Ramen?

It’s been a good 3 years, but I suppose Watami Sushi and Sake Bar has absolved any guilt I’ve held over it during that time, if only serendipitously. Because if I hadn’t respectfully accepted a dinner invitation to the place I would have never discovered its weekly ramen special. That’s right, Watami sushi has heralded itself into the charmed circle of ramen. Seriously. I may have no truck with bougie size portions and fleecing the rising middle class diner with the ideal that sushi somehow equals sophistication and cosmopolitanism (thanks, 80’s Japan), but if any place anywhere brings one of today’s most charged dishes of Japanese cuisine to the backwoods of Kitchener-Waterloo, I can’t help but ethnographically eat it. Thus, with a couple days wait and a quick phone call to the only other digestible dude around with decent ramen perspective, I called Joey and we were off. Coincidentally, hung over and ready to dive in to what we hoped was a good bowl of ramen noodles.

It’s a small choosing, but with a myriad of combo options you can choose from two styles of ramen bowls and a bunch of other stuff on the side. I won’t divulge the possibilities, because as far as Joey and I were concerned, a big 11 dollar bowl of ramen was meal enough, and we were both pretty hungry, if that means anything. And luckily, our own choice of bowl wasn’t denied us, it unfortunately being the only one we could choose from out of the two that day. Ours were bowls of Shoyu Ramen: simple pork broth enriched with soy. Noodle reclamation supported a big bowl of sliced pork, sweet preserved egg, sprouts, chewy seaweed, nori, and canned corned. We didn’t waste any time. Joey’s become a star student of anything gourmand. I thought the broth was salty and a little too slick, but Joey said I must have been kidding, sparing no feelings- ‘It’s super oily.’ Relieved, I agreed. Its potency in taste and texture was almost overwhelming, all because of a strong boil of plain old pork. None of the smokey, cured qualities that you find in other ramen broths, both in taste and smell. That kind of liquid bacon soup was something we missed here. What we didn’t appreciate though was how the broth managed to flavor the noodles; still, we couldn’t forgive such an overwhelming richness. The noodles too lacked the alkaline notes that finished on the tongue. Personally, we always enjoy that strange little bit of chemical, but for the unaccustomed diner, we could see how this wouldn’t be a problem.

Fatty slices of pork would have been welcomed in a less oily broth, but it was another imbalance we weren’t too fond off, especially since there was no special spin on the meat. No flavor, no braising, just a plain topping. The canned corn did a good job of balancing out any saltiness, but I felt the kernels’ soft buttery character should have been reserved for a milky dish of miso ramen only- with a big old knob of butter. Otherwise, the dish just seemed riddled with obligatory toppings you hear about in bowls of ramen. Pairings seemed to lack finesse. That said, there was only one other bowl left to try: miso style. Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers. And Watami seems the only place making an effort to offer what pop culture sells to us as ramen. Will others follow suit? It’s hard to say, especially since it’s taken this long for something so simple and underwhelming.

