Accusations as a Gastronomic Good-For-Nothing

It’s been a good year, I imagine, since Cheeses Murphy first read the review I wrote about them. I also imagine they’ve been stewing in my words ever since, angry at me for what I considered an honest review.

It’s been at least four months since some slandering words were thrown my way for that same review. But I reckon everyone’s had enough time to cool off. That said, I was never really angry in the first place. I couldn’t care less. Still, if my trivial career in food writing is on the line, even in the slightest, I reckon I should do the folks at the Princess a turn of service and give them a second once-over, with perspective, so we can all get away from the smoke and mirrors of branding, flashy rhetoric, cool trends, and Kelly Kapowski. So we can all focus on grilled cheese and all of its manifestations. So expect no flash from me. This is straight and to the point. And this time, to be sure I wasn’t acting from any position of bias, I brought two more mouths with me. My gastronomic bro: Joe, and a second accomplice, who is indifferent whether or not he remains nameless. But he did, after all, buy our sandwiches. Buddha knows Joey and I couldn’t have done it alone, so it only made sense to have a mole. So I’ll spare his handsome self and his handsome name.

I’d like to say much has changed. It’d do my heart good to tell the world Cheeses Murphy took my criticisms and elevated their grilled cheese even higher. Their angry lamentations to me implied that I was being unfair the first time; that, maybe, it was a bad night; that, maybe, I misread the situation. I had no qualms about hoping so. So when Joey and Nameless and I put all those grilled cheeses on the table we were ready to put my foot in my mouth. You could cut the suspense with a butter knife, or Joey’s anti-climactic words when we unwrapped that first sandwich. They were poignant, honest, full of truth, and that’s why I liked them. Because they didn’t have to come from my mouth. Joey’s surprise was an elegy to what I had said disapprovingly in the past, and this time for more or less every sandwich we ordered- which was every sandwich on the menu. Who would have thought four words of, ‘Fuck, man, that’s burnt’ would have described our grilled sandwiches’ bread so fully. And yet, there they sounded. Burnt, oversaturated with butter that slicked your fingers and gave an unwelcomed, greasy sheen to the tinfoil they were wrapped in. Chewy crust, bread that easily lost any kind of crunchy bite given to it on the grill because it was sodden and heavy with butter. We could feel our thighs getting larger. We were all in agreement; we would have liked a lot less butter. There’s something to be said when you can squeeze a sandwich’s bread and it oozes.

My second frustration came with uneven toppings, yet again. A year later. The only reason why any kind of accusation as a gastronomic good-for-nothing might have irked me. In retrospect, I should be relieved that I wasn’t delusional. Still, I can’t help but be a little dissatisfied; feeling that Cheeses Murphy’s poor quality control and my telling you about it will work against me.

 

Our Pizza Sammich, topped with mozzarella, pepperoni, sauce, and black olives was anything but. Not enough sauce to taste, only enough to colour the inside a faint orange, 3 halves of black, briny olives, and squeaky pepperoni that was cured, but not cooked as far as I was concerned. None of us liked it.

The Cheese and Chong, arranged with ground beef, cheddar cheese, fresh cilantro, and chipotle sour cream was the one we liked the most. But the one I would have liked more if the cilantro wasn’t all sprinkled to one side. Again, a whole year later. To add insult to injury, it did nothing to flavor the thing. It was lost. What good is fresh cilantro if you can’t taste it? If it does no good to cut through strong cheddar, and buttery bread? The chipotle sour cream did combat this overpowering saltiness with a little spice and balmy deluge, and that was something I could appreciate. Still, without cilantro, it felt too heavy, especially with all the butter.
 
The Sticky Frenchman could also learn a lesson about balance. Brie and caramelized apples seem simple enough, and yet, you could rub the things together and hear them squeal. The apples weren’t so much caramelized as they were glazed in a syrup. Still crisp, not soft. And normally, given the other textural dynamics of the thing, crunchy could do good against soft, but not here. Everything was too wet. Buttery collapsible bread, syrupy apples, so sweet they overpowered the brie, and salty everything else.

Then there was the Lumberjack. Thick cut, supposedly smoked, ham that had no smoky quality about it, gruyere cheese, and mustard. Surprisingly, I didn’t mind it too much. Sadly, the ham’s luke warm quality distracted any eating away from the other warm appendages. The pungent gruyere, the mild mustard, which was fun to taste in the undergrowth. I saw potential for something better, if only the ham’s spongy quality didn't make me cringe as I chewed it.

