Almost Missed Connections

The culinary cries of a neoteric picknicker serendipitously pulled me back into my new playground of gastronomies. And while my language here sounds like a missed connection from the London Review of books, I’ve little doubt my conscience would have allowed for my just stopping and eating, and forgetting Willy’s Fresh Cut Fries, the seemingly selfsame kindred spirit of KW’s own David’s Fresh Cut Fries. Yes, I was smitten passing in the night, seeing its green shack lit up in the dead of winter, and lucky enough the next day to have a reason to visit, thanks to a new mouth to feed.

I quashed any curiosity for the chicken and egg debate: which came first? Dave’s or Willy’s? Did it matter? Does it, still? They’ve both their own kind of charm, and to discover which is more edible is an overwhelming task; one I no longer have the funds for. They’re both stick to your ribs food, and the day’s unnecessary storm gave me good reason to eat anything fried. There are some things I’m more fond of though: namely the nameless dog that circles Willy’s quarters, and that Willy’s is always open even in a winter storm. Heck, its fare is even cheaper than the menu says, and it shares its lot with a car garage, which enthusiastically led my company to believe it was a cover for something a little more dangerous. Pretty fantastic. But it’s not all roses. We were dashed by Newfoundland fries that were nothing but soft bread and gravy. No discernible stuffing, no cheese, no onions or peas. Our deep fried pickles too had us a little curious. Until I bit into my own I had wondered if what my comrade was eating was deep fried zucchini posing as a tasty gherkin. Sure enough, crunchy spears were there sleeping among plainly sliced courgettes.

Humble menu posturing aside, when we ordered our feed we were looking on wholeheartedly. It had all you’d expect from a trailer abstrusely anchored between someone’s yard and a brake and steel autoshop: Burgers, fries- prepared to your liking; poutine- of course; perogies, onion rings. Not to mention democratic inclusions of kabob, shawarmas, and gyros, which led me to believe that these items were Willy’s specialty, even more so when the cook suggested I choose a gyro over my company’s burger. And sure enough, I did, but not before bureaucratically making sure to include everything fried that I could in my order. Willy’s Platter was a meager appetizer that could pass as a good independent spot of grub. Fryer grease perfumed the air, and oil bubbled out sweet nothings while I anticipated tender battered chicken fingers (not processed!), capsule shaped mozzarella sticks stuffed instead with cheddar, deep fried pickles, and low-key zucchini slices yet again.

I was pleasantly surprised by my gyro though. Soft, forgivingly chewy pita wrapped itself around earthy cuts of shaved meat tossed with firm wedges of tomato, and crisp red onion, balanced by generous sprigs of curly parsley. Every bite was a memory of my informal induction into the culinary world all those summers ago when that kid from Hong Kong happily filled my stomach with sandwiches of beef and cilantro shoots. Willy’s may not have absolute gastronomic glory, but like me, you may be able to find a just little love in one of the strangest places.

Oh hai, doggie!

HOURS

No idea

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet

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

Tweet

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

Tweet

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

Tweet

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

Tweet

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

Tweet

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

Tweet

An Abject Existence

Lately, life has furnished me with a rather abject existence. Without any culinary compatriot by my side, I’ve found myself free to chase whatever culinary novelty without the slightest inconvenience. And the city’s only policed food truck has occupied me with a fun game of cat and mouse that no doubt those with work will find very inconvenient, especially when the city dictates when and where a food truck will go. Certainly, these particular dynamics make the food truck a frivolous venture unless eaters are free and enthusiastic enough to chase them down, especially if trucks are prevented to really go where the mouths are. The Schmuck Truck seems to be the city’s harebrained pilot project, testing to see if food trucks can be a viable business in our mid-sized city. Good for us, I suppose; especially good for the Schmuck Truck, privileged to monopolize, for now, on what seems to be a cosmopolitan trend. But I’m not losing any truck with the city’s culinary social experiments, finding it preoccupied my time for at least a day. I hope customers don’t have to compromise their location for it, or any food trucks in the future; otherwise, they’ll all run out of gas. But that’s enough of my lazy vehicular puns. Yes, the Schmuck Truck is a novelty for everyone obsessed with purchasing experience and consuming it through travel; but it also offers us what it considers gourmet options worthwhile of the chase, introducing different specialties as much as it can, and wants. That said, its changing menu is small, so that already gets a gold star from me; and its effort at gourmandizing food in a truck is reason for interest. Whether it succeeds or not is the other issue.

