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

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(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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