Everyone was on the level with the Cheeses Murphy bacon-jam and cheddar cheese sandwich. Super salty and sense numbing with bacon and strong cheddar; we were strangely satisfied. Or armed to the teeth with PBR. We couldn’t tell if we wanted it to be sweeter, or if it was supposed to be, for that matter; still, we accepted it, nonetheless. The overpowering saliferousness of cheese, butter, and bacon could make anyone comatose, and with chewy, saturated bread, it became a paradoxically comforting mess.

And there you have it. More perspective. Another review. All and all, for the Cheeses Murphy crew. It’s in the past. We can forgive ourselves. We can all move on and eat. My soul can finally rest. My voluptuous stirrings for Laura can still stir. Say hi to her for me, Cheeses Murphy. Tell her I still love her. Jackie, too. I’m happy she’s healthy. I’m happy we can all let this pass.

Cheeses Murphy
46 King St. N. Waterloo
FRI & SAT 12-330AM

CASH ONLY- tax included.

Tweet

Romancing the Bakery

A gentle reminder for some of the confectionery spaces I've come to know. Mind you, there are many more, but I've tried to be as civil as possible with these places that hold special places in my heart, in no particular order. Enjoy, comrades.

City Cafe Bakery

I don’t find myself at City Café Bakery often, and when I do, it’s because I’m totting around my niece and nephew along with my sister. Nonetheless, she’s resolute: City Café Bakery’s da bomb. And, as I am a democratic eater, I thought I’d give it a good mention, because many recommend it. I personally do not have any major qualms with it, though I feel its offerings are ordinary in the baked goods department. What appeals to the masses, aside from the food, for City Café is the ethos of community it offers and always has. It polices consumer ethics with the honour system. Inside its garage/loft/diner interior customers buy goods and place their change in a jar. That’s right, cash only. But, if you’re feeling a little anarchic you can always stiff the bakers and literally vote with your dollar. You could very well refuse to pay if you don’t think the goods are up to par. An assortment of bagels, tarts, and bars, as well as pizzas are offered. The loaves come at a reasonable 3.25. Smaller goods, like bars at a questionable 2 dollars; but there’s never tax. Coffee’s fair trade. Again, community ethics.

Ottawa Street South

Kitchener, ON 

N2G 3S7

CASH ONLY

The Princess Cafe

The Princess Cafe has a popular following and is favoured, if anything, for its quaint space. Although I myself appreciate it far more for its rare novelties. Offering meal options I think better suited for lunch, the Princess Café offers a great array of potables not merely restricted to coffees and teas. It is the only café I know of in town that offers beer and wine in the setting, so when you’re feeling a little grizzly you can drink like a sailor while your friends all choose pinkies up. Its baked goods are supplied by local suppliers and change frequently based on what the outside bakers have to offer. Great for people looking for constant highs. A word of caution: the Princess Café boasts no barista expertise, so a cappuccino could be nice, able bodied, and foamy one day, but wet and deflated the next, depending on who makes it. So know your help well, and demand they do what they can to make a good and honourable memory of all those Capuchins, tea, or whatever. My novelty of choice? The Italian hot chocolate: a cup of cocoa made as thick or as thin as you like it. Alas, after the Cheeses Murphy debacle (Click here), I’m blackballed from the place, or like to imagine I am, if only to prevent myself from drinking someone’s spit- unless, of course, it’s Laura’s (light of my life, fire of my loins).

46 King Street North
Waterloo, ON 
N2J 
(519) 886-0227

Any Payment

 


Sabletine Fine Pastries 

Sabletine Fine Pastries is my chart-buster. A quaint retrofitted home, unfortunately overshadowed by a high-rise of late millennial capitalism, Sabletine connects eaters to a very romantic French culinary past. It has a monopoly on any other patisserie, all goods being born and bred by its pâtissier, trained, I’m told, in France. It offers all café fair, from coffee, to tea, to an espresso with a rich, heady crema, slight almond body, toothsome aftertaste and sugary aroma I liken to a honey glazed donut. One of my favourite novelties of the place is regal cups and saucers given to the humble and well mannered customer ordering tea. Its chocolate croissants, sprinkled with sugar and pearled with chocolate centres are flakey on the outside, chewy in the middle; and if you can, I recommend going early and getting them warm. Don’t even get me started on the joys of the French Éclairs. Its macaroons are a rare breed in these here parts, and the rich almond meringue that encapsulates a flavoured butter cream worth the exalted 1.50. It may be a lot, but nothing compares to that crunchy, chewy, perfectly balanced dessert, rich enough to have you satisfied with just one.