There’s typical salt of the earth fare: French fries, hamburgers, pulled pork sandwiches, elevated with creative haute cuisine combinations. I appreciate it all. I wouldn’t expect any less from a food truck. And I wouldn’t expect not to pay a marginally similar price to fixed restaurants. We can dream about the food truck bringing us cheaper meals with all the same pizzazz, but even the streets are rented.

And, of course, as challenging as my taste buds are, I opted for the most lofty entrees. A shrimp remoulade rice bowl: a kind of cold rice noodle salad with a peppery, tomato mayonnaise sauce, shrimp, coriander, and a smattering of lazily chopped vegetables; and an artichoke and spinach grilled cheese sandwich, packed with chopped artichoke, cream cheese, asiago cheese and mozzarella.

All in all, burgers and fries may have been better. Gourmandizing, at least for the items I got, seemed too challenging given the space they were made in (I assume, anyway). The remoulade in my bowl was flat and sour, and there was no cilantro to be found. I would have liked the usual uplifting Asian flavours that the dish attempted to mimic; things like lime juice, lemon grass, and of course, cilantro. It was an unfortunate combination which’s simulacrum just didn’t work. The rice noodles, purposely served cold, were unfortunately subject to being droughty and hardened. Some call this al dente; a stranger called it undercooked. It may work for pasta, but years in a Thai kitchen taught me if rice noodles are cooked and refrigerated they need to be blanched and cooled again if eaten cold because they dry out. The shrimp however, was the savoury savior of the dish- tender and adding flavor to an otherwise bland and sour dish. Micro sprouts added a great fresh earthiness, but weren’t enough to really draw attention away from what was wrong.

Our grilled cheese, sandwiched with rye, had me looking at it leerily. A deep brown had me wondering if the bread was burnt; but the forgivingness of rye absolved any suspicion. My qualm, and the stranger’s I shared it with, was that everything was overpowered with nothing but cream cheese, which was a crying shame, because there were a lot of great ingredients to be showcased.

Luckily, the Schmuck Truck is a fluid thing, and an option can be here today and gone tomorrow, so too can defective meal options. So if you find yourself on the verge of an abject existence, even if for a day, for the sake of novelty why not try and track it down? You never know, our dear city may never see another food truck again.

CASH ONLY

FOR DIRECTIONS AND TIMES CHECK ITS TWITTER: @SchmuckTruck1

Tweet

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

Piggy Pioneers

Together, Joey and I are terrible eaters. Or, at least, we have been lately. Heck, we could have a blog about poutine alone. But, that said, we focus on our own dharma; perform our own duties- and therein lies our own happiness. So when and if it boils down to clogged arteries and poor health, we’ve no qualms about what will be ‘there.’ We are, after all, both ‘here.’ And ‘here’ involves a whole lot of high calories, meat, and southern barbecue from this week’s venue, Southern Ontario Smoked BBQ: a family owned pit barbecue restaurant that started its operation as a travelling trailer, now hunkered down in its own tiny, almost clandestined strip-mall venue, sharing its space with a few other almost unknown eateries. Even so, I imagine its incognito location does nothing to particularly work against it.