Watami Sushi & Sake Bar

15 King St N  

Waterloo, ON

N2J 2W6 (519) 747-1100

Sundays 1pm until the ramen runs out

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Eat It

*RESTAURANT CLOSED*

I’m always apt to judge any Italian place, but at least I don’t claim that nothing compares to my mother’s cooking. I can compare anything to my mother’s cooking. If anything, my defeatism stems from my history of, well, eating Italian food. Knowing it, cooking it, practically bleeding it. Yes, it’s a confirmation of the most static identity I have, unless you count Chinese- but that’s a spirit I’ve had to earn through prayer, study, even kung fu. But that part of my soul is much more fluid. Other than that, my palate is a little exhausted, a little unstimulated around Italian cuisine. Anyway, my otherwise dim view, combined with a hopeless coin toss had me clinched and choosing Eataliano Panini & Pasta Ristorante, one of many spots popping up in town offering familiar Italian fare that’s a little more accessible than the fancy joints I’ve grown up and politely eaten at. Not to say there’s anything debasing about Eataliano’s eatery. On the contrary, its space is clean, conventional, not hackneyed and ethnically stereotyped. Sharp tile flooring, minimalist tables and sleek chairs decorate a dining space also lit up by a nostalgic photograph of a chipper old Italian man that panoramically envelopes the walls. Then again, have you ever met an unhappy old Italian man? Aside from me? But aside from me, Eataliano leaves little to be unhappy about. Sandwiches, pastas, salads, all the usual informal Italian entrees one would expect, with a little variety now and then. Yes, things on the menu do change. My visit had a vegetarian lasagna I jumped at, but before that, the eggplant parmesan: battered and fried eggplant sandwiched in a Kaiser roll with roasted red peppers, tomato sauce, and provolone cheese. The price had me itching to spend more, gaga at how much I got for how much I actually had to spend. But don’t worry, if you’re a big spender, feel free to load up on special toppings, combos, or sides like olives, which I liked the idea of. Why? I don’t know why, I suspect it was because I really like olives and the idea of having a fistful of them. Speaking of fistfuls, my eggplant parmesan was a satiable size; a sandwich bigger than both of my gnarly kung fu fists put together. Its sauce was sharp and bright, not acidic in the least, with earthy herbs and a peppery heat that pleasingly filled the back of my mouth. The roasted red peppers were sweet and soft with a little tang. But it was the slices of tender fried eggplant that wowed me. Lightly battered in panko crumbs, it was just enough to absorb any flavor surrounding it, though each slice could have been enough on its own. So much so, I found myself peeling out slices and eating them all by themselves. Even the crumbly Kaiser’s density was matched by the thickness of the fried aubergine. 

My vegetarian lasagna, a special of the day, was layered with multiple vegetables and cheeses, creamy ricotta standing out the most among the dish’s thin, white sauce. Hardy, savoury, and rich knobs of carrot, broccoli, and cauliflower, as well as slices of onions and zucchini made for good variety, though I would have preferred thin slices of the edible plants instead. Even so, it wasn’t too disheartening, and the entre not heavy enough to weigh me down.

Yes, I don’t know what it is, I may be particularly jaded and spoiled by my own efforts to eat, but Eataliano certainly humbled me when it came to my own roots.

Eataliano Panini & Pasta Ristorante

255 King Street North
Waterloo, ON N2J 4V2

(519) 208-9000

Mon- Sat: 11-9

Sun: 11-8.

ANY PAYMENT

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Smitten

I’d barred the idea of writing about tea for a long, long time. It’s my first love. Yes, even before the namesake of this blog. I was exposed to it by my old master, drinking hot tea instead of cold water after strenuous kicks and punches, and I’ve even gone so far as to con my way into expos masquerading as a buyer just for the sake of tasting the most expensive liquors. But, more than being something personal, I’ve never considered it something serious around here. I’ve badgered brewers in shops with techniques, and even asked them to give me the leaves separate from the water so I could wait for the appropriate temperature and then steep it myself. I imagined there was never really much to say about the stuff when it came to people shelling it out. It was just something traded, elevated by the rhetoric that branded it and sold the lifestyle attached to it. Around here, unless brewed at home, it was nothing more than a pretense for meeting. It doesn’t hold the same assumed finesse as coffee does around these parts. That is until Joey and I serendipitously discovered a shop in Stratford just shy of a week ago. It took Joey some convincing, but I guaranteed him copious amounts if he came along. And, of course, as my dear brother in culinary arms, he obliged, aware of my past, aware of my prospects with Mrs. Wu in the hills of Gukeng.

We almost missed Tea Leaves Tasting Bar, zooming by the old retrofitted bed and breakfast, now base to the only place, at least that I’ve found, run and occupied by a tea sommelier, schooled in the brew, traveled, well versed, and more than ready to teach you about the cheapest of luxuries. And before you disqualify with an assumption that the tea is expensive, let me assure you, it isn’t any more than the places you buy it at in town. The place is riddled with teapots, hangings, cups, anything tea related, and as well as the most spirited cats. Joey and I were smitten, if only a little anxious. Me, because I wanted to make a good impression; Joey, because he likes cats.