203 King Street South  

Waterloo, ON 

N2J 1R1 

(519) 568-7373 

Any payment

The Cake Box
Straight and to the point, the Cake Box offers a cupcake that eclipses all competition. And aside from that you can have sugar cookies, prettily dressed, and if you’re lucky, a hearty piece of artisanal cake. Though memory recalls there being more coffee options, the cake box limits itself to coffee, tea, and a small choice of cold beverages. These, I take it, are mere courtesy’s, the coffee being rather tannic in nature, but still tart. The cupcakes, however, are what’re worth the trip, and the lovelies working the line of cake decoration give a good reason to sit, watch, and make anyone feel uncomfortable under the gaze of someone stuffing his face with sweets that have the most unique and impressive flavours, like chocolate mint, coconut, and rocky road. I opted for red velvet as I always do anywhere. A moist chocolate topped by a butter cream with a touch of acidity and a whole lot of sweet. A safe bet for anyone wanting a little familiarity. Cupcakes will set you back 2.50, but quite frankly, I’d pay for them even if they were more. Cookies are 3 dollars each, so I advise a little leeriness, lest you accidently get a stale one. I am also told its legatee was also schooled in L'hexagone as well. Fancy. Check out the new location!

70 Victoria Street North

Kitchener, ON 

N2H 5C2

(519) 579-6230

Any payment

 

Cafe 1842

Café 1842 is the underdog in this culinary battle for café contest. Though I wouldn’t dare suggest a great coffee here, I’ve recollections where my lattes have had great foams. Again, it all depends on the help. But that’s not what makes it a coveted place for this self-conscious culinarian. Yes, its tables are wobbly and its matcha latte at times resembles the eggy aura of an omelette, but if you need a place to go in the late hours of the night, Café 1842 seems a fitting place. Open late, and often in the company of other peaceful café-teers, 1842 is a clean well lighted place for anyone seeking solace, and with the Jazz Room opened next door, you can stay awhile and swoon over the smoke-and-honey voices of the singers that grace the stage Friday and Saturday nights. But its baked goods are my raison d’etre. Don’t be fooled by its lackluster qualities, I’ve never been disappointed with the stuff baked by the cooks upstairs every morning. The lemon squares are my favourite: a crusty, gooey, lip puckering dream. Its array of brownies are another chewy reverie, and the ones that are gluten free expel all guilt, not that I need them. 

59 King Street North  

Waterloo, ON 

N2J

(519) 886-3350

Any Payment

Tweet

Dollars to Donuts

Muscled onto the 401 by three Mack trucks mere car lengths before our exit, your enraged narrator and his despot compatriot, Joey, found themselves driving, driving, driving yet again- without any cellphone service, without any direction, without any canteens (that I haven’t already been to), lost first on the bucolic roadways of Ayr, then Cambridge, and then, hours later- cars later- in the downtown of our boondock sibling city, Elmira, which by the way, I didn’t even know had a downtown. A downtown that’s only a few block long mind you; but, a downtown nonetheless. And as a quick aside, if you’re from Elmira, and find yourself angered by my own ignorance, don’t be, I’m already angry at myself for not knowing its dives, its expensive dollar stores, and its damn friendly locals, who seem to have had a radar for two guys who don’t live in the town and came off as the kind of folk who drive Mack trucks and muscle people onto the highway. Seriously though, the amount of hellos, ‘can I help you’s, parables, and blushing school girls were uncanny. I can’t for the life of me remember so much charm, especially when I spent a good deal of my own youth terrorizing so many parties in its neighbourhoods as a teenager.

That said, today was no different, because it wasn’t long before Joey and I were polling residents, comin’ off as big city folk, askin’ for the three best places to eat, laughing because there were only three places to eat, having strangers interrupt strangers, making jeunesse teenage girls feel embarrassed by the sojourning temperament of their town, wishing they could, like Joey and I, come from the big city where we sauna, drive recklessly, and drink all of our parents' vermouth. 

But eventually, we settled for the most amusing novelty suggested, a Mennonite diner called Donuts & Deli, chaperoned to the spot by one of the locals, this time an old lady on her way to the hardware store. Are your hearts gushing yet? They should be, it happened. 