SOS BBQ has been around for some time, and its steady stream of patrons certainly advocated this, coming and going in a tiny space with contradictory, yet calming glaucous coloured walls, but totally anticipated caricatures of pigs and roasts, chalk-boards, television, and pleather place settings. How could we resist that charm? Or a nice sized menu with all the necessary kinds of barbecue we were both craving the night prior: Joey, ribs; me, pulled pork anything. And, of course, poutine. That was all Joey though. I thought I needed a break from all that. But you better believe that the novelty I always search for was there. This time in the form of a mix I’ve never heard of: Brunswick stew. A tomato base, six bean, corn, and smoked meat stew you could even put on your poutine if you were so inclined. Joey wasn’t. He, like me, got it on the side.

It was barbecue that shouldn’t otherwise exist in the dead of winter. But still, there it was, a full order of smoked ribs on Joey’s side, poutine with chicken and cheese, and stew. And then there was mine: pulled pork piled high on a bun slathered with mustard and sweet barbecue sauce, that Brunswick stew, and a whole lot of coleslaw- my only Mason Dixon weakness.

When it came to the meat, we couldn’t finish fast enough. Our enthusiasm was even rewarded with a pigtail on the side. Tender, fatty, briny; you couldn’t touch it without it sliding off the bone. I liked it; its pickled character was a little too alien for Joey when it came to meat, but if it were anything like his ribs, let me tell you, he’d have no qualms about coming back. I’m eager enough to say the same about my pulled pork. The deep, red ribbons of flesh were moist, tender, and salted just right; I could have easily had it without my pungent, spicy sweet sauce. Without my glossy, droughty bun. Anything meat was certainly the star at SOS BBQ. Our stew was a little too gummy, a little too canned, a brackish brew of overpowering, familiar tomato soup flavor. The slaw, certainly creamy looking, but more wet and lip puckering than we preferred. Any herbs used fell short; I couldn’t taste a thing besides sweet, saline, stale akali flavour. And it was a crying shame, especially with so little side dishes on the menu. We hated to think of them as obligatory options, but we were thinkin’ it. Either way, there was always anything meat.

SOS BARBECUE
525 Highland Rd. W.
Kitchener, ON
519-496-4052

Sunday         12 PM-8 PM
Monday         11 AM-8 PM
Tuesday        CLOSED
Wednesday   11 AM-8PM
Thurs-Sat      11 AM-9 PM

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet

Two Fat Italians

Late last Sunday night I was awoken by a cumbersome phone text from Joey. My bizarre yearnings for searching out comestible spots in the city had Joey developing the same kind of sense of wanderlust. His particular request had me a little uncertain, especially when I considered the late hour at which it was texted. But my urge to stir up trouble had me tempted and saying ‘yes,’ seeing if we would be as serious in the morning as we were late that night.

Now, as much as I fear regret, I fear the acquiescence of my words even more. That’s why when Joey expressed his gut’s feeling for another day in Elmira, I stuffed caution down my stomach. We had gone before- to a place I thought was so bad it was good, no doubt- and I figured I could redeem myself of any kind of assumed acrimony I had last time with a much more patient review from the same town. (I wasn’t angry last time. Just so everyone knows.)

Thus, we went, parked our car on the downtown curb, and cased out all the digestible joints. And when our acquiescence for sitting still became too much, we did what we always do: ask whatever teenager working behind a counter about where they liked to eat. The Dollar Store is our preferred watering hole. 

Our clerk suggested Candies Burger Suite, a place we passed entering town. A place Joey couldn’t stop making candy jokes about. A place I couldn’t stop making grammar jokes about. A place which’s fries our clerk couldn’t stop talking about. It was an easy choice. Any spleen from the two of us came from the cold and having to wait a few hours before Candies’ reopened, which we managed to pill with some donuts, too much pie, cookies, and soda. A gluttonous lapse in hindsight, but we never have any real qualms about eating like two fat Italians. Or greedy ones, for that matter.