And so there we were, treated to an on the spot tasting, focused on buying the purest greens, but side-tracked by rich Keemuns (Qimens for you cool kids) because of our shared appreciation for the smokier whisky-esque brews. Our sommelier gave us a profile, set up some cups, timed, brewed, and poured, teaching us more in an hour than Okakura ever could. The resemblance to wine tasting was uncanny, and if you can get passed the discomfort of the bourgeois sentiment of connoisseurship, then you can learn how to really appreciate every kind of dynamic in every kind of tea. The touch, the taste, the smell. We were told about mouthfeel, how to slurp tea held in the mouth in order to experience an even deeper element of aroma and taste, ideas I’ve read about in books but only seldom tried until that day. It was magical. Just two bros at a bar, with a great teacher, lovin’ Lapsang Souchong, the most remarkable we’ve tried, and we’ve bought it from every shop in the region. Its aroma was like fresh tilled earth and a forest floor riddled with meaty fungus. Its flavor, smoky with woody elements and the most amazing root like notes reminiscent of fresh ginseng. I bought up a big bag, and spoiled myself with a cheery blossom sencha brew as well. Dewy with an ester quality. Buttery cherry notes filled the nostrils and breath even after breathing out. Apparitional cherry flavor even coated the tongue. It was hard to believe this tea, like all the others, had no flavouring added. And yet, there it was, sought after, thought about, critically drank, chosen, and brought back to us bumpkins so we could enjoy, what I can’t stop saying: the cheapest of luxuries.

 



 




TEA LEAVES TEA TASTING BAR
Wednesday to Saturday,
11am to 5pm, or by appointment

433 Erie Street, Stratford,
Ontario, Canada N5A 2N3

1-800-733-0376 (toll-free)
519-273-1201 (local)

ANY PAYMENT

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Slave to the Grind

I’m not particularly intimidated by Stratford’s downtown. When I was a kid, I was intimidated by the whole place, a symptom of my love of theatre and yearning to act and do something perceptively important to my young self. Those weren’t better days. I like my more cynical, less intimidated older self. I’ve never any qualms about calling shenanigans, as you all already know, I’m sure. So when it came to coffee in the city of Stratford, I wasn’t cowed by the possibility that someone somewhere was serious about coffee. Tea on the other hand, now that’s a different story I’ll reserve for later. But coffee, no way. If someone somewhere made a pour over, I’d had thought my meanderings one frigid Wednesday afternoon totally worthwhile. Sure, people talk about restaurants and how great of a culinary experience Stratford offers, but chances are I’ll never really have the cash to spend and know. Anyway, if that is the case- if the newspapers are right- shouldn’t that include coffee? If there’s good coffee, let me know, because when it comes to the brew in the city, I think the point to choosing a good café lies in your preference of which third space. What would you like to be associated with? What matches your pastiche? What gives you a laugh?

 

 Joey and I had it on good authority, after visiting the cherriest of tea drinkers, that Slave to the Grind Espresso Bar was super serious. And we believed it, given the context that the tea drinker provided the tea for the joint, and hers was out of this world. So we went, we meandered, Joey left, came back in with a Styrofoam cup of poutine, meatballs, and spaghetti sauce, and I treated us to a couple of cappuccinos, and one big peanut butter cookie the size of my head. And that was more or less it. Still, I was happy with some fun options: spelt cookies, a strange chocolate concoction called the Full Monty (if memory serves), and considerate gluten free options here and there (if memory serves). But, there are no meals. No sammies, just good old baked petit fours. I’ve never any problem with that. I quite like the idea of a coffee shop that keeps it simple, short, and about coffee. At the Grind, you can get the second wave essentials: anything from an espresso machine and the typical percolated brew. Alas, no pour overs though. But that didn’t draw me away from the place’s charm, the barista’s cute claim that my cappuccino’s foamy white blob wasn’t for lack of technique, but was, in fact, a fat swan. I laughed. It was enough to make me like the place.

Its 60s retro riddled space wasn’t my cup of coffee, but I could understand the appeal of brownfielding the obsolescent things of our American grandparents. A rotary phone on the wall, molecular chandeliers, a fantastic laminate faux wood ceiling. The place cried out for dynamic camera shots of the things. It was fun, it was small, it was a little run down, but cozy enough to offer a place for at least 12 customers to come and sit. Soon there’d be more room. A sign said so.

So, it wasn’t all coffee. Certainly, on a strip that had a lot of others, coffee seemed only a small part. Fun had to be a big part of it. Ironically though, there is the tea, which is definitely worth the trip to the place.

Slave to the Grind Espresso Bar
46 Ontario Street,
Stratford, Ontario
N5A 3G8


 
Mon: 8am- 5pm
Tue-Sat: 8am- 6pm
Sun: 9am- 4pm

   
ANY PAYMENT

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