And so there it was, unconceited, nowhere near overblown, filled with storeys, filled, no doubt, with stories, painted plain with walls the shade of emerald somewhere and lime somewhere else, old oak wood, eggwashed ceilings, Kulture, gold ambience, quilts, bread, it was like being baked into your grandmother’s meringue and left out for days. We loved it. Its cheap banana splits, its donuts, its baked goods, its bizarre house specials. Its life lessons. Joey’s being, that for a diner you should expect the food it gives you. So, if a plate says taco salad, don’t expect fixings in a tortilla bowl, expect nacho chips crumbled over salad with cheese. 

I want to write about Donuts & Deli, dear readers, but I don’t want to be honest. Not at all. The governing gourmand in me says, ‘No,’, but the novel seeking adventurer says, ‘Yes’, all the way with Donuts & Deli. It was a confusing escape. I ordered the day’s special, chucked ham and cheese on a Kaiser, broiled, mashed, tough around the edges, a salty, buttery mess that set my stomach on fire, that destroyed me cognitively, releasing dopamine from eating something that was so bad it was good. Combine that with a ridiculously inexpensive price and no one could resist even the most ill-suited thing on the menu of a diner run by Mennonites. Again, I’m talking about the taco salad. It’s so far removed from restaurants, it can’t be judged. 

The locals loved the food they were eating, they asked if we got what they got. They loved their egg salad sandwiches, Joey his turkey sandwich, his potato sausage soup. The stuff was dull as dishwater, but we knew we’d be coming back- for breakfast, for donuts, for girls in bonnets, for the baked goods we love because they’re simply nostalgic. How could we not. Like the blue hair leaving the place told us, ‘better soup with a friend, than steak with the Enemy.’ Damn right, darlin’, damn right.

Elmira Donut & Deli
22 Church St W,
Elmira, ON
N3B 1M3
519-669-5353

PAYMENT: CASH DEBIT

Tweet

Responsible Eating

I knew I’d need a good amount of perspective before writing about a place like Bread Heads. I planned on indifferently stating the obvious- that Bread Heads made bread. That’s it. But the pangs of disappointment that came from its owner regarding people who ate there and wrote about it without really thinking about how personal food is to each and every one of us reminded me that I was still pretty responsible when it came to eating anybody’s food. That is, as much as I like admitting that I review with the notion of entertaining my readers first, I do have to consider that even if I don’t like the way something’s done, it doesn’t mean that it’s done badly. The demarcation of food writing allows a lot of wiggle room for this dynamic, choosing your own palette in favour of what you are given to order.

With all that in mind, I took the long way home after spending the better part of my evening sitting against a communally mounted table that shared its space with only six chairs, the most unambitious wood fired oven I’ve seen in the city, and a bread cart displaying the leftovers of what the bakery could turn out for the entire day. Yes, I walked through a graveyard, drank some tea, and thought long and hard about how I could give Bread Heads the good honest review it deserved.

What I respect the most about Bread Heads is the thought that goes into what it offers, even if a miniscule amount compared to the bakeries in town. But that is only in Bread Heads’ static bakery, because aside from that, it has its own mobile cart bringing bread to the people of our fair city. In its bakery, it is a more delimited story. The space is small and cozy, heated throughout by the oven that is fed wood throughout the day. It offers a choice amount of baked bread, but not without having thought about what is best suited to the day. Organic whole wheat loaves are the choice. One type of loaf supports the place, reinforced by offerings of particular baked goods that suit the hot environment: muffins, scones, squares, nothing too baroque. Entrees come in the form of sandwiches and melts, using the buns baked for sale, as well as a smattering of thin crust pizzas which I found to be the most indulging. All these things are apt to change, so although choices seem small day by day, there is always something new the next. 

I chose the day’s pizza special: the harvest. A pizza topped with local vegetables, sheep’s cheese made in Stratford, and a balsamic vinegar reduction. I appreciated the spot’s attempt, no matter how bootless, to seek out the business of the community, and give the food an identity from home. More importantly however, was that it was done with finesse and in good taste. 

It was the fastest pizza ever made for me too. It was not more than 5 minutes before a 9 inch pie was placed in front of me. A sparse, but harmonized amount of cubed roasted vegetables decorated the thing, signaling my mental bellyaching about why there looked to be so little, but soon absolved when I realized that there was no need for so much with such a thin, light crust, speckled with spots of char from the hot oven. Its roasted qualities didn’t interfere with the balmy butter quality that mimicked the comforting character of an English muffin. There was no raw dough here, only light leavened crust, sweetened by the mild nature of the cheese and the reduced balsamic vinegar that was drizzled all over it. I’d otherwise dread telling you the price, but the quality ingredients perfectly justified the payment, and maybe coming back for a muffin and a cup of coffee. 