So when Candies’ reopened, there we were, waiting in front of its screen door, excited about entering the 150 year old Georgian, Regency, Victorian, Italianate- whatever- home, and stuffing our semi stuffed faces. It certainly had the backbone of a diner, and the space of a cozy home, which made us both feeling more than welcomed, even if a little puzzled at how to place the fun décor. I said a manifestation of the B52’s song ‘Love Shack.’ Candie said it was Gothic Moroccan with a kind of hippie theme. Baroque lamps and leopard print booths in one room, colour splattered wooden chairs in another. ‘You can never have enough colour,’ Candie said. It was the kind of place you imagine girls with a lot of New School tattoos going. You know? The ones you dream about. Who love burgers and fries. And poutines. And coleslaw: the ambit of Candies’ menu. Everything’s made fresh. The burgers are only beef, the potatoes are cut and deep-fried to perfection, the slaw stewed in its own delicious juices. Even the stuffing’s are local. 


Becoming the suckers for variety we are, Joey and I spoiled ourselves with a slew of options. I got the pulled pork poutine, and the cowboy burger; Joey, the Taco Poutine, and the Candian with back bacon and cheddar. We were musing having two big brewskies on the side. Alas, not yet, but maybe someday.

Swooning over a vestige of Elton John, it wasn’t long before Joey’s stunned face had me laughing and crying. In front of us were two steel bowls: mine, piled high with golden fries, cheese, pulled pork in a crimson sauce, and crystalline onions; joey’s piled with fries, cheese, seasoned ground beef, salsa, sour cream, and a red pepper, shaming all the sundae’s that romanticized our yesteryear . This could have easily been a big boy’s dessert; that is, if all the sweets we ate before hand were considered our dinner. Joey dove in and had no complaints. My fries were perfect. Hands down. I’ve no qualms about saying I’ve spent a good four years in front of a deep fryer, and these were the best chips I ever came across: crisp on the outside, airy, not oily on the inside; when rubbed together, they sounded like hay. Any fry conglomerate would gush. Joey agreed. He spent that work time with me too, after all. My shreds of pork only made the dish better. Tender and moist and slathered in a rich, sweet savoury sauce with a little spicy kick, my pulled pork shared all its reminiscence with baked beans and molasses. Did I mention the cheese melted?

My burger was another oeuvre. A good, soft bun covered a savoury patty which’s flavor was elevated by the smokey local ham that sweated over it. I can still remember the smell. But as far as I was concerned, Candie’s coleslaw was the magnum opus. Sharply brined and seasoned, of all things, with pickle juice, and dill, there was no boring balminess, no overpowering puckering. It was the most balanced and gracefully flavoured slaw I’ve ever had, and she made it all by her lonesome. I loved it so much, I took more home and wondered when I’d get another chance to trust Joey’s gut.

CANDIES BURGER SUITE
75 Arthur St S
Elmira, ON
N3B 2M8
(519) 210-0399


MON-FRI 11-9
SAT 12-9


CASH, DEBIT. NO CREDIT.

Tweet

University Pub Showdown

*Posted at the request of one habitué to read whenever they so desire, and the same goes for all of you too. Enjoy. Or don't.*

I love you, dear readers. Believe me, I do. So much so, that I had every intention of fervidly spoiling our feuding University’s doppelganger food-hole cleverly named Wilf’s Restaurant & Bar.

You didn’t think anyone had the guts to do it, did you? You all thought about it. Well now we’re all assembled around our own dictatorships of thought. Everyone else knows that everyone else knows we all want the answer to which place is better: Wilf’s or the Bomb Shelter? Well, you can thank me, because now we all have a mutual knowledge. Consider me the boy that said the emperor has no clothes. More specifically, Wilf’s is bad, or The Bomber sucks eggs.

So, with The Imprint’s resident photographer, Bobby D- devote Bomber habitué- by my side, we were ready and willing to skull some culinary scores.
Wilf’s venue is sexy. I admit it. Thanks to dumb luck- or malaqueous domus - Wilf’s was shut down because of a flood, rebuilding, and becoming more beautiful. So, when you’re leery about your food’s quality and its prices, you now know why. You are, as is the cosmopolitan convention, paying for the atmosphere. That’s where I like to think all my money went. Deep browns, sleek woods, high tables, comfortably sized booths, hundreds of fancy new flat screen televisions (unlike the Bomber’s four), flood lights, rococo ceiling trims all compose the space, as does very friendly service. Should we extend this imagery further? I don’t see the need. Everyone who’s anyone has been to the Bomber. We know what it looks like. It certainly isn’t bar chic (it does have a patio, though). It is, pardon my analogy, the country mouse to Wilf’s city mouse. Yes, it was looking pretty good. Bobby was conflicted. He didn’t want to like it. Point for you, Wilf’s, point for you.

