside ‘gourm-eh,’ as is patriotically stamped as the truck’s motto; just, as far as I’m concerned, curbside gour . . . meh. And it’s a crying shame too, there’s so much to work with, so much to have fun with, but no flavours  that really pull a dish up out of the dreg of streetfare. The food truck in the city walks a fine line. The idea is novel, but if customers don’t flock feverishly to them, what good is it having them around? Especially when it took me days to track something like S.W.A.T. down?

S.W.A.T. Food Truck

519-500-1561

Twitter: @SWATfoodtruck

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Lil' Bit O' Heaven?

I’ve shared a neighbourhood with Homestyle Diner my entire life. If I payed it any mind at all, it was at the discretion of knowing friends of friends who worked there. And it wasn’t, in fact, until Joey told me that a friend of a friend of ours was currently running the place, when we both decided, much to our facetious enthusiasm, to hurry and give it a try. Yes, to me the place always seemed a dying animal; a routine place with little appeal except to the regular crew that came in and out over and over again. But my culinary travels in our gastropolis have given perspective and patience to my once young and arrogant palate. Homestyle Diner is a strangely romantic place. Its décor may scream grandma kitsch, what with its sponged turquoise rose coloured walls, plastic plants, and wall art for sale. Joey described it as a showroom for old ladies that don’t know it’s a showroom; but I assure you, the space is part of the charm. In regards to what Homestyle Diner offers to eat, it’s trivial. Because what it does offer to eat is some of the most affordable and well to do fare I’ve had in a good while. From breakfast, lunch, to dinner, you can have it all, focused with the food of Americana. I did notice a shrimp stir-fry option on the menu though, which I dare anyone to eat; but breakfast was what I was after. I advise all of you reading to look for the same. And if you’re a little short for breakfast, don’t worry, Homestyle Diner has an absurdly affordable deal for 3.95. Unfortunately, Joey and I missed the special by a half hour (8am – 11am), so if we wanted to, we had to pay an extra dollar for a load of fixings like eggs, bacon, hash browns, pancakes, you name it. Still, don’t worry too much, because breakfast lasts until 4, if you really have a hankering for it.

I was resolved to stay a little more ambitious; and though all the hollandaise options were tempting, I decided on an omelet packed with bacon, sausage, and ham, accompanied with toast and 3 of the most satisfying pancakes I’ve had at a breakfast place. Does that speak to my experience? I don’t think so. They were fantastic, crispy on the outside, airy and light in the middle. None of that gluey, saturated batter that sweats by the time it gets to your plate.

My omelet was an interesting assembly too. Beaten eggs were cooked to a crepe like thickness, and wrapped around a medley of meat combined with melted, I’m afraid to say, processed cheddar. Still, it was kind of a guilty pleasure.

It was a strange decision to me, and I would have liked the inner workings mixed together with the egg, but nothing chanced nothing earned, I suppose. In retrospect, I’ve no complaints- breakfast is a very forgiving thing, after all. And if that wasn’t reckless enough, I did myself the good deed of having dessert in the morning; one of the many pies made in house at Homestyle Diner. A more than affordable 3.95 had me awaiting a choice custard blueberry strawberry coulis slice with a dollop of pillowy whipped cream. A balmy, buttery sweetness maintained the base of the pie with an even sweeter topping of confit fruit. And the serving was more than generous; so much so, I still catch myself fantasizing about it. Sure enough, Homestyle Diner is a little bit of serendipity. It’ll be a sad day when I’m forced to leave it. But, until then, I’ve a lot of spare change, and a lot of pie to eat.