Bread Heads
16 Duke Street East 
Kitchener, ON 
N2H 2G8 

Hours? I dunno. 

Any payment

Tweet

I Mashed Locust and Made Bread

My Grandfather was a baker. I've even been told that his bakery - situated down a hill, in an alley, behind my house - was the first in Waterloo. Either that, or his pizzaria, conveniently located in a plaza a block or two away from my house, overshadowed by the convenience stores that take its place today.

There are a lot of cooks in my family. My kung fu teacher once told me that, being an Italian, there're only two kind of things that we really do: lay bricks, or cook. She was only kidding. Still, I appreciated the sentiment.
My mother and her sisters' promised to never marry any men that cooked, growing up around them their entire lives. Ironically, my mother did, and so did her sister. The later having a successful restaurant today. When I talk to my uncle, and his brother (both restaurant owners), they advize me not to cook. It's a tough life, and it takes a lot of work (I've said it before). My uncle says go into computers, or become an architect. There's some truth behind that. Not in computers. Regardless, I appreciate the advice; but I appreciate them and their cooking even more. I think food, in the right context, not only does a good job of filling your stomach, but your spirit as well. Not everyone can visit people they love and harass them for a cappuccino and then feel all is right with the world. We are a select few. And we're very lucky.

Baking, I'm told, is like an art and a precise science. I think, in this world, we definitely need more almalgamations of the two.
So, being the grandson of a hard-working, immigrant baker, I decided to have my own go at it.



Breads are easy. Assuming you have the patience and the know how; because depending on the bread, it can take a while (days even).
For me, the process of bread making is a therapeutic one. It's pensive, it requires mindfulness, swift blows and concentration. Like Kung fu. Like making tea- without the swift blows, unless of course you're practicing your buddha palm technique while waiting for the water to boil.
I heard bakers liken bread making to sculpting. In fact, I've heard of some bakers who were sculpters turned bakers. I think there are some parallels there. Fresh yeast itself has the visage of a slab of wet clay, and at times, can feel like one. There's a mound of dough, and a slab of stone; a slab of dough, and a mound of stone. The true artwork dwells within, and only the artist can release it. And whether eaten or not, The psyche is more often than not appeased by the end.

I won't offer you a recipe for the bread I baked, because recipes are everywhere. I say this because I want you to look. I encourage you to look. However, what I will do is give you tips I feel are more valuable than a generic recipe for British Farl (that's a kind of bread).

There are three kinds of yeast available today: fresh compressed yeast, instant yeast, and dry active yeast.
Fresh compressed yeast is what bakeries often use. If you would like to do things the 'professional' way, go to a local bakery and ask if they'll sell you some. Grocery stores often sell it in the form of a small cake in the freezer section. I'm lucky enough to live infront a German bakery, so I can just walk down my creepy back alley and buy some from them whenever I need it. However, it's expensive in regard to other yeasts. Also, it has a strong flavour, which more often than not carries over to the final product of the bread. I once made a baguette for a coworker from France, who claimed it wasn't French enough, mainly due to the sour flavour, which, of course, was due to the pungence of the yeast.
Instant yeast is dry yeast you can immediately add to flour and bake with. I recommend this for anyone starting to bake.
Dry active yeast is probably what we all come across the most often. This is the kind of yeast you have to add water and sugar to and wait for until it froths before you can use it. It can take some time.
Now this is important: instant and dry active yeasts are stronger in retrospect to fresh yeast, but lack flavour because they're dried. If a recipe calls for fresh yeast, and you have one of the others, use 25% less.
Also, never mix salt with yeast. Leave them on opposite ends of any baking mixture; salt kills yeast.

All breads take flour. But, flour, although the meat of the bread itself, can be regarded as filler. You can always substitute a good portion of it for some other ingredient, like grain, or powdered milk (which adds for some amazing texture). It is always important when baking, unlike cooking, that you pay attention to ratios. But, you already knew that.

My oven is different from your oven. Ovens always vary. Know this, and if you have a light, turn it on and watch the bread from the outside in, but NEVER open the oven while bread bakes, unless you want uneven baking.



I'm sure these same techniques can be carried over to sculpting. Y'know, when you pretend you're Pygmalion and pretend your bread's like Galatea, and then she's brought to life, and you eat her. Very pagan. Very Greek. I don't know why the myth never turned out like that. All he did was end up marrying her. Poor sap.

Tweet