But how was the menu? More focused, Bobby said. I took his word for it. It was a good charted bill of fare with drinks listed first. Unorthodox, yes; but when done, seemingly more logical. And if you’re still unimpressed, how about a gluten free menu in the menu? Damn. Bomber don’t have that. Wilf’s was coming up strong. But the food could be the game changer. We were ready to play. Bobby got his Shirley Temple. I got ready to order.

We started with appetizers: bruschetta on an herbed spiced flatbread, and deep fried pickles (the place must have finally got my letters).
When they did finally come, a good while after we ordered during an underwhelming lunch rush, we were aesthetically pleased. Flavourfully, we were both disenthralled. The bread did everything to flavor the bruschetta, other than that, it was a dull mix of cute little tomato cubes left to stew in their own disappointing premade juices, flavourless basil, and plastic parmesan cheese.

My deep fried pickles? Saltier than I would have expected, with a great crunchy exterior thanks to the batter, but not the pickles themselves, which were listless, flat, and lost without that pleasing lip puckering pickle taste I expect when eating them. They were dead, and the accompanying sauce like the paramedic that’s obligated by law to resuscitate even though he knows the subject’s dead.

All was not lost, however. Bobby had his chicken wings coming, and me my Hawker: a grilled chicken sandwich on a ciabatta bun, topped with bacon, tomatoes, lettuce, barbecue and chipotle sauce.
All that and a side of poutine.

Bobby’s wings came with crudite. He seemed to like it. The Bomber never did that for him. When it came time for the wings though, he was hesitant about diving in. The wings were drowning in a generous amount of barbecue sauce, and Bobby knew it was only a matter of time before he got dirty. His long, luxurious hair too. That was the only flaw. Other than that, he was satisfied.
And there I was, just me and my sandwich. Sure, sometimes the bacon was lost in the flavour of a moist chicken breast, calming tomato slice, and generous lettuce, but I couldn’t argue with its heartiness. My only qualm was its unevenly sliced bread. With a roof 3 times as thick as its base, it was only a matter of time before its bottom was an annoying wet mess. Oh, and the poutine? A family of feeble fries, drenched in a scarlet gravy, no doubt premade. What’s worse, is that it didn’t even cover all the curds lobbed all over my plate. The clumps just wouldn’t melt. It reminded me of the stuff from my highschool’s cafeteria, which Laurier practically is. Am I right?
C’mon. You all laughed.

Low blows aside, the poutine is right up there with the Bomber’s; side by side, you can’t tell any salty singularity. So which’s the better house? If both bars’ foods are equally humdrum, check out Wilf’s. The venue and menu make it seem like it’s at least trying. Still not convinced? Of course not. You’re all too patriotic. That’s why I’ve broken it down for you all with a fun little list. Like it, love it, hate it, whatever. Just enjoy it. I heard two girls say that in beautiful vocal fry. Anyway.

WILF’S
The Hawker

•    A chicken sandwich served on a ciabatta bun with shredded iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, onions, bacon, mayonnaise and a barbecue sauce.
•    A moist chicken breast flavoured with a barbecue marinade.
•    Bacon was sometimes lost to the overpowering sauce combination.
•    Ciabatta bun unevenly cut, which made the bottom soggy halfway through.
•    Comes with any side

Poutine

•    Super salty with a deep scarlet gravy more or less constituted from powder.
•    Dry curds that couldn’t melt and fries that bore little spirit.

Wings

•    Tasty chicken wings
•    served in an intimidating amount of sauce that made the pound look more like a stew. 