Homestyle Diner

504 Albert St  

Waterloo, ON

N2L 6J8
(519) 725-5048

EVERYDAY 8am – 8pm

ANY PAYMENT

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Liminoid

I’ve been saddled on and off with the label of hipster, or ‘original hipster,’ as my compatriots like to shamefully call me. It happens everywhere I go actually: parties, work, bedroom mirror. I guess it’s been a long time coming. I’m underemployed, thrifty, prodigal, polemical. I don’t have a funny moustache though, or any knowledge of folk music, or owls, or old furniture. I actually don’t have any furniture. I do have a couple Cosby sweaters though that I bought for a couple bucks. And I look good in them. I am a fan of Nick Wooster too. I’m not entirely sure that counts though. I also have a thing against Authenticity, as you all probably already know. Anyway, what I’m getting at is, if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. So, I guess I’m finally paying for my mistake. And I have the Yeti café to thank for finally helping me to realize this. It was there, a space riddled with kitsch, a mess of retro furniture, folksy photos, novel paintings of Sasquatch in the wilderness, amenable recycled glass bottles full of water, vegan bacon, where I realized, while attempting to help Joey find love, that I probably am some weird, liminal, ultimate, self-shaming hipster. The fact that I’m calling myself one speaks even more to the fact. Terrible. But Joey and I love the Yeti café. We do. It’s weird. We’ve avoided it for so long. It wasn’t until our out-of-town friend, urban and beautiful, yearned for a place that jeered the whole neighbourhood of Williamsburg. So we went. Intending to shame it. But then we went back, and back again, enjoying the novel coffee options, the strange in glass presentations of espressos with foam, the rose water marshmallows, the affable counter attendee. Ironically, at the Yeti, Joey and I can just be. And get fed if we so please. Sandwiches, salads, quiche, even breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes, all doable in a small, manageable space. I’m absolutely thoughtless if I’m not mentioning the place’s baked goods either. All outsourced, but it’s not my prerogative to talk anymore about them. The Yeti knows where to get a good interesting thing, like protein breakfast bars, nutrition riddled cookies: spicy in aroma, light, and airy with puffed sesame seeds.  There’s fresh squeezed juice, homemade lemonade in mason jars, ready for anyone curious enough to crack them open. I certainly couldn’t resist the stirring infusion of mint and thyme. Unfortunately, mine was a jar of tart, chalky drink, semi sweet, devoid of what flavor the place said was in it. The sprigs of thyme were in the brew, but the flavor wasn’t, and nothing minty either. Still, it could be a good idea, provided it works.

Joey bought his usual cortado, this time charmed with a bagel topped with avocado, cheddar, bacon, tomato, and a garlic aioli that made the entire thing buzz. Without it, as far as we were concerned, it would have just been a sandwich, but that strange aioli made it a phenomenon.

Something a little more ambitious and liminoid called to me: the Vegan BLT. A good ol’ 7 grain sandwich bundled with a mix of lettuces- cabbage included- tomato, and avocado with vegan mayo: a thick, heavy spread, headier than non-vegan mayo. I can’t say I minded it. For something so meatless, it was pretty substantial. My only real qualm was the limp micro greens used to garnish the thing. Like I wasn’t good enough for fresh? Or maybe I’m too hip to care about it? Anyway, the vegan bacon was what really called me into a world of culinary performance and pretend. Flaked coconut was pan-fried, I assume with things like tamari, liquid smoke, or whatever else, to make a perfectly sweet simulacrum of what we all remember as the cooked backs of beasts. My sandwich had a generous serving of it too. And Joey and I were generously served, allowed to be as liminoid as we pleased, until, of course, we had to enter the real world and leave.

The Yeti

(519) 744-4643

14 Eby St North Kitchener, ON

N2H2V5
 

Tue - Fri: 9:30 am - 5:00 pm

Sat: 7:00 am - 4:00 pm

Sun: 10:00 am - 3:00 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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The Pizzaburger

This is not a lazy review. So when I tell you that Joey and I decided, after a long afternoon of ghost strolling the city, that we unanimously (maybe a little divertedly) decided to go to Boston Pizza, it wasn’t without good consideration. Yes, Boston Pizza is famous. So franchisy, it’s an absurd theatric to even bother to give it a review. Blue collars love it; foodies despise it. For cibos, it remains a very guilty pleasure. And I should feel nothing but shame for deciding on it. But Joey is always a good centre for reason and perspective. I’ve reviewed franchises or chains in the past, certainly not nearly as prolific, but what right do I have to deny myself the curiosity of Boston Pizza’s latest pastiche, he says? Besides, Joey and I have been so culinarily curious for the past month we could no longer risk the mutual shame of being those dudes who talk about doing something, but never actually doing it. Losing face is something my Old Master taught me never to do. Ever. That’s why Boston Pizza gets a review. More specifically, why one novel item on Boston Pizza’s menu gets a review. Because one item and a side of fries is all we can really afford. We have debt, we have mortgages, we have condominium investments, and while our assets remain frozen, 14.99 is as much as we’ll feloniously pay. If television hasn’t already told you, or if you’re too cool for television (or the internet), you may not know about the pizzaburger. It’s everything it sounds like. Even though your mind may interpret the name as beef on a pizza, or pizza acting as burger patties, think harder- it’s a kind of panzerotti. Actually, it’s entirely a panzerotti wrapped around a hamburger. Why it wasn’t called a hamburger panzerotti? Joey and I will never know. But don’t worry, we e-mailed corporate. We’ve yet to hear back. Yup, the pizzaburger just might be the obelisk of food novelty. Why else would anyone venture to pay a solid fifteen dollars for something no larger than 6 inches in diameter? Apparently though, when it comes to choice, the pizza burger isn’t novel enough. It only comes in two variations: bacon and pepperoni, or three cheeses. Guess which one we chose? Never mind, I’ll tell you. We ordered bacon and pepperoni. We reckoned there was enough cheese in the mix anyway. Guess what, again? We were wrong. There was also very little sauce, which came as no surprise to the waitress. She said it was the most common complaint; even more common than the pliable premade burger patty clammed inside the chewy wrapping. It sounds less appetizing than it was. Surprisingly, the dough was slight enough that it didn’t overpower the actual burger, nor did it absorb every bit of flavor. There was that slight tang from the usual stock pizza sauce. You know? The kind you taste at every pizza place? With that kind of spectral pepperiness. And what could I say about the cured meats? Pepperoni, bacon: the meatiest combination of dopamine inhibitors in culinary medication. Salty, savoury, smoky. I couldn’t help but lather the entire thing in ketchup. Joey refused to bastardize anything though. To each his own. And when it comes to Boston Pizza’s pizzaburger, I can’t think of a more poignant phrase to use in this situation. 

BOSTON PIZZA 
597 King Street North 
Waterloo, ON, 
N2V 2N3 

(519) 880-1828 

Sundays: 11:00 AM - 12:00 AM 
Mon - Thu: 11:00 AM - 1:00 AM 
Fri - Sat: 11:00 AM - 2:00 AM 

ANY PAYMENT

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Oh, Hey, More Poutine

If the food adventures of hyper happy Italian John Cattuci haven’t already acquainted you with Stratford’s poutine palisade, Boomer’s Gourmet Fries, then you’re likely living under a rock, or likely me, who doesn’t give a flying fuck and rolling doughnut about any food tourism show the Food Network hashes out because you got enough of that sad shit in graduate school. So was it any wonder why I was publically shamed asking who the hell the dude in all the photos was? The answer is a resounding: no. Was I impressed? Only because I never thought television paid any mind to the backwoods of Southern Ontario. When Cambridge is on national TV though, I’ll be really blown away. Was I ashamed of myself? Not in the slightest. I was there to eat. Maybe a little against my will. But Joey wanted poutine, as per usual, and so did my future ex-girlfriend (or wife, Universe willing). So I couldn’t not oblige. Contrary to popular belief, I am a gentleman. Besides, our last trip to Stratford, the home base of Boomer’s, and Joey’s mystery poutine in a Styrofoam cup had me wondering where the hell the thing came from and why he paid near 7 dollars for it. This was one more gastronomic dog I could at least put to rest.

And of course Boomer’s name precedes it, thanks to television; but there’s a reason it was on television, and that’s because it makes fantastically creative poutines, or ‘gourmet fries.’ The joint’s aesthetic may communicate otherwise, but the bougie sentiment of gourmet certainly sticks to some, if not all, options like, well, cheesy curds on poutine (yeah, I went there). There are burgers too, among other things. I’m sure they’re just as fantastic, but my stinginess requires me, in my heart of hearts- until I’m a real person, making real money- to stick to eating as little as possible without feeling the belly-ache of portions I hate to pay for. Hey, we’d always like a little more for a little less, but this isn’t America. Boomer’s isn’t America. It’s a place that makes some of the best poutines around though; some that look like martinis topped with onion rings, toothpicks, and olives, others like strange bowls of spaghetti and meatballs. All tasty, all interesting. Joey and I bought poutine topped with goat cheese and basil oil (a kind of quick pesto); but Joey, having discovered we made the same choice, immediately changed his mind for a black bean and chili fries concoction.

So there they were in front of us all: my stacked fries, bottomed out with gravy and dolloped with a cool ball of lush, tart goat cheese, drizzled with an elixir of potent oil that easily flavoured the entire dish. I wanted more, thinking the golf ball of cheese and the tincture of oil couldn’t cover the whole mix. Joey showed me otherwise, swapping mine with his and turning it all to prove that a little went a long way. The oil was vibrant, almost visceral, peppery and hot, made savoury by the gravy and cheese. If I didn’t like the idea of gravy with it before, I did then. A landslide of refried black beans deluged every fry. The more I ate it, the more its spice warmed the back of my throat, the more the cumin lingered on my breath, creamy but paradoxically gritty, absolutely reminiscent of all those strong, familiar South American flavours. I couldn’t have liked it anymore. But Boomer’s is far from perfect. My piety for coleslaw had the place losing a little points. It was briny, but a little too lime like for my liking. So much so, it had the bizarre quality of lemon soda about it. It was crude, a little too fresh, not as stewed as I would have liked. Clearly, fresh crunchy coleslaw isn’t my thing, but hey, what can you do? John Cattuci might have something else to say, but his isn’t my mouth, and lucky for me, I don’t have to worry about pandering to avoid being fired. That’s already happened anyway, and I survived. Obviously, after this review, Boomer’s will too.

Boomer’s Gourmet Fries

26 Erie St  

Stratford, ON

N5A 1B2

(519) 275-3147

Tue-Thurs: 11:30 am- 6pm

Fri: 11:30 am- 7pm

Sat: 12 pm- 6pm

CASH ONLY

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