THE BOMBER 
The Warrior

•    A chicken sandwich served on a ciabatta bun with leaf lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and mayonnaise.
•    Blander than its challenger, but the Cajun version can be purchased.
•    Chicken breast was rather dry, and the lettuce flaccid.
•    Mild on the palette.
•    Its saving grace was an evenly sliced ciabatta bun with just enough bread on either side, unlike its contender.
•    Comes with any side.

Poutine
•    Overpoweringly salty, with fries that need to be eaten fast, or else.
•    Even though the gravy was salty, it had a better viscosity than its competition.

Wings
•    Alright. Just enough sauce, but not nearly as flavourfull as Wilf’s

*originally published in The IMPRINT Mar 30, 2012*

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

Damn Good Sandwich

Café 22 is the last bastion of culinary contentment my mouth hasn’t had the pleasure of terrorizing. Granted, it’s no restaurant, but it idles as the last obstacle in way of my own gastronomic mastery of all eateries the culinary landscape Uptown Waterloo has to offer. That’s right, by way of Café 22 I will have reduced Waterloo’s proud culinary core to nothing more than mere triviality. It won’t get any more of my money, at least until something else closes or something new decides to open up. Fingers crossed. You may pass the arcade by, unawares its upper level has turned into yet another parasitic delineation of rococo design pasted up into the contemporary spreads we find in so many clinical home décor magazines. But that’s as much as I’ll talk about the way the place looks. I won’t bring it up anymore. I won’t. Why bring this phenomenon of the third place’s aesthetic up again? It’s already been concluded. 

I have to admit though, its space, elevated on an upper level and exposed to the uptown through huge arched windows is very charming, and I felt very peaceful sitting during the dead hours of the afternoon waiting for my order. 

A catalogue of the European delicatessen, Café 22 offers a terra forma selection. You can have lasagna or quiche, soup or salad, panini or sandwiche, as well as every other kind of patisserie for a price that isn’t anywhere near competitive with confectionaries up the block. But to each their own wallet, especially with selections that offer you the chance to have as many fixings as you want in a sandwich or wrap. I strayed away this time from such a privilege, making the tough choice between a Panini or slice of quiche, deciding on the pressed sandwich of my choice: the Toscano. A pressed focaccia sandwiched over translucent slices of salty prosciutto, grilled and marinated eggplant, a fig spread, and slices of brie were paired with a side of obligatory mixed greens drizzled with a smattering of olive oil and herbs making not really a side, but existing as maybe something enough to beat some culinary bylaw of supplying a side in every overpriced dish. 

Normally, I’d rail against a sandwich costing 7.80. But not this time. The smell of grilled eggplant wafting in the air triggered my past romanticisms with food in my own grandmother’s kitchen. To the point, my sandwich was perfect. An easy yes to the best sandwich I’ve had in a long long a while. The focaccia’s herb’s earthiness only lifted the savouriness of the meat, the brie balanced the saltiness of the prosciutto which was both quenched and livened by the incredible plumy sweetness of the fig spread, a first for myself. The bread was crisp, had great hold, was light as air, and crisped consummately by the olive oil it was soused in to bake it, just like my grandmother’s. If anything broke my heart, it was that the fig spread was spread thin, I found myself biting carefully to preserve as much of it as I could throughout the meal. I loved it. I didn’t care who made the thing, where it came from, if it was ‘artisanal’, what factory turned it out- the bricolage that was this sandwich was fantastic, and whoever thought it up had remarkable taste. I’d get it again. I couldn’t care about anything else but this sandwich. Any drawback’s of Café 22 were forgiven in lieu of such a good. I forgot the pretense of space, the overly moist character of my macaroon, nothing mattered. No, no, I’m not saying the place is great, but I am saying the place has one great sandwich, and that’s reason enough for me. 

CAFE 22 
22 King Street South, 
Waterloo, ON 
519.603.5005 

Monday - Saturday, 9:00 am - 8:00 pm 

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet